by Lynn Turner
‘How can that be?’ Abbie asked in confusion. Their present speed was ten miles an hour faster than when he had made the first set of calculations. The miles-per-gallon figure should be lower, not higher.
‘I just explained how,’ he said tersely. ‘The object of the modifications I made was to increase fuel-efficiency. The faster we go, the less fuel the engine requires to do its job.’
There was an edge to his voice that Abbie hadn’t heard for a while. He sounded irritable; almost surly, in fact. She turned her head to check out his expression. It matched his voice.
‘Keep your eyes on the road, for God’s sake,’ he growled.
Abbie bit back a sarcastic reply. There was one eighteen-wheeler about half a mile ahead of them and two more—both in the left-hand lane—coming up fast from behind. It wasn’t as if they were smack in the middle of rush-hour traffic.
‘Are you sulking?’
She knew she sounded incredulous; she was incredulous. She felt the heat of Mal’s glare even before she risked another glance at him and almost had her eyelashes singed off. He didn’t deign to answer, tugging the bill of his cap low over his eyes and sliding down low in his seat.
‘Let me rephrase that,’ she murmured. ‘Why are you sulking?’
Just as she decided that that question was going to go unanswered, as well, he informed her coldly that ‘mature adults do not sulk.’
‘Mature adults don’t wrap up a three-day binge by demolishing the neighbourhood bar, either,’ Abbie informed him promptly.
As soon as she said it, she wished she hadn’t. She waited for him to angrily ask how she knew about the episode at Ramey’s Bar & Grill. But he surprised her.
‘I guess one of the busybodies in town told you about that.’ He sounded resentful, but not outraged.
‘It’s true, then?’ she asked.
‘Yes and no,’ he muttered. ‘I did make a mess of Ramey’s place, but I gave him a blank cheque to cover the damages before I touched that first stick of furniture.’
Abbie couldn’t resist. ‘Very mature of you.’
‘I thought so. I even waited for him to take down the mirrors and move most of the liquor to the back room. And, contrary to public opinion, I wasn’t drunk,’ he added indignantly. ‘Hell, I’d only had a couple of beers. I just needed to let off some steam, and Ramsey’s seemed like the natural place to do it.’
Abbie decided to postpone asking why he’d needed to let off steam. ‘But if you paid Ramsey ahead of time for the damages and he was willing to let you run amok in his bar, why did Sheriff Collier and two deputies come and take you to jail?’
Mal sent her a vexed look from beneath the bill of his cap. ‘Did you also hear about the time I fell out of a tree when I was twelve and broke my arm in two places?’
Abbie hastily squelched a smile. ‘No.’
‘How about the time Mary Alice Henderson’s dad discovered his daughter initiating me into the joys of sex behind his chicken coop?’
She suspected he was trying to shock and/or embarrass her into silence. ‘I’m afraid that’s another anecdote I missed. If you don’t mind my asking, how old were you and Mary Alice at the time?’
‘I was fourteen. She was almost eighteen.’
Abbie didn’t bother to mask her surprise. ‘Precocious little devil, weren’t you?’
‘Always,’ he drawled. ‘How old were you?’
She struggled with his meaning for a moment, then decided she’d better ask. ‘How old was I the first time I—’
‘Had sex.’
His voice was noticeably lower, and husky enough to make the fine hairs on her arms lift in reaction.
‘That’s a rather personal question, don’t you think?’
‘Extremely personal. How old?’
She considered refusing to answer. But, as Mal would no doubt point out, he had answered when she’d asked.
‘Twenty-three.’
She was embarrassed and annoyed by the timid, almost apologetic way it came out. His reaction exacerbated her discomfort.
‘Twenty-three!’ His voice rang with stunned disbelief. ‘You’re putting me on.’
Abbie felt colour bloom in her cheeks. ‘I assure you, I’m not.’ Her cool, formal tone would have given any other man pause, made him back off. But not Mal. He sat up and pushed his cap back on his head.
‘I don’t get it. I thought you grew up on Army bases. Did your parents keep you locked in the attic or something?’
