120 Mph

by Jevenna Willow

  “You smell like scented highlighter,” she quipped back. “And for some odd reason the smell suits you.”

  He looked as though he wanted to state more, sobered, then said, “Lock all the doors when I leave, Sara.”

  To say she was scared would make it seem too real. A nod was the most she could give him.

  “It shouldn’t take me more than a couple hours. If you need to reach me before then, the number for the Church is by the telephone. And from that point on I am almost certain my itinerary and scheduled stops, even those that are unscheduled, will be mapped out by Thorn Cronies watching my every move.”

  She tried to shoo him away. “I will be fine, Warden. Go. I believe Harriet is waiting for her books.”

  “Well, so am I.”

  Sara didn’t fully understand the meaning of these words . . . until he added more to this to make it clearer.

  “You are panty-less Ms. Ruby. A man can only take so much in the way of mental torture.”

  ****

  Christian hadn’t meant to say what he had—aloud.

  Once it slipped out of his mouth, he felt a whole lot better about speaking it, let alone thinking it, but that still did not make saying it right.

  Even though this was what both were thinking, he shouldn’t have made her afraid of him while co-inhabiting.

  Perhaps it was for the very reason Sara had openly set bait on the table late last night, and Christian doing his civic duty, swallowed her bait without question. A hasty glance to his front window, he caught her smile and timid wave through the glass. He gave her a hasty wave back, put the car laden with prayer books in ‘reverse’, then took off toward town. The sooner he got to the church, the sooner he could deposit these books into Harriet’s capable hands, and the sooner he could come back to Sara.

  His need was so great he put pedal to the metal and sped down the gravel drive.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Christian Mohr came home to find a clean house and a woman fast asleep on his couch—physically exhausted from scrubbing the place spotless. He didn’t have the heart to wake her up, though his fingers itched to do just that. Awake, he could kiss her. Asleep, it would be as if he stealing something he shouldn’t have.

  He carried the packages into his living room one by one. On the last trip to his car, Sara must have heard the commotion, because he found her digging inside one of the boxes and the look on her face when she rose her gaze was quite memorable.

  He’d never seen a woman look as though a pair of thrift store blue jeans and an ugly purple T-shirt were made of gold.

  “Oh, Thank God, they’re the right size,” she told him, pulling the items more fully out of the bag. She stood and put the jeans up to her hips, trying to decide if they would or not.

  Christian could have cared less. He would’ve rather had her in his pajama top for the next few days—even the rest of his life—than Sara dressed in second-hand clothing. She had the body for finery and frills. Thin waist, ample breasts, and hair he wanted to snake his fingers into.

  He watched her drop the jeans onto a pile on his couch and start searching through the rest of the bags. When her fingers found the silk, her blue gaze slammed into his. He’d been waiting for her to discover this particular item.

  Somehow, as her hand pulled out the silken delicacy, Christian’s breath lodged in his lungs.

  Sara slowly dragged the nightgown from the bag, unfolding the rose red silk, detailed with whisper thin lace . . . and sexy as any gown could ever be made.

  “And what, pray tell, is this?” she asked, her sight moving hurriedly to his face.

  He fought over what he should say, against what he had to say. “You can’t have my pajama top all the time, Sara. You have to give it back to me eventually.” A hasty grin added more to it to cause a higher raise of her brow.

  “Where did you get this from?” she ruled. It still had the price tag on it. That tag found her fingers quickly and arched her brows even higher.

  “I didn’t think you wanted a used nightgown, Sara. Jeans and T-shirts are one thing. But there are certain items that a woman should be able to call her own and bedroom attire should be one of those things.”

  Sara pulled her gaze from his and looked as though too afraid to search through the rest of the bags.

  Christian not only went to the thrift store, he hurriedly shopped at Carol’s Boutique on the way back. Carol knew about the fire and helped an ignorant man pick something nice from off her racks. She told Christian it would take Sara’s mind off her loss. Unfortunately, the moment he’d swiped his credit card into Carol’s machine, he’d had a funny feeling her loss was going to be an extremely huge problem in his life.

