by Barbara Lohr
Life as Mallory Schuster was supposed to be frugal. His thoughts circled that word with cautious respect. At Chad’s insistence, he’d borrowed the last name of his assistant, Miriam Schuster. Chad had even come up with a story about the two siblings, Miriam and Mallory, sharing a check book. Without a question, Miriam had sent Amy the requested deposit check. Miriam had worked for his father for years and was well versed in the art of discretion.
Mallory shifted in his seat. This wager had felt like a lark when he’d been playing a game over the Internet through his cousin Chad. For a few days, excitement had coursed through his veins at the thought of a teacher who wanted to travel with a stranger. Granted, some form of Miss Sandusky had fevered his brain.
Now he felt like an idiot. He’d been skunked.
When Amy's eyes brimmed with tears, he was at a loss. Mallory Thornton—at a loss.
Until she laughed.
Amy’s laugh told a whole different story than that tight topknot. In the darkened cabin, they watched the movie Airport, a classic comedy. Her girlish giggle lightened the close cabin air, and her lightly freckled nose crinkled in the cutest way. Even with his headsets on, he could hear that laugh, and he chuckled in response.
At the end of the movie, the lights in the cabin dimmed. After pulling a pair of eyeshades from the seat pocket in front of her, Amy adjusted them and hunkered down, stuffing a flat pillow behind her head. Almost as an afterthought, she yanked the elastic from her hair. Long curls spilled over her shoulders, pale sherry glowing under shimmering blonde streaks.
Damn. Soft curls had always been one of Mallory’s weaknesses. Shortly after the wedding, Rhonda had cut her hair into a short cap with sharp angles. Unbecoming as hell, not that he'd said anything.
Amy’s curls smelled enticing—like oranges sitting in the sun on his side porch while Nellie, his doting housekeeper, served breakfast. With a slight shake of her shoulders, the testy teacher had become a different woman.
Sexy but subtle. His muscles tightened.
Amy’s figure did credit to the dark green T-shirt with Read It! scrawled in white across the chest. And yet, her shoulders and arms looked so delicate, almost fragile as she turned slightly toward him, trying to find a comfortable spot. Mallory busied himself with his blanket to hide his own confusion.
“Warm enough?” he murmured, bending closer to the curls. “Would a blanket help?”
“Yes, please.” She sighed.
Lifting the navy rectangle airlines called a blanket, Mallory draped it over her body, watching it cup her curves. A drowsy smile tilted the corners of her lips.
A sleeping woman could be as sexy as hell.
When an attendant moved down the aisle with more plastic packages, Mallory motioned for one. Fortunately he had no trouble sleeping on planes or anywhere else, even in close quarters. Ripping open the packet, he shook the blanket over himself. Damn things were like handkerchiefs.
The only sounds were the drone of the plane and Ethel's light snoring.
Then Amy sighed again. The eyeshade slipped, and her eyes blinked open. Clearly she was troubled. Mallory’s guilt came washing back, like bad pulled pork.
Time to smooth the waters. Leaning toward her, he inhaled the tangy scent of those curls. Long tawny lashes feathered onto her cheeks. “Amy, Ah am so sorry if this isn’t exactly what you’d planned.”
“Not what I’d planned!” Her head shot straight up. Right into his nose.
“For God’s sake, woman!” He reared back in agony. Bright red drops of blood splattered onto his slacks.
“Oh! I’m sorry, so sorry!” Stooping, Amy dug around in her backpack. “What have I done?”
Signaling for the stewardess, Mallory grabbed a handkerchief from his back pocket. His nose hurt like hell when he pressed the white linen against his nostrils. “Ma’am, I wonder if I might have some ice?” he asked the flight attendant.
“Of course, sir. Right away.”
“Is the bleeding bad?” Amy clutched a fistful of tissues.
Lifting the handkerchief, Mallory wrinkled his nose. Another sizeable drop of red hit the front of his khaki pants.
Amy shook her head in disapproval. “No, you have to pinch it at the top.”
