by Anne Marsh
Starting with his errant bride.
Tapping his fingers on the wheel, he tried to make up his mind what he should do with her. “You don’ think we should introduce ourselves first?”
***
Getting into the truck’s cab had required a hop-and-jump number to swing herself up. The move definitely wasn’t dignified but Chloe had abandoned all pretense at dignity earlier, when she’d put on her monstrosity of a dress. The thing was twice her size and clearly had a mind of its own. Unfortunately, her choices at Goodwill had been limited. The only other option had been a silky sheathe that might have accommodated half her body, but which had most definitely not been large enough to hold her entirely.
Truly, she didn’t care if the driver were an ax murderer (okay, she did, although it was close). She needed out. Now. Or yesterday. Yesterday would have been even better, before she’d agreed to elope with Big Timmy and quit her job at the diner.
Burned her bridges.
Pissed in the pond.
“Go,” she said again because her rescuer had clearly missed his cue.
“Now I’m definitely thinkin’ we might have ourselves a problem, sweet thing.” The truck’s owner had a smoky Louisiana drawl that made her girly bits sit up and take notice. Yum. He was a dark haired, dark-eyed man, big enough to more than filled up the truck’s cab. He wore a T-shirt with a fire department logo, faded jeans, and a pair of battered steel-toed work boots. The aviator sunglasses shoved up on top of his head meant she could clearly see his expression as he stared at her, clearly stunned. Yeah. She had that effect on people.
“Your truck’s pointed in the right direction.” She fastened her seatbelt. Axe murderer or not, going headfirst through the windshield wouldn’t improve her bad day any. She sensed, however, that she could trust him. It might have had something to do with the cat carrier parked on the cab’s narrow backseat. Her rescuer apparently travelled with a momma cat with two small orange kittens. Any man with cats couldn’t possibly be all bad and even partially bad was an improvement on the men currently in her life.
“Uh-huh.” He didn’t step on the gas, didn’t get them moving. She risked a backwards glance over her shoulder at the wedding chapel. The building was missing a few pink Spanish tiles from the roof, but the painted palm trees on the white stucco were defiantly cheerful and the strings of white Christmas lights twinkled absurdly in the afternoon sun. There were no other signs of life yet, but her luck would run out soon enough. That was just how her life had gone so far. Except, she reminded herself, she was changing that. She’d make her own luck, thank you very much.
“You expectin’ company?”
She ignored his question, because, duh, her dress should have been his first clue. Brides didn’t fly solo. “Try the left pedal,” she suggested sweetly.
He scrubbed a hand over his head. “Last time I checked, my truck was missing a taxi sign.”
She sighed. “You’re not terribly flexible, are you?”
Flexibility was important. Marrying (or almost marrying) Big Timmy would have been a mistake, because he’d been every bit as unbending as her own daddy. Big Timmy had ideas about how his wife should behave and she was pretty certain she’d have been a disappointment on that front. He wouldn’t have been a hitter—she’d learned how to avoid that, thanks to her daddy—but words could hurt almost as much as actual blows and she had no desire to live out the rest of her life in a disapproving deep freeze. It was just as well Big Timmy had failed to show up at the chapel today. She wondered briefly who had talked some sense into him, but it didn’t matter.
“You don’ know me,” he pointed out, which was true.
“You can drive and tell me all about yourself.” She’d listen, too. She was perfectly happy for this man to talk and talk, as long as he kept on driving. She needed to shake the dust of Spotlight, population 347, from her feet. A population minus one, she promised herself, because she wasn’t staying here. She’d sworn she’d do whatever it took to move on and start over. Now, it looked like God had heard her prayers and sent her this man. He wasn’t precisely what she’d hoped for, but she’d make do. She always did. Plus, she had every stitch she owned in the world crammed into her suitcase and just two hundred bucks to her name. Waitressing was not a lucrative gig and rent, even in Spotlight’s trailer park, had eaten up most of her income.