  He was waiting for Sara to discover the underwear in another bag. Again Carol’s idea, not his.

  Lord help him . . . not his—at all!

  His wait wasn’t long.

  Sara held up the silk panties in both hands. Her head turned and her eyes glued to his. “And these?”

  “You can’t run around half-naked inside my house, Sara.” His tone set firm to this fact. “I’m a man, and as a man, I can assure you, the male species can only take so much before wanting to do something about it.”

  Sara’s slow smile turned contagious.

  “Did you have to buy them in leopard print, however?”

  “No.” A pause and returning grin reconfirmed it. “It’s just that I happen to like leopards and thought you’d be fine with the choice.”

  She gave Christian a sharp, skillfully made snort. “Well, I happen to like leopards too. In zoos—or, better yet, left free in the wild. But wouldn’t these particular leopards cause more of a, um, problem . . . in the ‘man can take only so much’ department?”

  Christian shook his head. “I don’t have a problem with leopard panties if you don’t.” He was holding his grin in check out of shear will and determination to make it through this conversation without taking her in his arms and kissing her until senseless.

  Sara dropped the whisper thin silken panties onto his couch. Even such an innocently made act had him inwardly groaning as his eyes followed the fall.

  She reached inside the bag and pulled out a sensible package of ladies cotton underwear. Her smile grew in leaps and bounds at this newest discovery. These, too, she held up for inspection.

  “And I suppose these are for the days when the leopards are being washed?”

  Christian could not help but chuckle. “Washing machine might well be broken when those days come about.”

  Sara’s brows arched. “Will it now?” she ruled.

  “Perhaps.” His washing machine had taken a break a time or two. Perhaps he could convince it to just outright die if ever she put to depositing silk leopard panties into it.

  “And if I say I can fix a washing machine, as much as I can clean a man’s stove and scrub unrecognizable gunk out of the corners of his shower?”

  “Must you?” he uttered, causing the most wonderful sound to come out of her mouth. Laughter.

  He was quite surprised she could even do so under the circumstances of losing everything, and Sara stuck with him until such times as when she the authorities would allow her to go through the burnt rubble.

  She lost a lot by lit flame. He was only trying to give her back some of those lost items by way of simple generosity to one’s fellow human being. Well, that, and leopards are indeed his favorite animal. Something Sara need not know about at this point. Told, she’d probably never wear them. Yet he couldn’t quite imagine her in ‘granny panties’ every day.

  She hurriedly gathered the bought clothing, bundling the items in her arms.

  “So? I have one day’s clothing, four pairs of undies—silk, and otherwise—a nightgown made for a romantic honeymoon, and a dress far too short for propriety other than a night out clubbing or leaving restaurants before any food can be ordered. Sounds about enough, doesn’t it?” She made it come out as sarcastic laced with dire humor.

  W
hat she had in her arms wasn’t near enough for a woman who’d lost everything.

  “There is more,” Christian said, hoping to put her out of her misery.

  Her eyes widened. “More?”

  He moved to the front door, opened it, and from the front stoop gathered up the huge box filled with an array of women’s clothing. Christian carried the box into the living room and set it right at her feet. The words, “Ladies Guild,” then spoke to confirm from where the box had come from.

  Sara looked at his face. He could see the tears starting to well in the corners of her eyes. Therefore, he stepped forward, gathered her in his arms, and held on until she could compose her being and hold them back.

  That composer broke before it could be stopped.

  “Why is anyone even being nice to me?” she blubbered, pressing her face against his shirtfront.

  “Why wouldn’t we be?” he ascertained, his hand set to the back of her head.

  Sara’s eyes rose, trapped firmly to his. “No one has ever been nice to me before.”

  “Perhaps it was time niceness came your way.”

