Hell on Wheels: A Loveswept Classic Romance

by Karen Leabo

  “Oh, Roan, how trite. Can’t you think of anything more original?”

  He just grinned maddeningly.

  Even so, his silly observation sent a chill of pleasure wiggling along her spine. Her attraction to this man was growing by leaps and bounds with every passing hour—and this was only the end of their second day together.

  Victoria followed the caravan of cars, trucks, and vans as it pursued another likely-looking cloud, but her instincts told her it wouldn’t pan out, and it didn’t. Before long, the cacophony of voices on the radio were making dinner plans.

  “Are you hungry?” Victoria asked.

  “Do you even have to ask?”

  “Good point. I guess we can join the others for dinner, although we’ll be the only ones there not eating steak.”

  As they pulled into the parking lot of a little restaurant in Oswego, the cellular phone rang and Victoria answered it. “Chase II.”

  “Where are you?” a scratchy voice on the other end of the line asked.

  “Professor! Oh, it’s good to talk to you. How are you feeling?”

  “Never mind me. Did you see it?”

  “Um, no. We were delayed with car trouble—”

  “Oh, don’t tell me. You let Roan drive and he had a wreck.”

  “No, nothing that serious,” she said. “The Chasemobile is just fine. But we missed the tornado by about ten minutes.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, missy. But you’ll catch one tomorrow.”

  “Will there be any action tomorrow?”

  “Mmm, I’m not saying. It’s your gig this time.”

  “Not even a clue?” she wheedled.

  “Okay, one clue. Kansas.”

  “Boy, that really narrows it down.”

  Roan nudged her. “Let me talk to him.”

  “Roan wants to talk to you,” she said, then handed over the phone.

  “Hi, Unc.… Yeah, she’s taking real good care of me—except for those temper tantrums. You never told me she could curse like a stevedore.”

  Victoria groaned and buried her face in her hands. If she survived this trip with her life, her reputation, and her heart intact, it would be a miracle.

  Victoria hadn’t been kidding about the steak. The storm chasers filled a long table at the restaurant, and every one of them ordered a T-bone or rib eye. The scent of all that char-broiled beef had Roan’s salivary glands at full attention, and the fried chicken he’d ordered simply didn’t satisfy him.

  Victoria ate only a couple of bites of the pork chops she’d requested, and Roan couldn’t blame her for her loss of appetite. Her so-called associates ribbed her unmercifully about her lousy luck and crummy timing, and Jeff Hobbs felt obligated to tell everyone else about her faulty decision to turn around the previous day.

  It was all meant in good fun. Roan got the feeling that this was a fairly close-knit group, and everyone had endured this type of teasing at one point or another. But the fact that Victoria was a woman in an essentially male pastime seemed to add a sharper edge to the ribbing.

  To her credit, Victoria handled it all with aplomb. She clearly had the ability to laugh at herself, and anyone who got too bold with his comments received a healthy dose of her acid wit. But every once in a while Roan caught a glimpse of the pain behind her tranquil hazel eyes. Her friends had no way of knowing how shaken her self-confidence was at the moment, how insecure she felt without Amos.

  Eventually the talk turned to chase trips in years gone by, and Roan enjoyed hearing the war stories. As he listened to the others reminisce, he realized that each tornado had its own personality. The storms assumed a wide range of shapes, sizes, and colors. Some, like today’s, were weak, short-lived, and relatively harmless. Others were destructive and deadly, causing millions of dollars in damage and loss of life.

  He also began to understand something of the storm-chaser’s psyche. For most of them, it wasn’t just the excitement or the danger that lured them. It was more like a religion. It was something they had to do, year after year.

  Roan could respect that, but he couldn’t really relate to it. He was eager to experience a tornado, but once he’d accomplished that, he would be ready to move on to something else.

  “Are you ready?” Victoria asked. She had leaned close so he could hear her above the boisterous chatter.

