The Mercenary and the New Mom

by Merline Lovelace

  She hesitated so long he’d begun to think she wouldn’t settle for anything less than a full retreat. Reluctantly, she put her hand in his.

  “Sabrina Jensen, part-time student, full-time waitress, and all-time history buff.”

  Releasing her hand, Jack smiled. “Hank told me you were responsible for restoring the diner. You’ve done a heck of a job.”

  “Thanks.” For the first time since she opened the door, a hint of animation came into her face. “My dad’s a truck driver. He used to take my sister and me along on his runs when we were little. I guess I grew up eating road dust and washing it down with stories of Route 66 in its days of glory.”

  Inspiration struck. Without a qualm, Jack jettisoned his plans to accompany his sister to the opera tomorrow night.

  The Wentworths made a point of supporting local artists by attending every performance, but Josie could darn well rope their younger brother, Michael, into duty for tomorrow’s gala. Spoiled, completely uninterested in the oil business, and far too often at odds with his irascible grandfather, Michael needed something to keep him out of trouble.

  “Look, Sabrina, I’m not slumming. Nor am I looking for anything more than a few hours spent in the company of an intriguing woman.”

  She was still digesting that when he played his ace.

  “It would be my honor, ma’am, if you’d let me escort you to the Sapulpa Route 66 Blowout and Art Show tomorrow night. I’ve been told it’s the best gathering of vintage cars and road buffs in the state.”

  “It is,” she agreed, torn between exasperation and amusement at the man’s persistence. “I’ve gone for the past two years in a row.”

  She’d also asked for time off to go tomorrow night, too. Sabrina fully intended to lose herself in the lively, lighthearted festivities. She just hadn’t intended to lose herself with Jack Wentworth. The idea sent a spear of pleasure through her... until her stubborn, hardheaded pride kicked in again.

  In retrospect, she shouldn’t have been the least surprised that Jack had zeroed in on her passion for the historic highway. From what she’d heard and read about the Wentworths, the family always got what they went after, whether it was another line of tankers to add to their fleet, or a waitress for a quick tumble on a hot summer night.

  A refusal had already formed on her lips when Jack settled the straw hat on his head once more and reached for the doorknob.

  “What time do you want me to pick you up tomorrow?”

  Sabrina blinked. He was leaving? Just like that? After all the nasty motives she’d ascribed to his little subterfuge? After berating herself all afternoon for going hollow-heeled over his kiss? She’d expected him to pounce tonight, or at least try to pick up where they left off earlier this afternoon. His good-natured retreat disarmed her totally.

  “Well...”

  With an easy coordination of muscle and grace, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. Sabrina stiffened, but he didn’t make the mistake of insisting on paying for his meal again. Instead, he dug out a small card and handed it to her.

  “Here. This is my private number. It’ll catch me at home or on the move. Call me and let me know what you decide.”

  Sabrina’s thumb moved over the embossed lettering. Despite the stern talking-to she’d given herself about idiotic waitresses who let themselves get carried away by a grin and lazy blue eyes, her throat tightened as she watched Jack stride away. His long legs ate up her minuscule front lawn.

  Damn! These Oklahoma boys did things to a pair of jeans that no one east of the Mississippi could begin to imagine.

  She bit her lip. She should just let him go! She didn’t have time for fun and games with someone who’d shown himself a master at them. The man was completely out of her league.

  The arguments rolled around for all of five or six seconds. The darkness had almost swallowed him when she heard herself call out.

  “Jack!”

  He turned, his face shadowed under the brim of his hat.

  “I’m off tomorrow night. Pick me up at six.”

  Chapter 5

  Friday dished up the kind of glorious summer night that women dream about and men take for granted.

  Sabrina had slipped away from work at four, leaving Peg and a high school part-timer to handle the evening crowd. Thankfully, she didn’t have to rely on the air-conditioning in the used Mazda she’d bought five years ago to cool her down on the way home. The soul-sucking heat of July and dog days of August were some weeks off. The early June’s sun still felt like warm silk on her skin.

