by Lynn Turner
IMPULSIVE GAMBLE
Lynn Turner
When opportunity knocked, Abbie answered pronto!
Freelance journalist Abbie Kincaid aimed to ferret out the publicity-shy Oklahoma inventor, Mal Garrett. Then she overhead the elusive Mal mention he needed a long-distance test driver - with himself as passenger!
Setting Mal up for her scoop, Abbie impulsively volunteered. And she got the job, unaware that Mal counted on her to win an important bet - against Roxanne, the woman who had double-crossed him years before.
Grudgingly, Abbie found herself captivated by Mal’s rugged charms. But he had already been badly hurt once…and now she, too, was betraying his trust.
CHAPTER ONE
‘Y’KNOW what I’m wonderin?’
The seemingly idle question was delivered in a drawl as slow and thick as molasses. In comparison, the answer sounded terse, a bit impatient.
‘No, and to tell the truth, I don’t much care.’
The second man’s drawl wasn’t as pronounced, but it was there, softening and blurring his deep, rumbling voice so that it made Abbie think of warm, golden honey.
‘I’m wonderin’ how you’ve managed to live to the ripe old age of thirty-six, when it’s a well-known fact that you’ve been brain-dead since birth.’
‘Strength of will,’ was the flat reply.
The two men occupied the table next to Abbie’s. They’d been arguing for the last fifteen minutes, and she had been shamelessly listening. She didn’t have anything to do; and, besides, she’d always been an inveterate eavesdropper. It was part of her nature. It was also part of her job.
This wasn’t what you’d call a heated argument. It sounded like the kind of disagreement good friends have when one of them has done something the other considers imprudent or irresponsible or just plain dumb. In this case, the scruffier of the two apparently had made a bet that qualified—in his friend’s eyes, at least—as all three.
Over the years Abbie had become adept at pretending not to be aware of or interested in what was going on around her.
As she continued to eavesdrop on the men at the next table, she reflected that they were both undeniably macho types. But then this was Oklahoma, smack in the middle of the Great American West, where men were and their womenfolk liked them that way. Or so the men would have you believe.
These two, however, didn’t quite fit the stereotype of the rugged Western male. For one thing, neither of them was wearing a cowboy hat or a shirt with a topstitched yoke and mother-of-pearl snaps down the front. For another, though they both spoke with a distinctive Oklahoma twang, they weren’t bothering to conceal the fact that they were well-educated. Abbie suspected that most of the men she’d met recently would have cut out their tongues rather than admit that they’d attending college.
She had arrived in this small town south-east of Tulsa eight days ago to cover a demonstration against a proposed nuclear power plant. Most of the protesters were native Americans who were violently opposed to the idea of having a nuclear facility constructed on land adjacent to their tribal cemetery. Abbie had figured she’d be able to sell the story as a human interest piece to two or three local newspapers, at best. Then, two days before the demonstration was to take place, some idiot at the Bureau of Indian Affairs had suggested that the ‘remains’ be relocated to ‘a mutually acceptable area’, and suddenly her moderately interesting little human interest story had turned into page one news.
As the only freelance journalist on the scene, she immediately received frantic phone calls from desperate editors at most of the major eastern newspapers. Few of them had considered one more anti-nuclear demonstration important enough to assign a staff reporter to cover.
Consequently, Abbie had been able to pick and choose from the offers she received. The day before the demonstration, she made a very lucrative deal with The Washington Post. She had filed the wrap-up story several hours ago, but, since the first available flight to New York wouldn’t leave Tulsa until the next morning, she found herself with the rest of the day and what promised to be a long night to kill.
A frown marred Abbie’s wide forehead as she poked at the maraschino cherry floating in her drink. The demonstration hadn’t been the only reason she’d trekked all the way to the wilds of Oklahoma. She had hoped that once that story was out of the way, she might manage to track down the area’s most famous native—and gather enough information to write a feature article about the reclusive engineer-inventor.