  “Ready to go, you mean?” Or ready to jump on top of you? Oh, hell, he had to stop allowing these lascivious thoughts about Vicky to take him by surprise. She didn’t deserve that kind of disrespect. She deserved flowers and candlelight and a man who knew how to stick around, and sticking around was one thing he didn’t know how to do.

  He figured it was all that moving around as an army brat. He’d learned never to form deep relationships, because that way it wouldn’t be so hard to say good-bye. He was still true to his upbringing. Hadn’t he just been thinking about moving on to the next thrill?

  Then again, maybe Victoria herself would make a dandy next thrill.

  “I’m bushed,” she said, throwing some money on the table to cover their portion of the tab. Roan reached for his wallet, but she stopped him. “It’s my turn. You’re not obligated to finance the whole trip, you know.”

  Yeah, but there was enough of the macho male in him to want to buy her dinner. When the others had been teasing her, he’d had to bite his tongue to keep from defending her. And later, he’d started to feel this crazy possessiveness toward her. It was obvious the other chasers, almost all men, liked and respected her, even if they did give her a hard time. None of them were immune to her beauty either. Roan had seen quite a few covert glances in her direction, eyes full of admiration and sometimes downright lust. And he’d felt good knowing that later he would leave with her, and have her all to himself—at least for as long as it took them to find a motel and book separate rooms.

  He sighed at the hopelessness of the situation. It was hell being attracted to a woman who was strictly off-limits.

  As they left the restaurant, the cool evening air surprised them. Victoria shivered. “Brrr, the cold front is definitely here.”

  In a purely reflexive gesture, Roan slid an arm around her shoulders and rubbed her bare arm. Amazingly, she didn’t resist, didn’t even act surprised. She just tucked herself against his shoulder as they walked briskly across the parking lot. He supposed that meant she’d come to trust him—which made him feel doubly guilty for the things he was thinking about her.

  She fumbled with the keys in her purse. Roan took them from her and unlocked her door as he sheltered her from the keen wind with his body. But instead of opening the door, he pressed the keys into her hand, then swiveled her around so she was facing him, her back against the van.

  “You are one helluva woman, you know that?”

  “Wh-what are you talking about?”

  “Back there in the restaurant. When those yo-yos were giving you such a hard time. Most women would have dissolved into tears after the first thirty seconds. But you took it all with perfect grace, and you gave as good as you got.”

  “Oh, them.” She waved her hand dismissively. “They don’t bother me.” Her voice trembled slightly—whether from emotion, the cold, or the fact that Roan was standing far too close to her, he could only guess.

  “I think they did bother you. But we’ll show ’em, Vic. We’ll be in plenty of time for the next tornado. We’ll get there hours ahead of anyone else, even if we have to get up at six in the morning to do it.”

  “Vic?” she repeated, ignoring the rest of his pep talk.

  “Well, you didn’t like Vicky.”

  “And I don’t like—” He cut her off with a kiss. He’d meant only to peck her on the lips to halt her argument, but somehow his plan didn’t take shape quite like that. Before he knew what was happening, his mouth was pressed against hers as he savored the sweet taste of her. He grasped her shoulders, pulling her against him until he could feel the gentle push of her small, rounded breasts against his chest. He even fancied he could
feel the dark heat of her womanliness radiating outward, encompassing him, pulling him deeper and deeper.

  She didn’t resist when he probed her mouth with his tongue, and she even met his forays with tentative flicks of her own tongue. She might as well have doused him with gasoline and thrown a match at him. No subtle act of acceptance had ever turned him on so quickly, so thoroughly, so … uncontrollably.

  “Victoria,” he murmured against her lips. He’d always had trouble with her name, but now it resounded like poetry in his mind, beautiful and dignified and secretly hot, like the woman herself.

  He kissed her ear, her neck, her throat. She clutched his shoulders in a painfully tight grasp, but she didn’t push him away. Carried by the heat of the moment, he undid two buttons on her blouse and dipped his tongue between her breasts. Her skin smelled like delicate wildflowers, sweet and clean and exotic all at the same time.