  “I don’t deserve any of this,” she admitted, turning her face to hide her thoughts.

  He reached in front of her with his other hand, then set his fingers to her chin to force her eyes back to his. “You didn't deserve to have your apartment torched. And you sure as hell did not deserve to be threatened over a lousy closing of a place that needed to be shut down a long time ago.”

  Sara tried to slip out of his arms, but Christian held firm.

  “The items in the box are from other women’s closets, Sara. You may not like these articles, and probably won’t—considering the ages of the women who gave them to you . . . but I couldn’t tell anyone in particular ‘no’, now could I?”

  Sara tipped her head up, stood on her toes, and kissed him on the mouth.

  The kiss was far too quick and far too dangerous; to Christian’s slated opinion, not dangerous enough.

  “You’re a good man, Christian Mohr.”

  “How good?” he asked, resealing his lips to hers before she dared change her mind and thought him bad.

  ****

  As the kiss deepened, and ended much too quickly, Sara nearly said the words “good enough to eat”. Thankfully, she was able to stop these words in time before they’d slipped off her tongue.

  She slid out of his embrace, gave him a hasty smile, and went to gather up her new—and only—possessions.

  “By chance, did you find or buy me socks?” she questioned.

  “They’re in the other bag.”

  A nod of her head, Sara dug into the last bag. She found socks, two bras in the correct size—thankfully, not in leopard print—a small purse, new makeup, deodorant, and a pink toothbrush. Christian—more likely, Carol—had thought of everything a temporary houseguest/fire victim would need in the foreseeable future. He was supplying the house, and the items while she in that house; as well, the comfort and reassurance that all would turn out well in the end.

  In her opinion, this meant he was a good guy. She would never call such kind generosity bad. Yet she would never be able to repay him for his kindness.

  “And don’t you dare even think about it,” he warned.

  This raised her sight—and her curiosity. Don’t think about him as being good?

  “I can see exactly what you have running inside that stubborn little brain of yours, Ms. Ruby,” he informed.

  “And this is?” she wondered, aloud, foregoing the fact he’d called her brain little.

  “You put thought to how you are going to repay me.”

  Christ! Was she truly so transparent?

  “And the answer to it is . . . you damn well better not try!”

  “But . . .”

  Christian moved forward and set his finger to her lips. “No buts Sara. If I ask too many questions, you, my dear, try to argue your point far too much.”

  She turned her head, ignoring this sad fact of unfortunate characterization. “But . . .”

  “Damnit, Sara! Just accept that people can be kind.”

  Folks never had been kind to her before. So why would they start now?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Christian found Sara inside his spare bedroom, seated on the bed. He sent her a quick smile from the open doorway, then realized she hadn’t even noticed his presence.

  Her thoughts looked to be a million miles away.

  “Something wrong?” he asked, moving inside the bedroom without invitation.

  Sara was staring hard at the open closet. As her eyes pulled to his he saw she’d been crying—again.

  He sat down on the bed next to her and picked up her hand. He loved the feel of Sara’s hand. Soft, warm, just the right fit in his hand. A guy could get pretty damn used to holding her hand.

  Christian challenged himself not to let go.

  “It looks empty,” she told him, sliding her fingers out of his grasp. Her sight had drifted back to the open closet.

  The loss of her touch was felt tenfold, more so in the heart, than he expected.

  What they both looked up at was a closet that had a skimpy cocktail dress, used jeans, a few T-shirts in assorted colors, and a silk nightgown delicately hung on a hanger. Not much, considering the closet was a nearly the width of the room, measuring a good ten feet long.

  He reached over and picked up her hand again, giving it a gentle squeeze.

  “Have you looked through the box the Ladies Guild put together?”

  She made a strange face, saying, “I have.”

  “And?”

  Sara pulled her hand out of his grasp, stood, then moved toward the box. She dug out one of the items from inside and to say her facial expression wasn’t clear enough . . .?

