LITMIR.BIZ

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ached for his imaginary woman with an urgent desire that left him limp and breathless with longing, and a savage need that other women’s bodies could never quench for long. There was just something about her that was so…

      Brock shook his head restlessly.

      He’d always considered this fantasy a little crazy but essentially harmless; the kind of thing that would vanish as soon as a real flesh-and-blood woman entered his life. In fact, during the years when his father had been getting harder and harder to handle, and even more recently when Brock had been struggling all alone to save the ranch from ruin, he hadn’t given the matter much thought at all.

      But he was thirty-five now, and he was beginning to worry sometimes, in the lonesome darkness of the night, that maybe he was never going to find a woman to satisfy him.

      There was no shortage of applicants, it seemed. Any evening that he bothered to clean up and drive into town, there were plenty of women around who appeared eager to dance with Brock Munroe, to accept a drink or dinner or whatever he was in the mood to offer. But they all fell short of his elusive ideal.

      Brock had begun to grow increasingly impatient with himself. He tried to accept the fact that his dream woman was a fantasy and nothing more, and that he should let her go and find somebody real to settle down with. It was time to build a life, have a couple of kids and make the old ranch a busy happy place again.

      In fact, he’d almost succeeded in convincing himself that this was the wisest course of action. And then, one night just a couple of weeks ago, he’d seen her.

      Not in person, of course. After all, women like that didn’t tend to turn up in Claro County. He’d seen her on television, one night when a driving autumn thunderstorm was throwing noisy buckets of rain against the blackened windows, and the wind sighed mournfully around the eaves of the creaking old house.

      Brock had been lounging in his sagging armchair with a book in his hands, pleasantly weary after a long day, almost nodding off with Alvin curled snugly at his stockinged feet. At first he thought the woman on the television screen was just another fantasy, a kind of half-waking dream. But when he sat up and looked more closely, he saw that it was really her, and he began to tremble wildly with excitement.

      Then she was gone, vanishing as suddenly as she’d appeared, replaced by a lot of people talking about how well their new cars handled. Brock could still remember the searing disappointment, the way his hands shook and his heart pounded while he sat staring blankly at the television screen.

      But she’d reappeared in the next hour, and several times after that.

      Brock grinned, recalling as well how unnerved he’d felt when she came back on the screen. He’d been trembling like a puppy, almost too excited to get the segment recorded on tape. Now, remembering, he picked up the remote control for his VCR, flicked the buttons and activated a tape already on the machine. Then he took out his jackknife, settling back to cut pieces of salami and wedge them between slices of bread, chewing thoughtfully on his rough sandwiches as he gazed at the television.

      There was a rush of noise, a flicker of snow and ragged colored bands, and then the image of a woman sitting quietly with folded hands in a soft velvet chair before a dark backdrop.

      Although he’d watched the commercial dozens of times, Brock still caught his breath when he saw the woman. He sat and stared at her with rapt attention, his lunch forgotten in his hands.

      She was so exquisite, lovely and desirable, so exactly the woman he’d visualized all these long lonely years. Her dress was plain, dark and beautifully fitted on a dainty curved body. She had wide blue eyes, an oval face with high cheekbones and a lovely warm mouth, and her skin was cream, almost translucent, in breathtaking contrast with her shining black hair.

      Brock continued to gaze at the woman, studying every nuance of her voice and gestures. She had the calm assured manner and the elegant, high-born Spanish look that ran through so many prominent Texas families. In fact, Brock had always visualized his woman in white lace with that dark hair pulled straight back from her face and gathered low on the nape of her neck, and jewels in her dainty ears.

      But this woman wore her hair in a short bouncy style, the kind of casual sophisticated haircut that looked simple but probably cost enough to stagger any poor working rancher. Brock didn’t know if he liked the hairstyle or not, but there was still no denying that this was his dream woman, the exact face and form that had haunted him throughout his life.

      Her name was Amanda Walker, she told the camera with a calm gentle smile. She was a native of Dallas, but had worked in the retail industry in New York for a number of years, and she wanted to let the world know that she had just opened her own business, a personal shopping service in Austin, Texas.

      Brock settled back in his chair, wondering for the hundredth time just what a personal shopping service was. He frowned when Beverly Townsend appeared on the screen and pirouetted slowly, while his dream woman talked to the camera about the outfit that Beverly was wearing.

      Brock didn’t like to see his dream woman in the same setting as Beverly. In fact, he’d never had a lot of admiration for the beauty-queen looks of Beverly Townsend, although his friend Vernon Trent, who was engaged to Beverly’s mother, assured him that Beverly was a much different girl these days. Apparently she’d fallen in love with a nice basic kind of guy, and set aside a lot of her airs and pretensions. Still, Beverly represented the jet-set life-style to Brock Munroe, a type of glamour and idle sophistication that he had scant respect for.

      “Notice how versatile the blazer can be,” the dark-haired woman said in her sweet musical voice. “It works well with a slim skirt for the office, and equally well with chinos for the weekend, so it’s really a dual-purpose investment. And the blouse, although it’s quite expensive, can also be…”

      Brock watched Beverly’s lovely body turn slowly in front of him, but he was unmoved by her golden beauty. He had eyes only for the slim quiet woman in the chair, who was now discussing what she called “the art of accessorizing.”

      “A lot of women will choose a tasteful expensive outfit, and then go out and buy big plastic earrings that exactly match the color of their blouse,” Amanda was saying. “That’s a fatal error. Now, these small gold hoops are…”

      Alvin wandered into the room, looking sated, and fell with a heavy thud onto the floor at Brock’s feet, resting his chin mournfully on his front paws.

      “Hey, Alvin,” Brock said, waving the heel of the salami roll, “did you know that it’s a fatal error to buy plastic earrings that are the exact color of your blouse?”

      Alvin lifted his head and stared blankly at his master, then caught sight of the unfinished chunk of salami and gazed at it with sudden attention, his ears alert.

      “You glutton,” Brock said in disbelief. “You’re stuffed, Alvin. You couldn’t possibly want to steal the last morsel from a poor starving man.”

      Alvin half rose, his tail beginning to wag slowly as he continued to stare at the small piece of meat with fierce concentration.

      “All right, all right,” Brock muttered. “Here, let me have one last bite an’ then you can take the rest.”

      He tossed the meat to the plump dog, who caught it in midair and chewed it with pleasure, sinking down again to worry the last mouthful in his teeth while Brock watched him gloomily.

      “If you had plastic earrings that exactly matched your blouse, you’d never get to wear ’em anyhow, Alvin. You’d eat the damn things,” Brock said, nudging the dog with his foot.

      His brief interaction with his dog had caused him to miss the end of the television commercial. Brock reached for the control to rewind the tape, and was about to settle back for another viewing when his telephone rang.

      “Hello?” Brock said, lifting the receiver and glaring at Alvin, who had finished the salami and was now giving speculative attention to Brock’s uneaten apple on the coffee table.

      “Hello to you. Is this my best man?”

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