by Sarah Hegger
The driver scrabbled around a bit and handed her a pen and an old sales receipt. “Is this okay?”
“Perfect.” All she needed was room to think, to put the world into order again. She jotted down a formula, any formula would do: y = x3 - x2. Random numbers flashed past the cab—a street sign, a car registration, anything. She filled them into her formula and solved for y. Every equation had a solution, it had to, and you began by assigning values to the variables. The churning inside her stilled as the numbers obediently conformed.
The idea hit her halfway through her second equation, and it was so beautiful in its simplicity, she laughed out loud. Sitting in her condo, right that minute, was the way to make x plus y equal marriage to Ryan.
Chapter Six
Tiffany wriggled her toes to relieve some of the pressure on the balls of her feet. Her scarlet peep-toes looked incredible, but Jimmy Choo didn’t make shoes for standing by the side of the road in Nowheresville, Utah, facing down the attitude of a sulky teen.
Daddy was wrong about the shoes, but right about her ability to plan. “Let me handle that for you, Princess.” How many times had she heard that? She shuddered, despite the blistering heat. Letting Daddy handle this one for her was so out of the question, it didn’t bear thinking about.
“I told you this was a dumb idea.” Dakota shoved his Beats back around his ears and fished his iPhone out of his pocket. Yes, he’d told her. And told her. But a determined woman did what she had to do.
The plan had seemed so perfect. She had Dakota, for the next four to six weeks as it turned out. Her head gave a sympathetic throb. On the plus side, having Dakota meant knowing Luke’s whereabouts. After her dinner with Ryan and Daddy, she knew she needed to find Luke and find him fast. Daddy expected a divorce settlement, and she aimed to get him one. Sure, he would notice the date was wrong, but once it was done, she could get to work on earning his forgiveness. A wedding to Ryan would do the trick nicely.
Dakota could take her to Luke. Even better, she had the means to sweet-talk Luke into coming back to Willow Park with her and filing a joint petition. A large gesture of atonement that would get Luke back to Willow Park and grease the wheels to a speedy divorce. The Miura—Luke’s girl—all repaired and pretty again. Luke would do anything for that car. It would hurt like hell to hand her over, but a girl had to do … and all that. Add everything together, toss in a nice bunch of symbolism, and it meant loading the toxic teen into a 1972 Lamborghini Miura and driving from Chicago to Canyons, Utah.
It had taken some fancy persuading to get Dakota to give up Luke’s address. However, turned out Dakota would rather spend the next few weeks with his brother than her. Suited Tiffany down to the ground, and gave her enough leverage to get Dakota in the car at a ridiculously early hour the morning after her intervention dinner. He had still only given her the town name, but it was enough to see her on her way.
She eased a small pebble out from under her toe and stared down the strip of black tarmac that stretched endlessly in both directions. So much for her tidy equation, and she was fresh out of new ones. On the side of the road, desert scrub lurked and waited to take over again, choked with bugs and crawling things.
List of lessons, so far. One—never take a road trip in Jimmy Choos. Two—if you do take a road trip, don’t do it in a vintage sports car. She turned back to the hissing Miura, willing it to suddenly spring to life. She’d been forced to leave three pieces of luggage behind because the Miura had no storage room. Not having the time to unpack them, she’d left them in her entrance hall with a note for her cleaning lady. Pray God she had enough in the bags she brought to see her through, because it looked like her journey had gotten a lot longer.
Lesson three—heat and vintage sports cars don’t mix. Why did Utah have to be so damn hot? Even now, sun damage crawled all over her skin. She growled her frustration at the unresponsive car. And things had been going so well. They cleared Illinois easily, hit Iowa and passed more corn than any person could want. Sailed straight through Nebraska, more corn and some cows adding variety. They’d even found a nice hotel where she’d grabbed a few hours sleep, and even better, a few Dakota-free hours.