‘Of course not,’ she snapped. ‘What a thing to say! I’ll have you know my parents are wonderful people.’
He leaned closer to peer at her. ‘Well, it couldn’t have been acne,’ he murmured. ‘Under all that war paint, your skin’s as smooth as a baby’s bottom.’
‘Do you mind?’ she protested hotly.
‘Sorry,’ he murmured as he subsided into his seat. ‘I meant it as a compliment.’
But Abbie wasn’t so easily mollified. ‘You’re carrying on as if I’m some kind of freak. So I was a virgin till I was twenty-three. Is that a crime?’
‘I’m sure I’d have thought so,’ he drawled, ‘if I’d known you when you were twenty-two.’
Abbie thought it was a good thing she was driving. If her hands had been free, she might have wrapped them around his throat.
‘I answered your question,’ she said as calmly as she was able. ‘Now, could we please change the subject?’
He tugged the bill of his cap back down to shield his eyes. ‘I was just warming up to this subject.’
Abbie silently counted to ten, telling herself as she did that he was only needling her again, trying to make her lose her temper. Well, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She checked the mirrors, then smoothly changed lanes to pass a station wagon pulling a U-Haul trailer behind it.
‘Do you really think it’s wise to keep harassing me, when I’m driving your five-hundred-thousand-dollar car down an interstate highway at eighty miles per hour?’
Mal waited until they were back in the right-hand lane to remark, ‘That’s some chip you’ve got on your shoulder.’
‘And what is that supposed to mean?’ she demanded.
‘Exactly what you think it means. You’re determined to have your feathers ruffled, aren’t you? Damned if you’re not the most prickly, cantankerous female I’ve ever met.’
‘Was that another compliment?’ Abbie asked drily.
His husky chuckle was a surprise. ‘Not to mention the most unpredictable. Truce?’
She shook her head. ‘No, thanks. I’ve experienced your idea of a truce. I think I’d prefer all-out war… at least I’d know what to expect.’
He didn’t respond to that. In fact, he was silent for so long that she decided he must have taken her at her word. One of the signs they passed informed her that they were forty-five miles from St Louis. Abbie wondered where and when Mal planned to stop, and whether she would have a chance to call Roger Zirkelbach when they did. Roger had probably worn a trench in the floor around his phone by now. Patience had never been his strong suit.
She was about to ask if he wanted her to stop before they reached St Louis or wait until they crossed the Mississippi into Illinois, when the small black box perched on the dash emitted a high-pitched beep. Abbie reacted instantly. Their speed had dropped to seventy by the time the second beep sounded.
Mal sat forward to scrutinise the traffic ahead. ‘Do you see the police car?’
‘No, but it must be close. A trucker in one of the westbound lanes just flashed his headlights. This may not be the ideal time to ask, but is Missouri one of the states that have outlawed radar detectors?’
‘Damned if I know.’ Just in case, Mal removed the box—which was now sending forth an irritating stream of bee-bee-bee-bee-beeps— from the dashboard and placed it on the floor. ‘Are we legal?’ he asked as he turned off the sound. A small red light continued to flash, signalling that the radar scan was still in effect.
‘Barely. Assuming the
speedometer is accurate.’
‘It is,’ he assured her. ‘But the police equipment may not be. Better drop down to sixty-three or four until we spot— Sonofabitch! I don’t believe it!’
His sudden exclamation alarmed Abbie. She instinctively reduced their speed even more. ‘What? What is it?’
‘Just ahead, on the other side of that overpass.’ He laughed jubilantly and hit the dashboard with his fist. ‘This is too good to be true. Slow down.’
Abbie opened her mouth to tell him they had already slowed to fifty-five, but then she saw what had caused his excitement. A smile spread over her face. A police cruiser was parked in the emergency lane, lights flashing. Just in front of the cruiser was another car. The driver was being ticketed, presumably for speeding. The second car was a white Sable; the man standing beside it, scowling furiously while he waited for the highway patrolman to finish writing the ticket, was Tony Ferris. Mal waved cheerfully as they passed.
‘Did he see you?’ Abbie asked as they left the table behind.