  She insinuated her thigh against his arousal, exerting a gentle, excruciating, and quite deliberate pressure. Overcome, he plunged his hands inside her blouse and covered her breasts, kneading them beneath her lacy bra.

  “Uh, Roan …” She could barely utter the words, she was breathing so hard.

  God help him, he wanted her so badly, he could have taken her right there in the dark parking lot.

  “Please …”

  That single word, spoken with so much desperation, brought him back to his senses. This was crazy! Though it almost caused him physical pain, he slowly pulled away. Moonlight revealed the play of emotions on her face—desire, confusion, dismay.

  She clutched the front of her gaping blouse, glancing guiltily over his shoulder. “Someone could see us.”

  “Then let’s go somewhere more private.”

  “No!” There was a definite edge of panic in her voice. “Look, Roan, I promise not to whine about our bad luck anymore if you promise not to … comfort me.”

  “Comfort you?” he repeated. “If you think I had comfort on my mind just now, you must not have much experience with men and their … hormones.”

  His were still raging.

  She bristled at that. “I have as much experience as I need, thank you. Don’t feel obligated to educate me. Now, can we please get in the car?”

  He released her. He would let her think she’d won this round—for a minute or two anyway. However, as soon as they were in the van, seat belts dutifully buckled, he asked, “Are you a virgin?”

  She made an exasperated noise. “Roan, please, I don’t want to talk about this. You shouldn’t have kissed me.”

  “And you shouldn’t have kissed me back.”

  That silenced her for a moment. “Point well taken.” She said nothing for a long while, and he didn’t pursue it. When she spoke again, she took him by surprise. “I’m thirty years old. Of course I’m not a virgin.”

  He chuckled, and the tension between them ebbed slightly. A little defensive, Vicky? He knew she wasn’t totally lacking in experience. No woman with that kind of fire could ignore the pull of her own sexuality for too long. But he wondered if any man had ever fully explored her depths and kindled that fire into a raging inferno. He’d like to. He’d really like to.

  “Amos would kill you,” she said, almost as if she’d read his thoughts.

  “Yeah, I know,” he agreed reluctantly.

  “And I don’t intend to be your two-week fling, have you got that?”

  “Loud and clear.” When he really thought about it, he couldn’t imagine Victoria being anyone’s fling. Flings were intended to be enjoyed and forgotten, and she was simply not a forgettable woman.

  SIX

  Victoria let the lukewarm shower spray prod her out of her morning grogginess. She hadn’t slept well, what with unfulfilled urges humming through her body and self-recriminations echoing in her restless mind. She’d hoped that what she and Roan had done the night before wouldn’t seem so awful by morning’s light.

  But it did.

  She was mortified that she had let herself get so carried away. Whatever Roan had intended with his kiss, she’d been looking for comfort. He was the only one who understood what she’d been through the past two days, and after the brutal teasing she’d been subjected to, she’d felt a peculiar kinship with him. He hadn’t criticized or condemned or complained. And during that one weak moment, when he’d captured her lips with his, she’d wanted to dissolve in that solace.

  And something else. Ever since she’d met Roan she’d sensed that something more serious lay beneath his brash, irreverent exterior. As their lips met and their breaths mingled, she’d felt an odd sensation of brushing up against the real Roan, a man of depth and complexity and, yes, even tragedy.

  Within seconds, all ordered thought had vanished as her body came alive. Swept into a maelstrom of pure sensation, she’d dismissed all thoughts of what was proper or prudent. Somehow, perhaps because of the overwhelming nature of the kiss, she’d realized that Roan was no safe haven, but the embodiment of danger itself. She’d dug deep into herself and found the presence of mind to issue a small protest.

  To his credit, he’d responded immediately, releasing her, allowing her to pull away. She’d grabbed on to that concession with both hands, letting anger set in. It wasn’t exactly fair to be angry with Roan. He hadn’t done anything so terribly wrong. But the harsh words had served their purpose—to erect a strong, impenetrable barrier between them so that nothing like that would happen again.

