“He holds the record for the number of drink machines destroyed in south Texas.” He cocked his head and studied her. “I’m thinking of challenging his record on the subject of printers.”

“You can’t. They’ll think I did it.”

“Damn.”

“I did sort of total the stupid machine at Cal’s office. A second one will look very bad on my record.”

“I’ll drop it off at the local landfill and tell people it’s been kidnapped,” he said lazily. “I’ll even forge a ransom note.”

“You’ll end up in Leavenworth,” she pointed out.

He grinned. “You can come visit me on weekends and bring nail files.”

She chuckled.

“How long did it take you to learn that trill you do with your right hand on the guitar?”

“Not long, really,” she said. “I can’t use a pick. My fingers don’t work right. But I keep my fingernails just a little longer on my right hand, and they work very well. Especially in flamenco.”

“I’ve never heard anyone play like that who wasn’t on a stage.”

“You should have heard my grandfather play,” she said, her voice soft with memories. “He could play country, Western, pop, folk, flamenco, even jazz. He did an arrangement of ‘San Antonio Rose’ that won him an award, in fact. He’d studied music for years, under a fairly famous guitarist who came from Spain.”

“I’ll bet you have calluses as hard as plastic on the fingertips of your left hands,” he mused.

“I do. I could set a match to them and I’d never feel it. But I can only play nylon strings. I can’t manage steel strings. My hands aren’t strong enough.”

His fingers smoothed over them sensuously. “Mine are. It takes a good bit of hand strength to shoot a pistol, especially a .45 auto. We learn to do it with both hands, too.”

“I remember,” she said. “I don’t mind guns. I just hate it when angry people think they’re the answer to all life’s problems.”

“All too true.”

She was wheezing, just a little. He stopped in the middle of the dance floor. “Need to sit down?” he asked gently.

She looked up at him and would have chewed her tongue off before she’d have agreed with him. It was sheer heaven to stand close to him, to feel his strong arm at her back, his fingers linked into hers, curled into his chest while they moved to the music.

“Oh no,” she blurted out. “I’m fine.”

His lean hand reached out and pushed a strand of soft, wavy dark hair off her forehead. His black eyes were intent on hers. “You’re not what you seem, Clancey.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, concerned that he might have learned something about her that she didn’t want known.