Longarm 242: Red-light by Tabor Evans Page B

injuring yourself again, Mr. Parker. Nola would never forgive me.”
    Longarm thought there was a slight accent to her words, but he didn’t take the time to ponder the question of where she was from. “Ma’am,” he said through gritted teeth, “if you’ll just step out of the room ...”
    â€œI’ll turn my back and go over there,” she said, pointing to the far side of the room.
    Longarm hesitated, then nodded in agreement. A little embarrassment was one thing; having his bladder blow up was another.
    When he was finished, he leaned over and put the chamber pot back under the bed himself, knowing that if he didn’t, the brunette would do so. Bending hurt his side, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t stand. He sat back in the bed and pulled the covers over himself again. “Much obliged,” he repeated.
    The brunette turned. “I’m called Rafaela,” she said. “If there’s anything you need ...”
    Longarm was hungry again, but this time he wanted more than broth. “I reckon I could do with some solid food,” he said.
    Rafaela nodded. “All right. The cook should have something left over from breakfast. I’ll see what I can find—but only if you promise to stay in bed.”
    â€œYes, ma’am. I’ m feeling a mite stronger than I was, but I don’t reckon I’m up to dancing a jig just yet.”
    Rafaela smiled faintly and turned toward the door. She paused and looked back at him. “Just one more thing, Mr. Parker,” she said. “Don’t call me ma’am. I’m a whore, not a schoolteacher.”
    The undertone of bitterness in her voice took him by surprise. Angie certainly hadn’t seemed bothered by what she did for a living. Rafaela was obviously different, though.
    Longarm shook his head and said, “I can’t help it, ma’am. My ma raised me to respect women no matter what. I’m too old to be breaking any habits now, Miss Rafaela.”
    She caught her breath, and Longarm thought he saw a flash of something in her eyes, maybe a chink in the cool facade she put up. But then she said, “I don’t suppose it matters, does it?”
    Before he could answer, she was gone.
    Â 
    When the door opened a few minutes later, he expected to see Rafaela coming back with his food. Instead, yet another young woman brought the tray into the room. She smiled at Longarm, seemingly totally unmindful of the fact that she wore only a thin shift that clearly outlined her small breasts and long, sensuous legs. Straight hair the color of midnight hung far down her back, almost to the curve of her hips. She was Chinese, and her face possessed a doll-like prettiness. She was definitely flesh and blood, though, and so was Longarm. He became all too aware of that as his eyes lingered on the dark, erect nipples thrusting out against the gauzy material of the shift.
    â€œGood Lord!” he exclaimed. “How many of you gals are there?”
    She looked confused by the question, and he wondered how much English she spoke, if any. She could speak the lingo at least a little, he discovered, because she said, “I am called Mickey. Rafaela say to bring you this food.”
    The tray in her hands contained a plate filled with steak, potatoes, gravy, and biscuits. Longarm practically snatched it out of her hands as she brought it over to the bed. He didn’t know what looked better to him right now—the food or the woman. He was glad he didn’t have to decide between them.
    He dug in with the knife and fork on the tray as Mickey went over to a chair and primly sat down. “I wait, take back tray,” she said.
    â€œThat’ll be fine,” Longarm told her. He kept eating.
    Despite his hunger, his eyes kept straying over to her. In her own way, she was as attractive as Nola and Angie and Rafaela, and just as different as each of them, too. Even dressed as