He chuckled and nodded the cool-guy nod all the boys in her high school had mastered by freshman year. “Later, groupie.”
With the tailpipe leaving intermittent clouds of puffy gray smoke, accentuated by big bang backfires, she puttered away, never quite picking up speed. Almost tempted to follow and make sure she arrived safely, Jesse strode to his own car and zoomed in the opposite direction without looking back.
His rumbling stomach reminded him he’d missed lunch and now dinner. He remembered seeing a nice quiet restaurant as he’d driven to his mother’s from the airport, a place he could collect and organize his thoughts and fill one of the hungers plaguing him.
At least his whole day hadn’t been a waste. Using his flirty charm and the fakest sincerity he’d ever mustered, he’d been able to convince Lucia he genuinely cared for her and wanted to right the wrongs of his past. Just as he’d been about to swing the conversation around to the land sale, Ryhan showed up with that damned calendar, and any chance he had of being taken seriously were ruined by that tiny little thong.
For the first fifteen minutes, he’d been able to forget that old lady Gilden had done nothing, despite her influence, to stop the charge intent on running him out of town. After that, as the memories came crashing in on him, he figured she deserved whatever happened as this played out. If she lost a bundle, he wouldn’t have a problem sleeping at night. Well, maybe a little.
In the interest of sticking to his plan, he whipped the car onto the shoulder and, with a slam of his foot on the gas and a sharp turn of the wheel, aimed it back toward Rangers End. He needed to have some azaleas sent to old lady Gilden.
Two blocks from the flower shop, a puff of black smoke billowed directly in front of him, and the smell of burning rubber tickled his nose. As he approached the source, the swirling cloud grew thicker, and the glow of flames licking a raised bright orange hood danced in the afternoon sun.
Oh shit. Ryhan.
She stood at the front of the burning vehicle, blowing foam with a fire extinguisher in one hand and a cell phone in the other. The flames, instead of reacting to the foam, skittered across the pavement following a line of gasoline leaking from the rear of her car. He shoved the Camaro into park and raced around the front. Arms outstretched, he dove, catching Ryhan around the waist and pulling her on top of him as he landed back first onto the curb. A little road rash and a couple bruises were well worth this moment—her lying flat on top of him.
She yanked out of his arms and patted the ground in front and to each side of her through the haze of smoke. “What the hell are you doing?”
He stood and brushed sidewalk grime from his hands and jeans. “I thought I was saving your life.”
“My car’s on fire!”
He nodded. “I can see that.”
“I almost had it out.” She’d dropped to her hands and knees, patting the ground, ass in the air. His jeans grew tighter as his gaze remained glued to the glorious shape of her behind.
“Well, that part I didn’t see.” His mind battled his body for control of the thinking process. His body wanted her. His mind gave up and jumped in the boat with visual caresses of thighs exposed by a too short skirt.
The fire had spread to the inside of the car and her wail drowned out the approaching fire truck’s siren. “The calendars!” She kicked the passenger side door and the window slid down.
With the entire top half of her body, she leaned in, her feet dangling behind her. Kicking, fighting to straighten, her stomach scraped along the ledge of the door, her shirt rising inch by inch as she backed out. He sucked in a sharp breath at the eyeful of smooth, peach-colored skin before she stood with both feet on the ground, a large box shifting awkwardly in her arms.
“Why didn’t you just open the door?” He took the box and set it on the curb.
“It’s welded shut.” She shuffled on her knees toward the scattered pieces of her cell, lying a few feet down the sidewalk.
He shook his head, cupping his palm around the back of his neck. “You need a new car.”
“And another new phone, both thanks to you. Thanks a lot. Maybe next time you can kill my dog too. If I had a dog. Which I don’t, thank God.” The fire took over the interior. The smoke turned blacker, and the smell grew worse. To his way of thinking, she was lucky to be rid of that piece of crap.