Malachi Garrett. She’d learned during the past couple of days that speaking it aloud was guaranteed to make the town’s normally friendly, talkative citizens clam up and start eyeing her with suspicion and mistrust.
When she had mentioned this strange reaction to the local sheriff he’d merely shrugged and told her that: a) folks in this neck of the woods respected a person’s privacy; and b) since both Garrett’s dislike of reporters and his rotten temper were well known, it was doubtful she’d find anybody brave enough or foolish enough to gossip about him. Which meant, damn it, that the story about Malachi Garrett wasn’t going to be written. At least, not by her.
She was debating whether to go up to her room and console herself with a bubble bath, when something one of the men at the next table said caught her attention.
‘I designed the damn engine, Deke, and I’m telling you there’s no way she can win. There’s just no way.’
I designed the damn engine…
Abbie dismissed the sudden spurt of excitement she felt as foolish, ridiculous. Just look at him, for Pete’s sake—baggy, grease-strained grey sweatshirt, faded jeans, also stained, and worn blue jogging shoes over white athletic socks. He looked as if he hadn’t been anywhere near a barber for months, though at least he was clean-shaven. She continued to study him surreptitiously as she swirled the ice around in her glass.
Nice, strong jaw. Impressive shoulders. Shiny, healthy-looking hair, even if it was too long for her taste. It was a dark, glossy brown, luxuriantly thick and straight. He wore it brushed back from his face, but a deep wave dipped rebelliously over each temple. Abbie was admiring those waves from beneath lowered lashes when his companion responded to what he’d said.
‘You’re forgetting one minor detail, aren’t you. Mal?’ he asked drily. ‘This new design of yours may be a masterpiece of engineering, but an engine ain’t worth spit without an experienced driver. Somebody’s gotta drive the danged car, and we both know that somebody isn’t gonna be you. You’re the worst driver this side of the Mississippi.’
The other man scowled darkly, but he didn’t dispute the remark about his driving. ‘I’ll find a driver,’ he muttered. ‘It doesn’t have to be somebody local,’ he argued stubbornly. ‘That wasn’t part of the bet. I thought I’d make a few calls, see if I can get hold of Southfield, or maybe Ferris.’
Deke shook his head. His expression looked almost pitying. ‘Mal, it’s the middle of May. They’re both racing at Indy this year, aren’t they? They’ll be tied up with time trials all month.’
‘Oh, hell, I forgot about that.’
Abbie found it hard to believe that a mechanic from Oklahoma would know Dave Southfield and Tony Ferris —two of the most famous formula one race drivers in the world—well enough to consider asking either of them to drive a car for him … presumably so that he could win this bet he’d made. When the waiter came by, she asked him if he knew the men at the other table.
The young man’s head bobbed in affirmation. ‘Yeah, the one who looks like he just crawled out of a diesel engine is Malachi Garrett. The other one’s Mr Craddock … Deke Craddock. Have they been hassling you? Don’t be afraid to say yes, if they have. Everybody knows Mal Garrett’s a . .. well, a woman-hater, I guess is what you’d call him.’
Abbie suspected that the waiter had no idea what she did for a living. If he’d known she was a writer hustling for a story, no doubt he’d have clammed up like everybody else the second she mentioned Garrett’s name. She proceeded with caution, not wanting to tip her hand just yet.
‘I’ve known a few men like that,’ she murmured ‘Usually their attitude is the result of a bitter divorce.’
The young man nodded sagely. ‘I know exactly what you mean. But that’s not what turned Mal Garrett against women. He’s never been married that I know of.’
Abbie lifted her glass and took a sip of ginger ale. ‘Mmm, must have been an unhappy love affair, then.’
‘That’s what folks say. The story is that she dumped him for some big wheeler-dealer from back east—just took off one day, didn’t even leave a note. The next thing anybody heard of her, her new sugar-daddy had set her up with her own engineering firm. She took everything Mal had taught her and used it to start stealing his clients.’