‘Oh, yeah. He may get another ticket for making an obscene gesture in public.’
She grinned. ‘He’s probably wishing he’d stayed in Indianapolis. I thought they’d be a lot farther ahead of us by now. Maybe this isn’t the first time they’ve been stopped for speeding.’
‘Knowing Tony, I’d be surprised if it’s only the second or third time,’ Mal drawled. ‘But I’m hoping the reason we caught up with them is because they made a pit stop somewhere.’
‘To buy fuel, you mean?’
‘Or to make an adjustment or, even better, a minor repair.’ He replaced the radar detector on the dash and switched the sound back on. The box remained silent. ‘OK, it should be safe to take it back up to eighty.’
‘How about eighty-five?’ Abbie suggested ‘At least till we get to St Louis.’
‘That’s thirty miles per hour over the speed limit, Abigail.’
‘So? Do you think Tony’s going to stay under the legal limit, especially now that we’ve pulled ahead? I think we should increase our lead, while we can.’
When Mal didn’t reply, she glanced at him and discovered that he was watching her, his expression pensive.
‘Is something wrong?’ she asked. ‘You did say that the faster we go, the less fuel the engine requires to do its job. Shouldn’t we be taking advantage of that fact?’ Now that they had gained the lead, she didn’t want to risk losing it again. She couldn’t understand why Mal didn’t seem to share her enthusiasm. It was his car, after all; his bet.
‘You’re really committed to winning, aren’t you?’
The question didn’t disconcert Abbie half as much as the surprise she heard in his voice.
‘Isn’t that the idea—to win?’
‘Of course, but…’ She had the feeling he was selecting his words with more care than usual. ‘Now, don’t get your feathers ruffled, but I didn’t think it made much difference to you one way or the other who won, as long as you got to Washington by Monday.’
It was foolish of her, Abbie knew, but she was offended. No, she was hurt. Idiot, she admonished herself. What else was he supposed to think?
‘I admit I felt that way in the beginning. And to be perfectly honest, when I saw Roxanne’s car I didn’t think we had a prayer of winning.’ From the corner of her eye she saw Mal stiffen slightly. Terrific. Now his feathers were ruffled. She hastened to soothe them. ‘But once I understood what an incredible job you’ve done redesigning the Shelby’s engine, I guess my natural competitiveness took over.’
‘Your natural competitiveness,’ he repeated.
Abbie thought she detected a trace of scepticism in his voice. ‘That’s right,’ she affirmed. ‘I don’t like to lose.’ Which was the truest thing she’d said in the last twenty-four hours.
Mal regarded her thoughtfully. ‘Go ahead and take it up to eighty-five.’ Without pausing, he asked in the same matter-of-fact tone, ‘Would you say you’re a poor loser?’
‘Always have been, probably always will be,’ she admitted with a self-deprecating smile. ‘When I was eliminated in the final round of the fifth grade spelling bee, I pouted for two days. Then I got mad—at myself, for not having studied harder. I made up my mind to win the next year.’
‘And of course you did.’
‘Of course. I told you last night, when I see something I want, I go after it. And what I want at the moment is for us to win this race and for you to win your bet.’
‘Why?’
The question came at her from out of nowhere, catching her off guard. And though he’d spoken softly, she sensed that the answer was important to him. He confirmed the impression when he added just as softly, ‘The truth, Abigail.’
She only hesitated for a moment. He wanted the truth, he deserved the truth, and the truth was what she would give him, at least this once. She didn’t have to search for it; it was within easy reach, waiting to be recognised and accepted. And, ironically, it had nothing to do with an exclusive once-in-a-lifetime feature article about Malachi Garrett and/or fuel-efficient engines.
‘I want us to win because I can’t stand the thought of your falling into Roxanne Winston’s clutches.’
She risked a quick glance at him, anticipating that his ruggedly handsome face would be sporting a smug, purely masculine smirk. He was smiling, but it was a warm, disturbingly intimate smile. Abbie quickly looked away. She tried to swallow and discovered that her mouth was too dry.
‘I like a woman who doesn’t mince words,’ he said in the sexy murmur that never failed to arouse her.
