They didn’t all go home smiling from . . .
THE HOUSE OF JOY
Adamson had scarcely put his hand up to the brass knocker when the ornately carved door swung open. Then he was looking at the third pretty woman he had seen in his short time around Pioneer Wells. Unlike businesslike Joy McBride or the refined Della Wainwright, everything about the girl standing in the doorway said that she was made for fun. Her flaming red hair hung loose to her shoulders and the low-cut bodice of her dress strained at the seams in its attempt to contain a body lush as a ripe peach.
“Mr. Adamson?” she said with a playful smile.
It seemed that everyone knew his name. He certainly was expected.
“That’s me,” he confirmed.
She looked him up and down with unabashed interest.
“And aren’t you somethin’,” she said huskily. “Well, I’m Peggy. Welcome to Joy’s, Mr. Adamson. Let’s hope we see . . . more of you.”