He gripped the tip of his nose with two fingers.
“Wrong end, wrong end. Here let me.” Brushing his fingers and the bloodied handkerchief aside, she gripped the top ridge of his nose with almost clinical efficiency.
Good God, he certainly would not want her handling any other stiff part of his body.
“Better?” she asked.
Mallory was beginning to think this applying pressure thing had its advantages. Amy’s curls tickled his cheek, soft and scented. As her breathing quickened, her breasts rose and fell with a hypnotic rhythm.
“Does this feel better?” Amy peered down at him.
“Much better.”
Taking her hand away slowly, she wrenched the blanket back up around her shoulders. “I just don’t see how this happened.”
Mallory settled back. “I believe you smashed into my face.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Amy nibbled on her bottom lip, brows pinched together. “I just had to find someone to travel with me after…”
“After what?” Good lord, he wanted to hug her.
What was there about a woman in distress? Chad always said that was his problem. When he’d met Rhonda, she gave him some cock and bull story about a terminally ill mother. Yet somehow, her mother had managed a spirited, although drunken, salsa at their wedding reception.
“The mix-up is upsetting,” he said, shifting in his seat and relishing the thoughts of just how he might make Chad pay for this juvenile prank. Drawing and quartering would be too kind. “I’ve, ah, saved for this trip…for a long time.” Right, would his nose start to grow like Pinocchio's? He could have paid for fifty of these trips and not even made a dent in his holdings. Rhonda had only gone for trips with beaches. Museums definitely were not her thing.
Amy blinked. “What happened? You didn’t plan on traveling alone either?”
“My life took a different turn.”
“Oh, gosh.” Such sadness in her face.
He leaned closer. “You know, Amy, if both of us really want this trip and the, well, sights…” Where were they going after they landed in Milan? For the life of him, he could not remember. He’d been so caught up in the Franklin acquisition that he’d left everything to Chad. The forwarded emails blurred in his mind. Museums and galleries. He thought it had to do with those.
Amy’s long lashes were darkened by tears. Where was he?
“Of course, I respect your concern, when for some reason you thought I was a woman, but couldn’t we share a room? Separate beds of course. A compromise might work for both of us.” Negotiation. Always a good chip to play in any board room.
Amy went back to gnawing her full lower lip. “Oh, I don’t know, Mallory.”
Time to regain ground. “I’d certainly respect your privacy, and I know you’d respect mine.” The last part was an afterthought, but he could see it had an effect.
“You’re right, I guess.” Amy seemed to be analyzing every word. “I don’t want to give up this trip, and I certainly don’t want to ruin it for you.”
Reveille was sounding. “Perhaps we could take two rooms? An expense, but I would be happy to make up any difference.” Hell’s bells. Chad wasn’t here and he’d never know.
“We’ll work it out.” She set her chin. That delicate point prodded his heart.
Nose throbbing, he settled back. Forget the car and the company, for now. He was more concerned about keeping that sweet smile on her face.
~.~
Let loose. Relieved to be on the ground, Amy picked up the pace as they trekked toward the car rental counter. With a new, sexy swagger, she tried to channel Caitlin.
Mid-stride, her eyes slid sideways. Mallory Schuster, a.k.a. Heathcliff, was incredibly handsome. Plus, he seemed to be a decen
t sort of guy. After all, wasn’t he interested in art museums? Excitement bubbled through her like a freshly opened bottle of pop. If she pushed up her sleeves, she’d see goose bumps.
Come hell or high water, she was going to let loose. All week.
One week with him in the same bedroom? She stumbled. Mallory half turned, one hand outstretched. Gripping the handle of her suitcase more tightly, she waved him on. “I’m fine.”
The dark stubble on Mallory chin and cheeks gave him a cosmopolitan look, like he should be on some HBO show. “Lives of the Rich and Famous.” No doubt he dated sophisticated women who wore a size two, dressed in designer clothes, and traveled to Europe every year. These women may have seen the movie Wuthering Heights, but they’d never actually read the book. That may be more Mallory Schuster’s type. The excitement in her stomach twisted into anxiety.