  In her hand was a flashy neon green housecoat covered in gaudy pink roses. It hurt the eyes just to look at it. Sara dropped it on the floor. She pulled out another item. This was a sweater, rust brown in coloring, and nearly four sizes too big—would have reached her ankles . . . and the ugliest damn sweater he’d ever seen in all his life.

  The sweater succumbed to the same fate as the housecoat.

  The third item was an undergarment that looked to have been made back in the stone ages. Perhaps something his grandmother would have worn. Again, at least four sizes too big, but could have made a rather perfect flag for an SOS aboard a sinking ship.

  Christian stood then strode to Sara and the box. His jaw clenched. “I should have checked through the items before giving them to you. I’m so sorry.”

  He was actually surprised at what she’d pulled out of the box. So much so, he found himself grinding his jaw until a flinch of pain ran up his cheek, darting into his temple.

  It seemed as though his rather generous and more than Christian-minded church members had purposefully donated all the crap out of their closets to make a statement to the one those items were being given to. Regrettably, this pissed him off. He hated to have ill thoughts toward another’s intentions. It was bad enough the men of this town hated Sara . . . but the women, as well?

  This, he did not understand.

  This . . . he needed to do something about—soon.

  There weren’t many in Preacher’s Bend, and those unwelcome to their folds could easily leave, taking with them earned wages otherwise well spent and spread among the few. If the old bittys of Preacher’s Bend wanted to keep running the younger generation out of town, Reverend Mohr was going to put his foot in that slamming door—posthaste.

  He bent down and was about to pick up the box to remove it from the room when she told him “No. Leave it here. If perhaps ever able to get my hands on a sewing machine, I could always cut most of them into scraps for a quilt. Put such fine generosity into better use.”

  She gave him a look that said unless it snowed in Haiti this wasn’t about to happen.

  He stood, squared his shoulders, and reaffirmed, “I really am sorry, Sara. I had no idea what was inside the box.
They told me they put it together as soon as they found out about the fire.”

  She placed her hand onto his forearm. “I know. It’s okay. I’ve had the time to get use to treatment of this sort. In fact, I’ve been getting used to it for quite some time.”

  This made Christian see red. He grabbed her hand and pulled Sara directly into a tight embrace. His hand found the back of her head, and he cradled her scalp while looking into her incredible blue eyes. “You should not have to get used to treatment like this from others. It is so wrong—on so many levels. I can’t even begin to describe how wrong this is.”

  She shook her head, denying it. “No. This was only what I deserved, I suppose.”

  What she deserves?

  What the—?

  “Damnit, Sara! No one deserves to be shunned by an entire community, simply because she pissed the men within it far beyond redemption. I’m beginning to wonder if any of Preacher’s Bend deserves redemption.”

  Sara shook her head again, pushing from his grasp by setting her hands flat on his chest. She wouldn’t look at his face, her bottom lip trembling.

  “I think you had better leave the room, Reverend.”

  “Why?”

  Her body turned swiftly. Tear-brimmed eyes glued quickly with his. Her mouth pinched tight, he could see the hurricane headed his way. “Because there is an empty bed inside this room and right now I feel as though doing something terrible just to spite all those who think so ill of me. I might as well prove them right.”

  A crocked brow caused the question “Such as?” to roll off his tongue.

  “Such as . . . ,” she started, taking a firm step forward. “Proving they’re right about what might happen with us, given the opportunity.”

  To finish this thought and to add content to her point, Sara slowly dragged her tongue over his closed mouth, across his left cheek, down the length of his neck, and back up, ending at his earlobe. She then stepped back.

  “I’m not a whore and I am not a bad girl, but others believe that I am, so I might as well prove them right.”

  Christian wouldn’t have been able to describe what the slide of her tongue had done to the rest of him had gun been held to his head. However, it was definitely good—and definitely unsettling. And there was not one single part of him that hadn’t been turned on by the caress of a woman’s most dangerous weapon over his heated skin.