It was all Colorado’s fault. She’d thought it might be prettier. And it had been a beautiful drive. Should have gone with Wyoming. Dumb, dumb, dumb. She’d pushed through Denver, nearly screaming from the incessant buzz leaking from Dakota’s headphones and his attitude stinking up the car. Dakota hated her. How had they gone from her reading him Diary of a Wimpy Kid to this? She had to admit it was at least partly her fault. Never mind not sending birthday and Christmas gifts, a phone call every now and again wouldn’t have killed her. Especially since she’d seen, firsthand, Lola’s maternal skills.
So she’d sucked up the attitude and stuck with her driving. Roadwork had been her downfall. Between the dark, the flashing orange lights, and bossy men waving flags at her, she’d managed to head south instead of west.
Another little snag on classic cars. No navigation system and no direction thingies that lit up on your rearview mirror. It wasn’t until she saw her first sign to Albuquerque that she got that sinking feeling. Even she knew Albuquerque wasn’t in Utah.
No problem. She’d stopped at a gas station, consulted the GPS on her phone, and bought a map to be sure and got them heading west again. Pioneer woman at her finest and looking fabulous while she did it.
And then, Utah struck! Everyone she knew flew straight into Salt Lake City for the killer skiing. Skiing meant snow, not sun broiling the top of your head. About an hour ago, her bright red Italian diva started to do this strange jerking thing. Tiffany had steered the juddering car off the highway and turned off the ignition. The Miura had coughed, once or twice, and then belched smoke from under the hood.
“Now what?” Dakota yelled at her over the sound exploding from his Beats directly into his eardrums. “Got a plan, Barbie?”
Not a clue. Dakota had taken to calling her Barbie, which pissed her off no end, but then most people took one look at her and assumed she was dumb anyway. Even Daddy and Ryan tended to do her thinking for her.
Maybe they had something there, because she’d managed to land herself in a whole heap of trouble. Her spirits sank even lower.
A puff of smoke drifted over from the Miura, and Tiffany eyed the car’s hood nervously. The older Miuras had a nasty trick of spitting oil onto the carburetor and exploding. Had they ironed out that little hitch in this model? She wasn’t going anywhere near that smoking hood. And she for sure wasn’t going to start the steaming diva up again.
She dug around in her Kate Spade and came up with her cell. At least they had reception. Great. She could call, but call who? Phoning home for a rescue was out of the question. They had no idea she was even out there, let alone having a clue as to why. She was going to have to get herself out of this. The hopelessness of the situation pressed down on her.
Heat haze shimmered against the horizon. Dirty green scrub eked out a determined existence in the parched soil between her and the distant mountains where they rose up to have their ends abruptly truncated by the endless blue arc of the sky. Southern Utah, according to the map app on her phone. Nothing to worry about, other than the sister-wife thing, and those people seemed nice enough. You wouldn’t want to marry one, though.
She thumbed the GPS up on her phone. Okay. There they were; a red dot right in the middle of a yellow streak for the road.
“Hey,” Dakota yelled.
Tiffany turned her back. She really didn’t feel up to another version of how dumb her plan was. She kind of got that by now. The red dot moved as she shifted the map in the direction they were taking. There had to be a town here somewhere. There had to be. Even sister wives had to shop.
“Tiffany?” Dakota’s boots crunched loose sand and gravel.
At least he hadn’t called her Barbie this time. They were on a highway, at least, which meant someone should be along at some point. Woman and boy, alone on a deserted
road. Shit, it had all the makings of a horror movie. She swallowed the lump of fear growing in her throat. Letting her imagination run away with her wasn’t going to help. A trickle of sweat slithered between her shoulder blades and slid into the waistband of her jeans.
“Hey, Barbie.”
If she even looked at him right now, she’d take her Jimmy Choo and smack him around the head with it. He’s a teenager, she reminded herself harshly. And before that, he’d been a cute kid who used to hang around with her a lot. He was also the only one who knew where to find Luke. A new layer of perspiration slid down her sides. She tugged her silk camisole away from her clammy chest.