“What did I do?” While he found her anger sexy as hell, she pissed him off. It wasn’t like he meant to embarrass her or break her cell phone. And he damned sure hadn’t crossed any sexual lines. He’d gone for the hero points and tried to save her. Okay. So, yanking her on top of him might have been a little over dramatic, but letting her burn to a crisp in an unbeatable fire would have stolen any chance he had with her.
What?
Chance with her? He didn’t do chances. He did single nights. Period. That must have been what he meant. Yeah. Definitely.
She punched a hand on each hip and glared up at him. “If you hadn’t distracted me, I would have noticed the smoke under the hood and pulled over before it got so bad.”
“I wasn’t even here.”
She shook her head. “Oh, yes you were! You were in my head dancing around in your little bitty swimming suit while you—” Her words died as she pulled her lower lip between her teeth.
He took a step closer. “Liked it, did you?”
“It was appalling. Left nothing to the imagination.” The wobble in her voice betrayed her, and his pulse pounded a bit harder. “I like my men refined.”
“Like the rock star?”
Her eyes flashed fire. “Shut up.”
“Well, now that you’ve seen mine, I think it’s only fair you show me yours.” He grinned. “You know. Tit for. . .tat.”
The sounds of firemen bustling with their hoses interrupted a moment that had barely taken root. She snapped her head around and muttered over her shoulder, “I’m YouTube famous. Check there. Or, better yet, if you wait a couple days, I’m sure Rick’ll have little sale booths set up on all the street corners. It’s as close as you’re getting.” She plopped on a park bench along the curb—another of the planning commission’s improvements that had eaten into their tax revenue.
Unable to resist the challenge, he sat next to her and dropped an arm over the backrest. “The real thing is always better than what you see in the movies.” He grinned, and they sat together, not talking, just staring, as the fire crew sprayed water at her car. At her quiet sob, he pulled her in close and twined the fingers of his other hand with hers. “Hey. It’s only a car. I’m just glad you’re okay.”
“I’m not okay, Jesse. My car is a big ball of ash. My ex-boyfriend is a dick who is spreading fliers all over town.” She ducked out from beneath his embrace and yanked one off a pole to her left. “And I’m really tired.” Weathered more than beaten, her voice dropped to a low almost moan.
“If it makes you feel better, you look pretty.” Since Renee and her incessant tantrums, he’d limited his experiences with women to the bedroom. This woman, who caused a strange thump in his heart with every breath she took, left him off balance. And he’d called her pretty. Idiot.
“Well, golly. That fixes everything.”
The sarcasm stung, and he leaned away from her, giving up on chatter that only seemed to make her more angry and made him sound like a blithering fool. When her driver door fell off its hinges as the tow truck hooked up to the car, she gasped, and he took her hand again. He stroked her palm with his thumb. At a particularly distraught groan, he brought her knuckles to his lips, offering the only comfort he could think of. After the car and its assorted pieces had been towed to Ron’s Junk in the Trunk salvage yard, Ryhan remained on the bench, staring at the spot of oil on the pavement where her beloved Pinto had met its demise. “I loved that car.”
“I know, but it was old and falling apart.” Not that he needed to point it out. The bungee cord pretty much said it all.
“Mark bought it for me.” A tear slipped down her cheek, and he rea
ched out to brush it away.
Who the hell was Mark, and why did he matter so much that her voice changed when she spoke his name?
“Hey, look at it this way, you can get a better one now.” He’d buy her one if she’d just quit crying.
As he opened his mouth to offer her the choice of any vehicle that made her happy, she kicked the toe of her boot against the concrete. “It’s just, I’ve had it for such a long time, and now, not only is it gone, I don’t have a way to get to and from work every day.”
“Isn’t that car dealer still over on Birch and Fourth? I’ll take you there, and you can get a new one.” Anything to stop her crying.
She yanked her hand free, crossed her arms, and huffed out a breath that, from his experience with women, meant trouble. “I’m a part time waitress, dog walker, photographer, gas pumping housekeeper. I don’t have the money to just go out and buy another one, rich boy. Some of us work our asses off just to scrape by.” She stood, hefted the box off the ground and stomped ten steps before he could close his mouth and react.