He looked at the wedding chapel, then back at her. She sighed. He was going to make her explain and she hated explanations. Explanations always got her into hot water.
“Did you lose your beau?”
Beau sounded exotic and downright lovely coming from this man’s mouth. He probably could have read her the phone book, and she would have drunk in the caramel-colored words, his soft burr exotic and downright decadent. It was like offering hummingbird cake to a woman on a diet. What else could he say? Pretty words. Lover words. No. She was done with the male of the species. All she needed right now was a driver and a way out.
“Yes,” she said, shoving down the mountain of tulle. “Do you think you could drive now?”
“You’re just goin’ to get in a truck with a total stranger? Do you have any idea what could happen to you?” Now her mystery white knight definitely sounded more grumpy than suave.
She wrestled her skirts down while her stranger methodically ticked off a list of horror stories. Throat slit, body tossed in a ravine. Deader than a doornail and no coming back. She got it.
She stopped him mid-description of a serial killer who had hunted Vegas prostitutes for eighteen months before he’d been arrested. Hopefully, her new ride hadn’t mistaken her for a hooker. “You’ve got sisters, don’t you?”
His big hands tightened visibly on the steering wheel. She checked, but there was no ring or pale circle of skin where a ring had been. Some guys shucked their jewelry like they did their promises.
“Oui, you bet,” he growled. “Three of them. And if any of them hopped into a truck with a total stranger, I’d be lockin’ her up.”
“Medieval.” But also strangely like-worthy.
“How old are you?” He looked suspicious.
“Twenty,” she informed him cheerfully. “Old enough. I’m Chloe Rey.”
She stuck out a hand and he was too polite not to take it.
He sighed and they were close enough that she could feel his breath gust her skin. “Adrian Henry.”
“Well, Adrian, where are we headed?”
He made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a groan, but he put the truck into drive and signaled to turn onto the highway. Lordy, but he liked playing by the rules.
“I’m goin’ to Strong, California,” he told her, checking his blind spot as he pulled out onto the road. Finally. She could have told him that almost no one came out this way. She’d been standing there for an hour. The only reason she hadn’t started walking was because it was ten miles to town and she knew her daddy would be waking up from his drunk soon. She didn’t see any point in borrowing that kind of trouble and pairing it with heat stroke.
“Sounds good to me,” she said, because any place was better than here. Her dress popped back up and she made a frustrated sound. “Do you have a knife?”
“It occurs to me,” he drawled, all male confidence, “that maybe you shouldn’t be worryin’ that I’m an ax murderer. Maybe I should be the one doin’ the worryin’.”
She shrugged. The AC in his truck was a blessing after standing out there in the heat. “I’m trouble, but not that kind.”
“Check the utility pocket,” was all he said.
She rummaged in the passenger side door pocket. He had himself a set of maps, a box of granola bars, and one of those silver space age blankets people claimed could keep you warm in the middle of a blizzard. The desert flashing by outside the window was about as far from freezing as she could imagine. She found the knife and got busy hacking at her skirts. He didn’t say anything, although he kept sliding her sidelong looks. He probably thought a crazy woman had hopped
into his truck. It took nine miles, but then she had herself a mini-dress. When she’d finally reduced the dress to mid-thigh-length, she rolled down the window and tossed the scraps of tulle outside.
“They ticket for litterin’,” he said mildly.
Spotlight flashed up in front of them, all ten buildings of it. Keep driving. Don’t slow down.
He slowed down. Shoot.
“I’m bettin’ there’s somewhere here where you belong.”
“Nope,” she said. “And that’s the truth. You can stop and ask any one of them. They’ll all tell you I’m bad news and better off gone. Getting married would have gotten me out of their hair, but…”
“Your beau didn’t show.”
“Mmm-hmmm, but fate sent me you.”
He eased his foot off the pedal, the truck slowing.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that.” There wasn’t much to Spotlight. Wherever this Strong place was, there had to be more to it. Spotlight had both a gas station and a convenience store. It also had a couple of battered buildings including a diner, a feed store, and a storefront church that 112 of town’s 347—346 she reminded herself—residents belonged to. The rest of them were sinners.