“Hey!” Dakota waved his twiggy arms at her.
Two and a half days and only a handful of words, and now he was Chatty Cathy. Luke was in for a shock when he clapped eyes on his “baby” brother. Dakota, it appeared, was in a black phase, from his limp, dyed hair all the way down to his knee-high Doc Martens. He was so pale, he could’ve wandered straight off the set of The Walking Dead. And the piercings were so last year. His T-shirt looked like a whole lot of small mammals were being group slaughtered across his skinny chest. She turned back to her phone. She should have known this would end badly. Everything to do with Luke anywhere near her life ended in a big pile of crap.
“For fuck’s sake, Tiffany.” Dakota dragged the syllables of her name out deliberately.
She consented to meet his glare. “What?”
“Car.” He jerked his head to indicate the road behind him.
“It’s broken down.”
“Not that one, Barbie.” He curled his lip at her. “That one.”
And for the first time in seventy-two hours, Tiffany actually felt like smiling. Because the heat shimmer had coalesced into the outline of a vehicle moving their way. They were saved. And she hadn’t even had to call Daddy to come and get her. “Hey.” She leaped for the shoulder of the road and waved her hands. “Help me,” she threw at Dakota.
He lumbered up next to her.
Then again, maybe she should ask him to stand back. The driver might take one look at him, panic, and drive on.
“They can see you without you going all spaz.”
“But they might not stop.” Tiffany pinwheeled her arms in the air.
The vehicle took shape into one of those big trucks like her contractor drove. The sun glinted off the chrome detailing on its fender and obscured her view of the driver. An old movie flashed into her mind, the one with the truck and the car where the truck kept trying to kill the car. She stopped waving. This could be very stupid. Horror movies always started with some girl doing something dumb, like flagging down an unknown truck. She’d be better off calling AAA. She changed the motion of her hands to indicate the driver should carry on.
“What are you doing?” Dakota frowned.
“There could be a psycho in there.”
He gave her that teen look of total scorn. “There are two of us.”
Oh, she felt so much better now. There might be two of them, but her workouts were mainly Pilates. Lots of tone, not a lot of punching-type muscle. And Dakota might be all decked out in black and chains, but he’d be about as effective as a fart against a thunderstorm if the driver of that truck was anywhere near as large as his vehicle.
The truck slowed.
Too late, he’d seen them. He might be a she. Women drove those trucks, too, and it might be a woman in the cab. A really big woman with bulldog tattoos who called herself Bubba’s bitch.
The right flicker blinked and the truck pulled to the side of the road.
Did serial killers signal? Her heart pounded in her ears, and more sweat coated her skin. “He’s stopping.”
“Really?” Dakota dished out the death look.
A small cloud of dust swirled around the large wheels of the truck. The door opened. A boot hit the ground. Not a cowboy boot, but sort of a workman type boot and way, way too big to belong to any woman. Jeans covered the top of the boots as a second leg joined the first.
The Terminator wore boots like that in the first movie. Her mouth dried.
The driver cleared his door. The baking sun hit the blond lights in his hair. He was tall. Very tall, and filling out his tee to the point where the seams protested. “Well, hello again.”
Chapter Seven
Tiffany’s belly bottomed out. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Well, now, let me think. I know—it looks like I’m rescuing you,” said the second to last man on earth Tiffany wanted to see again.
“I told her not to drive that stupid thing.” Dakota deigned to lower the Beats.
Thomas slammed the door of the truck. “I thought you were going to call me.”
“I never said I would call.” Her lame comeback deserved the glare of scorn he tossed her way. His broad shoulders casting her in shadow, he strode toward her, a mountain of angry man.
“I told her it was a stupid idea.” Dakota jammed his hands in his pockets.
She glared at Dakota.
Thomas’s sunglasses concealed his eyes, but the set of his mouth was grim enough to tell he wasn’t pleased. “I’ve been following you for days.” His head jerked in the direction of the Miura. “I never thought anyone would be dumb enough to drive a vintage sports car all the way from Chicago.”
