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butt.”
    “I’m not one of your groupies, Pulaski.”
    “Hell, Maggie, I haven’t had a groupie in years. I’ve told you before, I think quality’s a hell of a lot more important thanquantity. Though I must admit,” he added, his eyes sweeping over her six-foot length, “that you’d provide both.”
    “Cut it out. My only interest is getting you safely to Houston.”
    “Sure it is, Maggie May,” he said genially, drumming his long fingers on the steering wheel. That wry half-smile of his broadened into a grin, and he began to whistle.
    “You may be right,” she said after a while, her voice sounding disgruntled. “There’s no sign of anyone following us.”
    “Does that mean we can stop for the night?”
    “That means we can stop for the night.” She cast him a covert glance beneath her heavy eyelids. He was entirely at ease and relaxed. For all the sudden, unexpected verbal flirtation, there wasn’t even the hint of sexual threat from him. She had no worries that he was going to jump her when they got into whatever dingy little motel room they’d be sharing. They’d spent two amiable nights together, and Maggie had no doubt they’d spend their last night on the road equally comfortably. Unless he was becoming as aware of her as she was of him.
    The Lone Star Bide-a-Wee Motel sat alongside a deserted stretch of county highway, bypassed a decade ago by the interstate. Maggie chose it at random, Mack was amenable, and by ten o’clock she was standing in the rust-stained shower stall letting the hot streams of water wash away the grit and tension of the last three days. She could hear the sounds of the television through the pulsating shower and she smiled. It was a good thing she and Mack were going their separate ways tomorrow. If she had to room with him for one more day, she’d put her foot through the television screen.
    “I don’t suppose you’d feel like turning that off?” She ran the threadbare white towel through her sopping mass of hair as she paused in the bathroom door. Mack was lying on his double bed, his bare feet on the pillow, his head at the foot, staring with great fascination at an old Sybil Bennett movie.
    He didn’t bother to look back to her. “No way. I love old movies.”
    He’d taken his shower first, and was lying there in his favorite black T-shirt, khakis, a glass of whiskey in his hand, totally absorbed in the very bad drama on the grainy color TV.
    “Maybe something better is on,” she suggested.
    “Forget it. I’ve always had the hots for Sybil Bennett, and I intend to enjoy every moment of this.”
    “She dies at the end.”
    “Thanks a lot,” he growled, rolling over to glare at her.
    “Don’t worry, it has a great love scene,” she assured him, moving past him to her own bed. She was dressed in running shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, a good compromise for coeducational sleeping arrangements, but she could feel Mack’s eyes run over the solid length of her legs. She dropped down on the bed, tossing the wet towel at Pulaski’s head. “Maybe there are
Family Feud
reruns.”
    “Listen, Maggie May, let me have my erotic fantasies in peace,” he grumbled, but he was watching her, not the television screen. He paused, staring at her for a long moment. “Did you know you look like her?”
    “You’ve had too much Jack Daniel’s, Pulaski.”
    “No, you do.”
    “Sybil Bennett is five feet two with jet-black hair and perfect features.”
    “Yeah, but still, there’s something about your expression. Especially when you’re giving me that go-to-hell look. You look just like Sybil Bennett telling off some pirate king.”
    “Sybil Bennett should have told off a few more pirate kings in her time.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “She’s my mother, Pulaski. And there were a few too many pirate kings in my childhood. Not to mention desert sheikhs, handsome princes, thirties gangsters, and the like. Sybil’s very sentimental—she can’t live without