Naturally, Adrian stopped at the gas station. If he wanted her out of his truck, he was going to have to drag her out. She checked the clock on the dashboard. Her daddy would be awake now, and looking for her. That wouldn’t end well for her.
“You’re a firefighter?” She poked him in the chest.
“Oui.” He turned to look at her. He had hazel eyes, gorgeous gold-brown eyes with flecks of green. Her hormones had always appreciated a good-looking man and he was finer than fine. It wasn’t hard to imagine waking up next to him in the morning.
Even if he hadn’t asked.
“Then rescuing me is in your description.”
“I don’ see any fire.”
***
“That could be arranged,” his companion said darkly. Great. He was traveling with an arsonist-in-training. He didn’t need any more shit in his life. She crossed her arms over her chest (which he wasn’t looking at—he really, really wasn’t). The move exposed five purple smudge on tender skin beneath the crease of her arm. Finger-sized bruises. Hell. Maybe she had more than one reason for putting Spotlight behind her. He also couldn’t kick her out of his truck until he knew how she’d gotten injured
“You wan’ to tell me how this happened?” He gently brushed her forearm. Her skin felt silky smooth and she smelled like flowers.
She shrugged. “Not particularly. I was more interested in moving on.”
He understood that, too. He opened his mouth to say something—although he had no idea what—but a lean, stringy man strolled out of the trailer behind the gas station. The guy’s blue coveralls looked like they’d last seen the inside of a washing machine months ago. There was also a familiar hitch in the guy’s walk like his head was splitting and the ground was doing the heaves. His bloodshot eyes narrowed when he spotted Chloe sitting in the front of the truck. Of course, it was hard to miss her, given the dress. She did stick out some.
There was also no blocking out the barrage of curses and directions aimed at the truck, the gist of which was that Chloe was to get her ass out of the cab and into the trailer. Whatever relationship these two had, it wasn’t a good one. Adrian hadn’t let himself feel much of anything since that last fire call gone bad, but there was no holding back the anger burning through him now. When the man leaned in Adrian’s half-open window, the blast of Jack Daniels explained the stagger.
Thank God he hadn’t killed the motor. “You know him?” He asked Chloe. He didn’t care if the guy knew her.
She shrugged. The guy explained.
“I’m her father.”
Right. Her reasons for getting the hell out of Spotlight became clearer and clearer, although he still didn’t quite see where the wedding dress fit it.
“Unfortunately. I’d really appreciate it if you could drive on now.” She curled up against his arm. He wasn’t sure if she wanted to hold onto him or if she was just trying to make it that much harder to pry her out of his truck. Chloe was stubborn.
And stuck to his side like grit.
Agreeing would be crazy.
“Okay. You can ride until I make a stop for dinner. That sound like a plan to you?”
“Good enough for me.” Ignoring the protests of Chloe’s daddy dearest, he nudged his sunglasses back into place and headed for the highway. She let go and sat up.
“You don’ care where we’re headin’?”
She shrugged again, prying hairpins out of her up-do. “Not much. Anywhere that’s not here works for me.”
***
It was a nine-hour drive from Vegas to Strong. Six hours into the drive, Adrian’s stomach announced it was time to stop and eat. Chloe’s stomach let out an answering growl. He was amazed he could hear it. She’d spent the last two hundred miles belting out country tunes at the top of her lungs. A smile tugged at his mouth. She could actually sing, which was more than he could say for himself. Listening to her hadn’t been a hardship.
“Hungry?”
“I could eat,” she allowed. He couldn’t tell if she was being polite or if she was remembering their agreement. After they ate, he got back in his truck and headed out to Strong. She stayed here. Wherever here was.
