She headed for the cluster of students

who surrounded the bullfighter, and they gave way before her, though someone groped her in passing. She didn’t care enough to turn around and glare with Clint Beck in her sights. Renee stroked his arm down to the hand holding a pen signing autographs. That got his attention.

“You want an autograph, honey?” Clint Beck turned his blue eyes on her. They were the shade of deep ocean water, not the sparkling Irish blue eyes that Bodey Landrum always said was his best feature. His hair was a short, crisp, dark blond, dampened with sweat. Not really tall, he had the compact, muscular body of a gymnast and the tan of an outdoorsman.

Clint grinned, showing a good set of white teeth. No way could she tell he’d lost a few doing what he did, his dentist was that fine. He wondered if she wanted one of those big bazookas signed. Wouldn’t be the first time. While bullfighters didn’t have the cachet of bull riders—or the money—they were coming into their own these days.

“No, darling. I want to give you something.” Renee took his pad and pen, wrote her name and number, tore off the sheet, and buried it deep in the pocket of his shorts. She tied the tails of Bodey’s shirt around her waist and sauntered off, giving Clint Beck a good backside view of what she had to offer.