  A long, sybaritic soak in a tub full of bubbles and a splash of body freshener added their own special tingle. She took her time blow-drying her hair, using a round styling brush to tame the thick mane. When she was finished, the dark brown mass fell in a smooth sweep to her shoulders, curling just a bit upward at the ends. A touch of dusky shadow brought out the seaweed green of her eyes. Lip liner and a few strokes of blush added a touch of pink to her sun-browned skin.

  She debated for less than thirty seconds over what to wear. After spending most of her day in jeans and sneakers, she wanted cool and comfortable. A little sexy wouldn’t hurt, either. That left her with only one choice...the halter-necked sundress in bright, lemony yellow that her more flamboyant twin, Rachel, had insisted she purchase during a long-ago shopping expedition.

  The bare-backed dress certainly qualified as cool and comfortable. The jersey fabric also happened to cling in just the right places. Despite its almost ankle-length skirt and demure, crossover neckline, the silky stretch of yellow left zero tolerance for extra pounds. If nothing else, Sabrina thought with a wry glance at the mirror, the frantic pace at the diner kept her trim enough to wear the thing.

  A pair of low-heeled white sandals and a funky charm bracelet made of old soda bottle caps and plastic sunflowers completed her ensemble. She was just slipping on the bracelet when she heard the rumble of a noisy muffler pulling into her drive. She threw a quick look at the clock beside her bed.

  Five-forty-seven. Jack was early...again. She’d have to remember that particular character trait in the future. Spritzing on a few sprays of perfume, she snatched up her purse and left the bedroom on a cloud of woodsy rose scent and anticipation.

  The realization that she was already thinking in terms of a future caught her halfway to the front door. Deliberately, she slowed her eager step. She’d better get a grip here. And she’d better remember what happened when her mother had let her hormones get the best of her common sense. After abandoning Sabrina’s dad and the twins, Blanche had jettisoned her handsome rodeo cowboy not long afterward. Or maybe he’d jettisoned her. The last Sabrina had heard, her mother was currently on husband number four or five. She’d stopped sending even sporadic birthday cards years ago, and her daughters had stopped counting her husbands.

  That sobering reminder put a lid on Sabrina’s bubbling anticipation and steadied her skittery pulse... until she opened the front door.

  “Oh, my.”

  As greetings went, that one was about as inane as any she’d ever uttered. At that moment, however, she couldn’t think of anything more sophisticated.

  How in the world could Jack Wentworth turn a crisp white cotton shirt, well-washed jeans, and a pair of low-heeled boots into a portrait of sheer masculinity that any female between the ages of nine and ninety would pant over? Maybe it was the strong, tanned forearms revealed by the rolled-back sleeves. Or the way his jeans fit snug around his lean hips, needing no belt to hold them up. Or that damned smile that started at his mouth, spread to eyes shaded by his straw Resistol, and left Sabrina almost melting in a puddle of yellow jersey.

  “Ditto that,” he said, his admiring gaze never leaving her face.

  Pleasure pinpricked through her veins, following hard on the heels of that first, instinctive admiration. Common sense finally came in a distant third.

  For heaven’s sake! She was practically drooling over the man! She’d better remember who he
was. His shirt might not sport a trendy designer logo on the pocket, but she’d bet one of Tulsa’s most exclusive tailors had hand-fit it across those broad shoulders. And she knew darn well his tooled leather Justin boots cost more than she made in a month. The grandson of an oil baron might spend an evening at a street fair in Sapulpa with a waitress, but he’d look to the current crop of debutantes when he decided to get serious.

  Which was fine with her, she reaffirmed as she locked the front door behind her. That was all she was looking for, too... a pleasant evening at a street fair with an attractive man.

  Her first inkling of what was to come occurred when she caught sight of the shining, cream-colored convertible parked in her driveway. Its curved fenders, itty-bitty round taillights, several tons of chrome, and six-inch white-walls harked back to an era of bygone splendor.

  “What is that?” she gasped.

  “A ‘53 Corvette.” Grinning at her open-mouthed awe, Jack escorted her to the gleaming two-seater. “I borrowed it from a friend. He usually participates in the Poker Run at the Blowout.”