No lesson plan could have prepared her for this. She’d have to wing it. The thought sent her tight stomach tumbling, as if she’d just dropped out of the sky. How relieved she was to finally see the car rental counter ahead. Now if she could just manage the darn stick shift.
While Amy talked to the clerk, Mallory stepped back. He always wound up squiring women who depended on him for the plans. Now he regarded the lush blonde in the safari pants and T-shirt with respect. He’d nearly landed on his ass watching her backside as she trotted through the baggage area. She didn’t flaunt her figure, didn’t even seem aware of her curves. Just moved with confidence.
Confidence was sexy.
Chad had chosen well. Mallory’s usual tactics with women might not cut it. Amy Shaw may be a woman who did not need or want a man—at least not long term. This was like fanning open a poker hand and not knowing which card to play. Didn’t happen often.
“Here we go, Mallory. Up ahead. Slot fifty-five.” Keys in hand, Amy pointed toward the numbered row of parked cars.
He swallowed hard. In rental space fifty-five sat a practical blue hatchback. He could picture a pack of howling teenage girls crammed into it on their way to some sporting event. With longing, Mallory’s mind caressed his sweet black Jag or reveled in the rumble of his vintage Corvette. He could hardly believe he was about to spend one week driving this nondescript rental.
Or maybe not. While he hoisted luggage into the hatchback, Amy had gotten behind the wheel. By the time he crammed himself into the passenger seat, her head was bent over a large map.
She glanced up. “How about being navigator?”
“I’d be happy to drive,” he offered, pushing his seat back.
“I can handle it if you'll check the directions.”
“Of course.” Mallory took the map from her trembling hands. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” When she gripped the steering wheel with both hands, the trembling stopped. Body rigid, Amy studied the console. Reaching into one of the many pockets in her pants, she pulled out one of those rubber things and swept her hair back. Not an improvement, in his book. Then she jammed the key into the ignition, turned it, and ground the gearshift into reverse.
Mallory clamped his jaw shut. He would not say a word, not even if it killed him. And it might.
The car lurched as Amy backed out of the slot. Dropping the map, he braced himself with one hand on the dash and the other on the door handle.
Amy continued to wrestle with the gearshift. “Looks like we pick up A7 and then head straight for the coast. Southwest,” she gritted out.
A woman who understood directions. Mallory’s confidence in her grew. As she hit the clutch again, she glanced pointedly at the map that had fallen to the floor.
“Right.” Loosening his grip on the dash, Mallory scooped up the map and snapped it open with both hands, just to keep them steady.
How could he persuade her to let him drive?
“The route should be very picturesque,” Amy muttered between clenched teeth while the gears continued to grind. The car was quivering in protest, like a race horse under the whip. Somehow they made it out of the terminal and onto a highway. He visited his showroom in Milan quite often. They seemed to be on the right track.
Glancing out the window, Mallory wondered if he would end up dead in one of the ditches. His neck began to ache, and he wondered if it was whiplash. “So, do you drive a stick shift often in Indiana?”
“Illinois,” she corrected him. “Oak Park. West suburb of Chicago. My, ah, friend wanted the stick.”
“The one who couldn’t make it at the last minute?” Amy had mentioned that in one of the emails Chad had forwarded to him. She had planned on traveling with a friend, but something happened.
Amy licked her lips. “Right.”
The traffic picked up speed. The gears ground one more time, and the car rocketed forward.
“Good God.” She was going to kill him.
“Are you all right?” When Amy leaned toward him, the car followed her, veering to the right.
Mallory grabbed the wheel. “Please pull over.” He angled the steering wheel to take them onto the shoulder.
Color flamed high in her cheeks, but she brought the car to the side of the road and stopped. Grit blew along the highway as he pushed the door open and dug himself from the front seat. Circling the front of the car, Mallory considered how to handle this. At this point, she could still send him right back to Milan and the states.
That was sure as hell not going to happen.