  The situation wasn’t hopeless, she decided. Roan had charmed her into letting her guard down, that was all. The wisest course of action would be to retreat to a more formal relationship. With that decision made, she felt slightly better.

  She shivered as she stepped out of the shower and vigorously began drying herself. After pulling on white jeans and a thin lilac sweater, she plopped down on the end of the bed, turned on the Weather Channel, and began the laborious task of combing the tangles out of her long hair.

  The forecast surprised her. She had really thought the past two days of violent weather would be the last she would see for a while; only so much atmospheric energy was available for a storm to draw on. But it appeared the storms weren’t completely played out. The map showed a red splotch over Kansas, indicating potential for tornadic activity.

  “Ha!” she said aloud, turning on her laptop computer. Amos had been right about Kansas. She pulled up the latest data, made some calculations, colored a new map, then picked up the phone and dialed Roan’s room number. This was one show she wasn’t going to be late for.

  “Hmph?” Roan answered. The sound of his sleep-scratchy voice brought an unexpected tightness to her chest. There was something so damnably intimate about talking to a man when he was in bed, even if it was over the phone. What did he sleep in? she wondered.

  “Good morning, Roan,” she said crisply.

  “Oh, mornin’, Vic,” he said, his voice filled with warmth.

  She decided to ignore his new title for her. He was, after all, still half asleep. “Sorry to wake you, but I’d like to get on the road early today. We may have one more shot at a tornado, and I don’t want to take any chances of getting there late.”

  “Sure, okay. How’d you sleep?”

  “I slept fine,” she lied, taken aback by the question. Roan wasn’t normally concerned with her sleeping habits. “And you?”

  “Not too good. Kept dreaming about big hazel eyes shining in the moonlight, and the softest lips this side of—”

  “I’m so sorry,” she cut in. “Perhaps we can stop at a drugstore and buy some Ny-tol. That should help get rid of those annoying dreams.”

  Silence greeted her clinical, unemotional response—precisely as she’d intended. She would not answer in kind when he flirted with her, and she would not get angry either. Those were the two reactions he aimed for. If she did not provide them, he would stop provoking her.

  “Well, uh …” he finally managed to get out.

  “Can you meet me in the motel restaurant in about th
irty minutes?” she asked smoothly.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “All right. See you then.” She hung up, feeling deflated. But it was good to know her plan was working.

  Breakfast was a grim affair. Like Eliza Doolittle at the horse races, Victoria restricted her conversation to health and weather—mostly weather. Roan demolished a Denver omelet, offering only a nod or a monosyllabic answer when she asked him a direct question. But she was constantly aware of the way he watched her, almost as if he were sizing her up for his next meal, and she couldn’t help the breathless catches that sometimes punctuated her words, or the blood that rushed to her face and then abruptly away, leaving her light-headed.

  Wondering how he would kiss had been bad enough. Now that she knew, his effect on her was twice as devastating. Why did he have to be so all-fired … masculine?

  After the meal Roan seemed to come to a decision. Victoria could almost see his chin tensing with resolve as he paid their bill. His blue eyes glinted with a new determination. Or was she only being fanciful?

  No, he was definitely up to something, she decided when, as they were loading their gear into the van, he lit a cigarette right in front of her. Until that point he had considerately restricted his smoking to times they were apart.

  She closed the back doors of the van and turned, only to find herself practically chest to chest with him. “So you’re just going to ignore what happened last night, is that it?” he asked. The question was issued amiably enough, but there was an edge to his smile.

  “That was my general plan, yes,” she said, trying to sidle away from him. She couldn’t think when he was so close.

  He placed both hands against the van on either side of her, effectively trapping her. “Unh-unh. Stay here and talk to me. Was that one kiss so earth-shatteringly awful?”

  “No, of course not. It was a very nice kiss, as kisses go.” Understatement of the year. “But it was unwise, and you know that as well as I do.”