What the hell just happened?
Okay. So he’d stepped in that one. But it wasn’t like he meant to upset her.
“Hey, wait up.” He jogged to catch her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply—I’m just sorry.” She continued walking without looking at him, her red face and bloodshot eyes speaking louder than any words she could have shouted. “Ryhan, stop.” He tugged her elbow. “I said I’m sorry.” She stomped on. “Come on. Let me take that, and I’ll give you a ride.”
“Why bother? I need to get used to walking. You can go back to your pampered life now and leave me alone.”
Wow. When he continued in step beside her, she stopped and adjusted her grip around the box. “Please, Jess.”
His ears perked up. No one shortened his name because it annoyed him, but hearing it from her shot a tingle in the general vicinity of his belt. He wrestled the box out of her arms in an inspired bout of tug of war. For being built like a storybook princess, she had a vise grip. “Let me help you.” With a final sharp tug, he gained ownership of the parcel and tucked it under one arm. He turned toward his car as she reached out again.
“I don’t need your help.” She chased after him and whipped her body in front of his.
“Yes, you do!”
She snatched at the rim of the box as he pulled it closer. The side tore, spilling those damned calendars all over the sidewalk. He crouched beside her as she slammed them one by one into a pile next to her, but the glossy covers caused an avalanche of half-naked men photos to re-cover the concrete.
“Now, look what you did.” With her teeth clenched, her voice came out more as a growl than its normal saucy tone. She gathered an armful of the books and hugged them close to her chest. “God, what is it with you? What is it with me?”
He shook his head, and stilled her hands with his own.
“Hey.”
She looked up, tears clouding her sapphire eyes.
Without any thought or plan in place, he straightened, bringing her with him, then leaned in and brushed his lips across hers. Feeling exploded inside him, and he reached out to cup her cheek, urge her closer. On a breath, she opened her mouth, and his tongue slipped inside. The sweet taste of her inspired a moan he couldn’t control. She stood rigid for all of one second before her body softened, and she tangled her fingers at the back of his neck. For both their sakes, and for decency, he needed to keep this encounter PG-13, but. . .
With a hand at her waist, he pulled her closer, aligning them together, her arms full of calendars between them. Her hands crept up his chest, tangled in his hair as she tilted her head.
The books slid back to the pavement, ignored.
This woman threw her entire body into the kiss, from her lips to her hands to the way she rubbed against him and the little moans escaping her throat. But why did she insist on tapping his shoulder?
It took three full seconds to realize the bony finger attacking his back belonged to someone other than the woman who had all ten fingers knotted in his hair. He broke the kiss and turned a glance over his shoulder.
Mrs. Winterbottom. Glaring at him. Oh yeah. He knew the sixty-year-old candle shop owner. She’d been one of the posse of old ladies responsible for driving him away from Rangers End.
The thoughts registered slowly at first then hit him at the same moment Ryhan braced both hands on his chest and shoved. He backed up two steps, his gaze flashing from one woman to the other.
“I should have known it was you, Jesse Megalos, molesting that poor girl right here in the street where children pass by.” The old woman’s voice, of the horror movie villain variety, spat the words in comical contrast to her four-foot stature.
As far as he knew, the children were nestled all snug in their school desks, free from the danger of being corrupted by the sight of two grown and consenting—and by consenting he meant enthusiastic—adults kissing.
“He, he wasn’t molesting me.” Ryhan held up a hand. “He helped me with my car. Saved my life, probably. I-I-I was thanking him.”
“I saw him throw you on the ground. That is assault if I’ve ever seen it.” Mrs. Winterbottom popped a diva hip, dangerous for someone her age. Of course, she’d probably had her nose pressed to the window watching the fire and everything that happened since, likely giving a play-by-play on conference call to all the other old biddies in town.
“She landed on top of me.”