He spotted a restaurant up ahead and decided fate had weighed in. Someone had perched an enormous windmill on top of the restaurant, because clearly a billboard was insufficient advertising. The place also sported enough neon that even Vegas wouldn’t have been ashamed. Ten-foot letters announced that the house specialty was pea soup. Hopefully, there was something else on the menu. Steak. A hamburger. Any red meat would do. Since the place also had an attached hotel, he could make sure Chloe had a place to spend the night.
It was perfect.
“Maybe they have steak.” He guided the truck into parking spot close to the door where he could keep an eye on their things while they ate.
“Pancakes,” Chloe said decisively. “With extra butter and syrup.”
“Whatever you want,” he said. She gave him a look he couldn’t interpret.
“I need to change,” she announced and he had to agree. If they went inside with her looking like that, they’d be fielding stares. Plus, they’d probably have to get an extra seat for the dress.
She grabbed a handful of clothes from her suitcase and then crawled into his backseat to change with a strict admonishment for him to not peek. Hell, if she’d had second thoughts about his not being a gentleman, she needed to find herself another ride. While she stripped down and re-dressed, he tucked an explosion of clothes back into her suitcase. Maybe she’d sat on the damned thing to get it to close, because he had no idea how she’d gotten so much stuff into the suitcase in the first place. She had the softest, silkiest things, all tangled up with lace-covered bits and pieces. Things to get a man to thinking, although he had a sinking sensation that she could be sporting a flour sack and he’d still be thinking. She got under his skin.
When she finally emerged, hair standing on end, she wore a pair of cut-off shorts and an old I love Vegas T-shirt. She also sported a pair of pretty kick-ass boots herself. He didn’t look at her long, bare legs for more than a minute. Or three. He had his limits.
Instead of staring more, he set Momma Cat up with Purina, checked the water, and turned to Chloe.
“Let’s eat,” he said gruffly. “My treat.”
And then, when she gave him a suspicious look, he added, “Jesus. No strings, Chloe. I’ve never traded pancakes for sex and I’m not startin’ tonight.”
“Okay.” She nodded and patted her back pocket. Her very tight, clinging-to-her-fantastic ass pocket. “But I’ve got pepper spray here if you change your mind.”
He rolled his eye and urged her toward the restaurant. “The time to mention the pepper spray was when you got into my truck.”
“Duly noted,” she said, but she di
dn’t sound too concerned.
He got her into a booth and passed her a menu from the stack at the end of the table. He told himself it was because he didn’t know when she’d eaten last.
“A place like this, all these truckers? We’re goin’ to have a good dinner.”
She made a face. “I waitressed in Spotlight. I’m a diner expert. I can tell you what every guy in here is like by looking at the plate in front of him.”
“Is that so?”
“You bet.” Her eyes twinkled, warning him she was about to try and put one over him. Strangely, he didn’t mind at all. Nope. He liked the way she looked at him too much. “In fact, why don’t we bet on it? If I win, you buy dinner.”
“And if you lose?”
“I won’t.” She flashed him a grin. “But I’ve got enough money to treat you to cup of coffee and a brownie.”
“Deal.” He stretched his legs out underneath the table, his foot brushing hers.
“Okay. But you should think about taking notes or something.”
“Why?” He couldn’t stop himself from smiling. There was something about Chloe.
“Because,” she said all charming seriousness, “this kind of information is gold on a first date. If you want to make a good impression on your gal, you need to order the right stuff.”
“Hit me.” He leaned back in the booth.
“Okay.” She looked around the room. “The guy with the plaid flannel lives at home and hasn’t quite broken free of his mama. He’s having milk with his cake. Don’t order milk. Red T-shirt guy is cheap. He’s going to order off the kid’s menu. The Oxford shirt has nasty habits—not only does he have corn stuck his teeth, but he’s probably the kind of guy who skips the sink on his way out of the restroom. And, over there in the corner, the guy in athletic pants and a sweatshirt? He’s both a health freak and a control freak. He’s got his salad deconstructed and all the good parts on the side. No croutons for him and he brought his own protein shake. He’ll look good when he’s sixty, but he’ll never admit that chocolate is a key food group.”