Dumb. The word clattered through her brain. Her vision went hazy, her breath sawed through her lungs. People gave her that what a pretty moron face all the time, but he’d come right out and said it. To her face. “I’m. Not. Stupid.”
Both males turned to stare at her.
“No, just marooned in the desert.” Thomas crossed his arms over his chest.
True enough.
He stepped toward the car and reached for the hood.
“Don’t.” It would be an awful waste of all that lovely flesh. Not that she gave a shit about him. She was more concerned she might get hit by flying mechanical bits. “What are you doing?”
His shades blocked the look he threw her as he touched the hood. “Testing how hot it is.”
“I could’ve told you that.”
He snorted. “Why would I believe anything you said?”
He arrived, out of the blue, asking questions about Luke and then called her a liar. And wait a damned minute here. “You followed me?”
“Yup.” He straightened from the hood and made his way around to the passenger side of the Miura. Thomas bent a long way down to peer in at the dash.
Dakota growled and gave her a sort of you’re too stupid to live look.
“He followed me.” Tiffany tried to get her head around that. “All the way from Chicago. Who does that?”
“Who cares?” Dakota stuck his chin out. “Did you happen to notice we’re stuck in the desert?”
Thomas popped his head up. “Actually, I followed Dakota.”
“You know each other?” She was forced to ask Dakota as Thomas disappeared into the car again.
“Duh.” He rolled his eyes.
Dakota had no appreciation for their dilemma. They were stuck in some—whatever its name was—desert with a very angry stalker. She bet Dakota didn’t know which desert either. You actually had to spend time in school to learn anything. Something neither she nor Dakota had managed to do. Poor kid. Of course, it was hard to feel any sympathy for him when he dished out all the attitude, but she tried anyway.
“It looks like it overheated.” Her stalker straightened from the cockpit of the car.
“You think?” Jeez, the car redlined, then almost blew up. She didn’t need him to tell her that. In fact, she didn’t need him at all. She Googled the number for AAA.
Her finger paused over the Call icon. Her father paid for her membership. She’d brought lots of cash and no credit cards to keep him in the dark. That was what all the movies did when a person wanted to disappear. She’d been rather proud of herself for thinking of it. And her bank account was still connected to Daddy. Yes, she should have opened her own by now, but t
here hadn’t really seemed a need, and every time she brought it up, Daddy laughed it off. Why go to all that extra trouble and pay extra bank charges when you didn’t have to? Calling AAA might just blow this whole thing open. Would they call and tell Daddy his daughter was stuck in the middle of whichever desert with her ex-husband’s car and her ex-husband’s younger brother? And a big, blond stalker. Let’s not forget the stalker.
Still, as rescuers went, at least she’d met Thomas Hunter before. Other than looking seriously mad, he didn’t seem all that dangerous. You never could tell, though. “Are you planning to follow me all the way through Utah?”
“Is that where we’re heading?”
“Yes.” Damn, she’d walked right into that, and now he knew where they were going.
“Via New Mexico?”
There was that, but still. She kept her squirming on the inside. “I never actually got as far as New Mexico, and it’s not my fault. I got turned around in Denver.”
Dakota snorted.
Fat lot of help he’d been, sleeping most of the way. Giving her crap the rest of the time and making it even harder to concentrate. “I must have missed the signs in that roadwork.”
“Okay, but what about all the other signs along the way?”
“It was dark!” Enough with the interrogation, he had some explaining of his own to do. “You’ve been following me all this time?”
He shrugged one shoulder, as if people did this sort of thing every day.
“That’s illegal.” Not to mention creepy and annoying as hell.
“No.” He didn’t seem to give it a moment’s thought. “What’s illegal is what your husband did. I need to find Luke, and you are my best chance of doing that.”
“Ex-husband.”
“Not according to the law.” He folded his arms over his chest. Muscle bulged beneath his tan skin. The sort of arms a girl wanted to gnaw on. Focus, Tiffany!