  The Poker Run, Sabrina knew, was a competitive event with rules that only the classic car buffs who drove it seemed to understand. She couldn’t believe anyone would pass up the chance to enter this beauty in the fun until Jack explained.

  “Dennis’s wife is in labor with their second child. From what I gathered, it was a close call, but he opted to stay with Lisa for the birth. There were tears in his eyes when he handed me the keys to the ‘Vette, though.”

  “Poor baby.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “I wasn’t referring to your friend.”

  He opened the passenger door, his blue eyes dancing. “Neither was I.”

  Laughing, Sabrina settled into a cloud-soft seat that smelled of leather polish and endless hours of loving care. Her fascinated gaze took in the mammoth, chrome-decorated steering wheel and minuscule round indicator dials on the dash.

  “This car must have been made for roads like the old Route 66,” she breathed.

  “It was.” A twist of the ignition produced the kind of full-barreled rumble rarely heard from today’s quieter engines. “You’re sitting in America’s first production sports car. This baby—or ones like her—cruised the highways all across the country.”

  “Can you imagine all the drive-up hamburger stands and movie theaters she must have pulled into?”

  Sighing, Sabrina buckled the seat belt obviously installed post production. The car stirred her imagination, already well-tuned to the era she was trying to re-create at the diner. During their childhood, she and Rachel had spent a lot of time on the roads with their father. Their unconventional upbringing had spawned in her a stubborn independence, a fierce loyalty to her itinerant father and flighty twin...and an appreciation of the rich history of America’s highways.

  That history came alive for her when they drove down Sapulpa’s Main Street a half hour later. Once part of the Mother Road that stretched unbroken from Chicago to California, the tree-shaded street was lined with restored buildings that marked the town’s transition from an 1880s cattle and agricultural railhead to a turn-of-the-century oil boomtown. Sapulpa’s Main Street now served as the focus for the annual conclave of Route 66 nuts, and they had certainly come out in full force tonight!

  Vintage cars, trucks and motorcycles filled every available parking space, drawing throngs of admirers. Sabrina caught flashes of sky blue Bel-Aires, fintailed pink Cadillacs, mammoth green Hudsons, and even a chrome-laden Edsel. Local artists and crafters had set up displays along the sidewalks. Merchants hawked T-shirts, posters and ball caps to the tourists. Antique shops displayed Mother Road memorabilia in every window. Over the noise of the crowd, a deejay spun period music. As Jack made the turn into a parking lot just off Main, a version of Bobby Troup’s 1946 classic, “Get Your Kicks on Route 66,” eddied over the airwaves.

  But it was the food vendors who were doing the busiest business at this hour. Even they had gotten into the spirit, dishing up authentic foods and specials from the golden days of the Mother Road. Hamburgers sizzled. Frankfurters steamed. Fried chicken and chicken-fried steak were stacked high on paper platters. A vintage, bicycle-powered ice-cream cart catered to an eager crowd of youngsters and oldsters alike.

  “I wish I could talk Hank into setting up a booth at the Blowout,” Sabrina murmured. “His onion burgers would have everyone here making tracks back to our diner.”

  Jack smiled as he eased the Corvette into a tight parking space. He knew darn well what had pulled him back to the diner, and it wasn’t Hank’s onion burgers. If he’d needed any proof, he got it when he walked around the low-slung convertible to help Sabrina out. Her bracelet jangled as she put her hand in his, and her smile heated him up inside like a section of steel pipe left lying too long in the sun. That silky slide of brilliant yellow that covered her front and bared her back didn’t exactly help matters, either.

  His stomach coiling with a combination of pleasure and anticipation, he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. They’d only taken a step or two when she dug her nails into his sleeve.

  “Listen!”

  With some effort, Jack tried to sort through the varying levels of noise. He heard kids shouting. A car honking. Two Harley-Davidsons revving in the distance. But nothing that would put such a reverent shine in Sabrina’s eyes.

  “That’s Woody Guthrie,” she said excitedly. “It must be from a rerecording of the Dust Bowl Ballads.”

  Jack cocked his head, listening to the plaintive lyrics pouring from loudspeakers like crackling wine. With simple eloquence, the dry-voiced folk singer told of the birth and death of so many Okies’ dreams as they took the road west to escape the bank failures and relentless droughts of the thirties.