‘Don’t get any ideas, Garrett,’ she warned. ‘We have an agreement, remember.’
His soft, husky laugh sent ripples of sexual awareness all the way to her toes. ‘You sound a little nervous, Abigail. Are you afraid I won’t honour the agreement… or that I will?’
The relaxed, teasing humour in his voice eased Abbie’s tension somewhat. ‘Do you honestly expect me to answer that question?’
A second’s pause preceded his reply. ‘Darlin’, if there’s one thing I’ve learned about you, it’s to expect the unexpected. Just keep in mind that what’s sauce for goose …’
Abbie didn’t respond to the cautionary advice. She was too busy trying to cope with her spontaneous, distressingly powerful reaction to that huskily drawled ‘Darlin”.
CHAPTER TEN
They stopped at a service station in Webster Groves, just south-west of St Louis. Mal immediately removed a toolbox from the rear of the Shelby and took out a thin telescoping tube, which he proceeded to poke into the fuel tank. Abbie stood to one side and watched for a minute or so.
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
He answered without looking up. ‘No—thanks, anyway. I’m just going to make a few checks, then we’ll get something to eat at that restaurant next door.’
‘OK,’ she murmured. A casual survey of the area turned up no less than three pay phones. ‘If you’re sure you don’t need me, I think I’ll make a quick phone call while I’m waiting.’
Mal did look up then. His mouth tilted in a brief, enigmatic smile before he returned his attention to his work. ‘Give Larry my regards.’
Abbie stared at him blankly. ‘Larry?’
‘Your boyfriend,’ he reminded her. ‘The one who left you high and dry. Surely you haven’t forgotten him already?’
‘Oh, that Larry.’ Amazingly, her voice sounded relatively normal. ‘No. I mean, that’s not who I want to call. I thought I’d better get in touch with the doctor I’m supposed to start working for and let him know I’m on the way.’
She didn’t give him a chance to reply, hurrying off toward the nearest phone before he could think of any questions to ask her about the doctor. She took a chance and called the Post. Fortunately, Roger was still at his desk.
‘Abbie, thank God! Where are you? Is the race still on? Please tell me it’s still on!’
‘It’s still on,’ Abbie said obligingly. ‘We’re a
few miles west of St Louis. Roger, is something wrong? You sound even more hyper than usual.’
His exuberant laugh came through clearly. ‘Nothing’s wrong. Just the opposite, in fact. After I talked to you yesterday, I remembered that next week the House starts another round of hearings on alternative fuels and fuel-efficient engines.’
A chill of premonition slithered down Abbie’s spine. ‘What?’ she said faintly.
Evidently Roger hadn’t heard her. He kept talking enthusiastically. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t remember when you first mentioned the race. You did say both cars are equipped with experimental engines?’
‘Yes,’ Abbie murmured. ‘Experimental fuel-efficient engines. This is the first road test for both of them.’
‘Better and better!’ Roger gloated ‘The timing couldn’t have been more perfect if the race had been planned to coincide with the hearings.’
Abbie sagged against the phone. She felt slightly ill. ‘I think it was.’ She filled him in quickly, explaining that Roxanne Winston had designed the other car’s engine and how Roxanne had leaked information about the race to an editor in Washington.
‘But Garrett was adamantly anti-publicity,’ she added. ‘He was ready to call the whole thing off, until Roxanne phoned the editor and told him the race has been cancelled.
‘Oh, boy,’ Roger muttered ‘So where does that leave you?’
‘Between the frying pan and the fire,’ Abbie replied glumly. ‘He’s going to assume I knew about the hearings all along. He’ll probably figure I came to Oklahoma for the sole purpose of checking out his precious engine. He may even think that somehow I managed to find out about the race, and that was why I came. He’ll kill me,’ she concluded with grim certainty.
‘Don’t even think about scrapping this story, Abbie,’ Roger warned. ‘You made a commitment, and I intend to hold you to it. It would be unprofessional as hell for you to back out now. If word got around—’
‘Don’t threaten me, Roger,’ she interrupted coldly. ‘I’ll deliver the damned story, don’t worry.’