Chapter 4
Springing from the car, Amy faced him, arms crossed and right hand clutching the key. “What? So it takes me a while.”
“Please, let me help out. A stick shift isn’t easy if you’re not used to it. Glad to drive. After all, we’re partners.”
Amy’s tears brimmed like a line of diamonds under each eye. Was she that sensitive?
Lips trembling, she dropped the keys into his hands. “Fine. Your turn.”
Saints be praised. While she circled around to the passenger side, Mallory slid behind the wheel. Adjusting the seat, he started the car and scooped the map off the floor. “Sure could use a navigator.”
When Amy smiled, her eyes were the color of a putting green, warm and full of hope. “No problem.” She took the map in her long elegant fingers. Settling into the seat, he pulled back into the traffic. After a few miles, Amy seemed to relax. The overnight flight was never easy. He snapped on the radio, and the unmistakable beat of the Big Bopper singing “Blueberry Hill” filled the car. He just about split a gut laughing, and Amy was right there with him.
“No fair.” She gave the dashboard a playful pat. “I want romantic Italian music.”
“Romantic Italian music?”
“Is there any other kind?” With a little shake of her head, she looked away and cracked open her window.
Time to keep his eyes on the road. The sleeves of Amy’s jacket were pushed up, and sunlight played along the down on her arms. Smelling of the countryside, the breeze teased her hair from that damn rubber band thing. Curls danced around her face. She kept brushing them out of her eyes, but she didn’t close the window.
Inhaling became a pleasure. The sun bounced off the hood, and Mallory adjusted his sunglasses. At least he wasn't in the air-conditioned seclusion of his office, taking calls and strategizing with his global managers. Miriam had texted him a couple of times about the Franklin deal, and he'd answered her questions while he waited for Amy at the rental counter. For now, he’d turned his phone off.
“Had you planned this trip for a long time?” he asked. How on earth had she ended up traveling alone?
After digging around in her backpack, Amy snapped on a pair of sunglasses. “About six months. Maybe we should concentrate on the road.”
“Said like a school teacher.”
Amy stiffened.
“Sorry.” He suppressed a smile. “It’s just that sometimes…”
“I know, I know. I sound like a school teacher because I am a school teacher. People tell me that all the time. So shoot me.” She looked insulted.
&nb
sp; Took Mallory a second to gather his thoughts. “Salt of the earth. I have a great deal of respect for teachers.” Thinking back to Miss Sandusky, he mentally added “lust” to that respect.
“Good. I’m glad.” The look she gave him brimmed with so much trust that guilt came creeping back. He liked to earn people’s trust.
Blowing out a sigh, he sank deeper into his seat. Might as well enjoy the ride. Vineyards on rolling hillsides. Fields of sunflowers. He was in Italy—the country of great food, friendly people, and fields that sure didn't smell like the city. This crazy bet had brought him here. Time to enjoy it.
Before long, they pulled into a rest stop. Beyond the gas pumps stretched a long, low deli. He parked the car to the side and got out. Amy stretched like a kitten in the sunlight, but he wasn't going there.
“Hungry?” she asked.
“Starved.” Opening the door of the deli, he was met with the pungent aroma of sausages and cheeses, with an underpinning of basil. Not like the typical gas stop in the states. His stomach rumbled.
After surveying the display case, Amy ducked to the side and asked the woman behind the register a question. “Be right back,” she told him. “Restrooms are next door.”
“Seasonings?” the man behind the counter asked.
“Well now, I’ll just enjoy what you give me.” His eyes were on Amy. As she walked out, she flung her head back and pulled out that rubber thingie. Her hair sparkled in the sunlight like a good chardonnay. His head reeled from the sudden vision of that fragrant abundance flung across a pillow.
Land of mercy. Rein it in, Mallory. After all, there was something innocent about Amy Shaw. The wager felt so wrong. He didn't like that feeling one bit.
Huddled at the entrance to the ladies’ room, Amy dug her phone from her backpack. She was a woman in bad need of advice. “Caitlin, pick up. Please pick up.”