  “He did twelve records in that series,” Sabrina mused as they joined the crowds on Main Street. “They’re so sad, and so uplifting.”

  Jack had only a hazy knowledge of the Oklahoma folk poet who became a model for later folk singers like Bob Dylan and Tom Paxton. Sabrina, however, seemed to have absorbed his history along with that of the famous highway he once traveled.

  “I think I read somewhere that he wrote or recorded more than a thousand songs,” she said at the conclusion of the ballad.

  “Including ‘This Land Is Your Land,’ if I remember correctly.”

  She nodded. “That’s one of his most famous, but I have to admit the Dust Bowl Ballads are my favorites. They really capture the pathos of the times...and the immense dignity of the human spirit.”

  Jack was impressed. Born and bred in Oklahoma, he’d grown up with a native’s casual acceptance of its rich history. He had an insider’s appreciation of the rough-and-tumble oil business, of course, and kept a close watch on his grandfather’s varied cattle and agricultural interests throughout the state. More directly, he saw to it that Wentworth Oil made hefty donations each year to various enterprises to preserve Oklahoma history, like tonight’s Blowout.

  He didn’t devote the passion to it, though, that Sabrina apparently did. As she described the various recordings Woody Guthrie had made to protest unemployment and social injustice, a vibrant, fascinating woman emerged. A woman far more complex than her background and present occupation would suggest to the casual observer.

  And Jack would hardly qualify as casual. He wasn’t quite sure when he’d passed that stage. Yesterday afternoon when he’d covered her mouth with his, probably. If not then, last night, for sure. He hadn’t particularly relished turning away from Sabrina’s front door less than two minutes after approaching. After the fever of anticipation he’d experienced during the drive to her place, her accusation that he’d come slumming took some swallowing. He’d gotten it down, though. So had she, if the eager look on her face was any indication.

  More intrigued than ever by the luscious, contradictory brunette at his side, he slipped a hand under her elbow to steer her through the boisterous crowd. Slowly, they worked their way d
own Main. Shops crammed with relics of the Mother Road drew oohs and sighs from Sabrina, but Jack’s attention stayed riveted on the woman at his side. Her skin felt silky soft under his fingers, and the seductive swirl of her dress about her hips had him—

  “Jack!” The boom of a hearty female voice jerked his head up. “Jack Wentworth!”

  “Hello, Mayor Boyd.”

  Like a majestic ocean liner cutting the waves, Mildred Boyd sailed through the crowd. Half a head taller than those around her, she wore cherry red leather boots and a red straw Stetson sporting Route 66 buttons in every color of the rainbow.

  She greeted Jack with a thump between the shoulder blades that rattled his back teeth. “I didn’t know you were coming to the Blowout.”

  “I didn’t either, until last night.”

  Surreptitiously rolling his shoulders, he introduced Sabrina to one of Oklahoma’s most colorful and farsighted city leaders.

  “Sabrina’s a real aficionado of America’s Main Street, too,” he added. “She’s helping restore the Route 66 Diner outside Dunford.”

  “So you’re the brains behind that project!” The mayor’s mega-decibel voice had heads turning up and down the street. “Couldn’t believe the place last time I stopped in. We’ll have to get you involved in the 66 Preservation Society, girl. In fact, I could use some help with the four-state rally we’re planning for next spring.”

  Sabrina tried to plead work and school, but the mayor steamrollered right over her halfhearted objections.

  “Anyone who can get Hank off his butt enough to fix up that old place can handle a little phone callin’ and agenda planning. I’ll get in touch with you.”

  Jack had served a couple of not-to-be-forgotten terms on Oklahoma’s Economic Advisory Commission with Mildred. He was about to warn Sabrina of what she was really stepping into when another hearty thump on his back sent him forward a pace.

  “I’m supposed to officially kick off this shindig in a few minutes,” the mayor boomed. “Why don’t you join me on the podium and say a few words. You can be the first to try out that fancy new sound system we bought with this year’s donation from Wentworth Oil Works...assuming LeRoy can figure out how to work all those levers and dials, of course.”