‘You don’t say?’ Abbie murmured. She’d already formed a mental profile of the woman: above average intelligence, shrewd, cunning, ambitious; probably beautiful, and not the least bit hesitant to use her looks as well as her brains to get what she wanted. ‘I imagine her desertion hit Mr Garrett pretty hard.’
The waiter stole a furtive glance at the next table before answering. ‘You could say that,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘He went on a three-day binge, did a couple thousand dollars’ worth of damage to Ramey’s—that’s the bar up the street. Sheriff Collier finally had to lock him up, before he did himself or somebody else a real injury. It took the sheriff and two deputies to get him from Ramey’s over to the jail.’
‘But the jail’s only a block from the bar, isn’t it?’ Abbie asked in confusion.
The young man grinned. ‘Yeah, but when Mal makes up his mind to raise hell, there’s no holdin’ him back. Most folks just lay low till he runs out of steam.’
Abbie was eager to wring more information out of him—subtly, of course—but just then Mr Garrett raised his voice to ask for another beer. He sounded impatient. Flushing guiltily, the waiter hurried off towards the bar.
Abbie frowned into her ginger ale. So the famous Malachi Garrett had been jilted by an ambitious lover, and as a result had become a misogynist. She had already been told, more than once, that he held all media representatives in contempt; she didn’t care to speculate about what his opinion of a female freelance journalist would be. Her hopes of persuading him to grant her an interview were diminishing rapidly.
When the waiter brought Mal his beer, he conspicuously avoided making eye-contact with Abbie. Evidently he’d realised that it wasn’t such a good idea to gossip about the town’s number one hell-raiser when the hell-raiser himself was sitting within earshot.
‘How about Fred Bender’s boy?’ his friend Deke suggested helpfully. ‘He’s always entering demolition derbies. Usually wins a trophy, too.’
If possible, Garrett’s scowl intensified. ‘The idea’s to get both the car and me to Washington in one piece, Deke.’
Abbie sat up straighter, her eyes widening in reaction. Both the car and him?
‘I guess you’ve got a point,’ Deke conceded with a grin.
‘I’ve invested two years and close to half a million dollars in this engine. Joey Bender isn’t getting within a mile of it. Hell, he’d probably have three head-on collisions before he cleared the city limit sign.’
After that last disparaging remark, both men fell silent. Abbie presumed they were trying to come up with the name of another potential driver. A plan began to take shape in her mind. She had no idea whether the Washington Malachi Garrett had referred to was Washington state or Washington, DC; but either way he was talking about a trip that would take several days to make. Several days when he and the person he selected to be his driver would be alone in the car, with only each other for company. Not giving herself time to second-guess the decision, she got up and walked over to his table.
‘Excuse me?’
Mal glanced up with an impatient frown. His impatience changed to wariness approximately one second after he registered the young woman standing beside him. She wasn’t from around here, that much was obvious at a glance. Her fashionably oversized white blouse looked like real silk, and he’d be willing to bet that the name on the seat of her tight blue denim jeans wasn’t Levi Strauss.
Her jewellery was another tip-off that she wasn’t from this neck of the woods. A rope of pale grey pearls ended at the exact spot where her cleavage began, and a tiny five-pointed gold star adorned each earlobe. Classy, he thought with grudging approval. She was standing close enough for him to smell her expensive perfume, and on closer inspection he noticed that she was wearing three or four shades of purple eyeshadow. He doubted any of the local women owned even one shade of purple; and, if they did, they wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it in public before sundown. Most of them wouldn’t think of going out in public without a bra, either, he reflected as his gaze skimmed the front of her blouse and he detected the faint shadows of her nipples. One side of his mouth lifted in an appreciative smile.
Abbie endured his blatantly sexual appraisal in grim silence. It wasn’t the first time a man had looked her over as if she were a brood mare being offered to the highest bidder. She’d received quite a few of those looks during the past week, though none of them had got to her quite as much as Malachi Garrett’s did.