Hardly a defense the old woman respected. She clucked her tongue and shook her head. “As if you didn’t plan that.” She poked a finger at his chest. “You were a naughty boy back then, and you haven’t changed one bit from what I can see. You should go back where you came from and leave this sweet girl alone before you destroy her life too.”
Haunted by a past he’d never quite been able to outrun, he met the old woman’s icy stare. “I guess that is what you’d think.”
“Oh, Mrs. Winterbottom, I’m fine. And he really was trying to save me.”
As though Ryhan hadn’t even spoken, the old woman kept her sneer pointed at Jesse. “She needs a good boy, not the likes of you, Jesse Megalos.”
He averted his gaze and clenched his fist and teeth. He wanted to lash out, wished he could, but more he wished just once someone would see him for the man he’d become rather than the boy he’d been or the mistakes he’d made.
Seeing no real point in wishes that would never come true, he nodded. “Right.” Screw this. Screw this town. Screw the oil. Screw this deal. He strode to his car, climbed in, threw it in gear, and squealed the tires as he left.
5
Since Mrs. Winterbottom took such pride in running off her ride, the walk home took Ryhan more than an hour. She had the dinner shift at Kelly’s, and with having to foot it everywhere until she could figure out how to get a new car, she didn’t have time to waste on daydreaming of fancy leather interiors or men with lips like brushed suede. She would just have to save that for later.
Without a single minute to spare, she dashed into the diner, threw her purse under the counter, and walked to her first table. Now that she had to replace her car, she couldn’t risk a tip by leaving a customer waiting.
By the time she cleaned up and locked the front door, her feet ached, she smelled like a french fry, and some kid had poured chocolate milk on her new shoes. Even with that panty-melting kiss, this had not been a write-it-in-the-diary kind of day. Not that she had many of those. She pulled her jacket around her shoulders and shoved her keys in her pocket.
All evening, she’d been distracted by the mere thought of him. She’d taken plates to the wrong tables, cleared dishes before last bites had been forked into mouths, spilled drinks, and left a shake to blend so long it had reverted back to milk.
“Hey.”
She jumped and clutched her chest then turned. Jesse stood against the hood of his car, arms and ankles crossed. If she had any artistic talent, this was a moment she would outline forever in a drawin
g. Since she couldn’t draw a straight line with a ruler, she tried to memorize the way the light hit his chiseled face, sharpening the angles, shadowing the curves, and highlighting the beauty only a man like Jesse could carry with such panty-dampening masculinity.
“Back to molest me on the street?” She’d meant it to be funny, but the dark glimmer in his eyes said she’d missed the mark. She shrugged one shoulder. “Sorry. I forgot you’re a throw your toys down and run away to pout kind of guy.”
He grinned, and her heart sped up again. “If it is true that one incident defines the entire person, I might be inclined to believe you have a secret wish to be a porn star.”
She cocked one eyebrow and focused on his face, having already committed to memory the broad shoulders, the line separating his pecs, the tapered waist where his shirt tucked into a pair of jeans slung low on his hips.
Oh my.
“What girl doesn’t? They make a lot of money. I bet they even have an award show.” Her thoughts tumbled. “I wonder what the trophy looks like. The Grammys have the old record player, and the Oscars have, well, Oscar. What do you think the porn stars have?”
He chuckled and a burn of desire tingled in her stomach. “You’re a complicated woman, Ryhan Connor.”
“Complicated. That’s nicer than what people usually say.” She lifted her shoulders in a nonchalant shrug, but imagined she looked like an awkward scarecrow without the stick-arms.
He pushed off the car, invading her personal space with his cologne, that rock hard chest, those arms that had circled her and pulled her close. “Let me take you home?”
She wanted—never mind. It didn’t matter what she wanted. “You don’t have to. I need to stop at the grocery store.” He opened his mouth to protest, and she hurried to continue. “It’s not really your kind of place.” Her throbbing feet begged her to shut her mouth and take the ride.
Man in Black Page 6