It was hard to think of him as a woman-hater, when those heavy-lidded brown eyes were subjecting her to a lazily sensual scrutiny that made her wonder if he might possess X-ray vision. Telling herself that tolerating an occasional leer was a small price to pay for an exclusive interview, she resisted the urge to cross her arms over her chest and glare at him.
Mal was aware that she didn’t like the way he was looking at her. Her back was as stiff as a poker and, though her arms hung loose at her sides, her fingers were trying to curl into fists. Typical, he thought scornfully. She was probably the kind of woman who deliberately wore clothes that showed off her body, and then pretended to be offended when a man noticed what she was advertising.
In the past couple of days several people had made it their business to tell him about the lady reporter who’d been sniffing around town and asking questions about him. He wondered if the slender young woman with the purple eyeshadow and impressive chest measurement might be her. The reporter was said to be a real looker, and she certainly fitted the description.
He didn’t think much of her hairstyle, though it was probably the latest fashion in New York, or wherever she came from. Her hair was a glorious colour— somewhere between gold and copper—but she’d let somebody chop if off just below her ears. Hair that thick and curly should be worn long, so that it tumbled loose over her shoulders. When he realised that he was fantasising about weaving his fingers through her non-existent shoulder-length curls, his heavy brows jerked together in an irritated frown.
‘Did you want something?’ He practically snarled the question, half expecting her reply to be a request for an interview. If that was what she was after, he had an answer ready that would probably weld those tiny gold stars to her earlobes.
His curt tone didn’t faze Abbie. Fortunately, when patience and tact were called for, she could exercise a great deal of both. She ignored the brusque impatience in his voice and answered his question with a smile.
‘I couldn’t help overhearing part of your conversation.’ His frown deepened. She hurried on before he could start lambasting her for eavesdropping. ‘You seem to need a driver. I’d like to apply for the job.’
She could see that she’d taken him by surprise. For a second or two he just stared at her blankly. Then his mouth started to curve in amusement. Seeing that he was about to laugh in her face, Abbie rushed into speech again.
‘I’m a good driver. My father was an Army man, and I was driving jeeps before I was thirteen. By the time I got my first driver’s licence,
I could handle every vehicle on the base—including a Sherman tank. If it’s got a gearbox and something to steer with, I can drive it.’ Remembering his remarks about Joey Bender, she impulsively added, ‘And I’ve never had an accident or even a parking ticket.’
Like all good journalists, Abbie knew when to speak her piece and when to shut up. She also knew that there were occasions—especially when she was dealing with a reluctant or hostile subject—when a well-timed silence was the most effective strategy she could employ. An abrupt, expectant silence made some people so uncomfortable that they were compelled to start talking just to end it. And the things they blurted out without thinking often were much more interesting than the information her persistent, methodical questioning had elicited.
When she saw Mal Garrett’s eyes narrow and the way his lips thinned in impatience, she knew that the strategy wasn’t going to work with him. He wasn’t even going to consider letting her drive his car. He was going to turn her down flat, she just knew he was—and for no other reason than because she was a woman. She grappled with frustration, indignation and an unwelcome twinge of disappointment as her glittering blue-green eyes held his enigmatic brown ones.
‘Looks like this is your lucky day, Mal.’ His friend Deke slipped Abbie an encouraging wink as he drawled the observation.
Mel favoured him with a mildly annoyed look before swinging his gaze back to Abbie. ‘You don’t even know where I need the car driven,’ he said flatly.
She covered her slight hesitation with a shrug. ‘I heard you mention Washington. I assumed you meant Washington DC. I have a job waiting there, provided I can get there by next Monday.’
Mal leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. He didn’t say anything right away, just subjected her to a concentrated, narrow-eyed stare. Abbie tried to convince herself that his expression wasn’t really as suspicious as she thought it was. It was just her guilty conscience making her over-react. He couldn’t possibly know who she was or what she was up to.