Bea (2 page)

“Lethal?”

“Karate. Black belt.” She’d lied about being a mechanic—some perverse urge of hers, and she never had perverse urges. She hadn’t lied about the martial arts, though.

“I’m impressed.”

He didn’t look impressed. He still looked as if he had a ringside seat at a circus performed especially for him.

“Then perhaps I should charge admission.”

“You have a sense of humor, too. I like that.” He leaned closer, peering over her shoulder and getting in her way. “Do you have a name, pretty lady?”

Pretty lady, indeed.
As if a woman was nothing more than a glimpse of stocking and a puff of powder.

“I do, but I’m sure men of your type wouldn’t bother to use it. Call me Bubbles or Boopsy or whatever it is men like you call pretty ladies.” She jiggled a wire that looked suspicious. Nothing happened. “Just don’t expect me to answer.”

“That’s fine by me, Boopsy. I’m just here to watch.”

o0o

Russ Hammond had never met a woman with such a long stinger. But then, he’d asked for every barb she’d sunk into his flesh. It made life easier—keeping people at a distance. He’d had years and years of practice, and he was an expert at it.

In the fading light, he watched as the woman poked and prodded her car. Every now and then she consulted her owner’s manual. Obviously she was not a mechanic. But then, neither was he. If he had known anything at all about cars, he’d have fixed hers and been on his way. All clean and neat and uninvolved. But he had no talent with broken cars. Some latent chivalry—promoted, no doubt, by the spectacular view of the sunset—had caused him to stop, and that same misbegotten gallantry made him stay.

He watched as the woman with the shiny black hair and the cool white skin continued her futile efforts. She never appeared frustrated, never looked disgusted, never said a word. She merely looked determined. He decided that’s how George Washington must have looked crossing the Delaware.

“Do you mind if I make a suggestion?” he asked, just as the last ray of light disappeared from the sky. She looked up and quirked one eyebrow at him. “Why don’t you hop aboard my trusty vehicle here and let me take you into the nearest town? We might still find a garage open.”

“Thanks, but I’ll just look them up on my iPhone and call for a tow truck.”

“You won’t get a signal here.”

Damned if she didn’t try. Still, as she pranced around the hood and leaned into the open convertible to retrieve her iPhone, he greatly admired the view. She had plenty of curves, and those black boots she was wearing made her legs look long enough to wrap completely around a man.

She walked off a piece and spent several minutes trying to make a call then marched back and tossed the phone back into her purse.

“I can’t believe this. What is this place, the backside of Hell?”

“Something like that. Hop in. I’ll take you to find that garage.”

“I don’t want to leave the car.”

Translated, that meant,
I don’t want to get into a truck with a strange man, particularly that truck and that man.
He didn’t have to guess; her face said it all. He might have argued that riding with him was safer than staying on a lonely mountain road in the dark, but he figured it would be a waste of breath.

“Then I’ll just mosey on down the road.” He started toward his truck, saying over his shoulder, “I’ll stop at the nearest town and send a tow truck back for you.”

“I’ll pay you, of course.”

“And ruin a vagabond’s honor? No, thank you.” He climbed into his truck. Loud music and revving engine crashed into the silence. Leaning out his window, he saluted. “Goodbye, tiger lady.”

Tiger lady?
What in the devil had prompted him to call her that? Pet names were for pet people. He’s never even had a pet dog that lasted longer than two weeks. What would he do with a pet person?

He put the thought of the woman out of his mind and concentrated on the sharp mountain curves. In all his bumming around, he’d never made it to this part of the country. He didn’t know what was around the next bend or even where the nearest town was, for that matter. For the most part, he traveled without the aid of maps. Aimless wandering suited his purpose. Or his lack of purpose.

He didn’t keep track of time, either, so it could have been fifteen minutes or forty-five before he came into the small community—Pearcy, the sign read. He drove down the middle of the town. For all the activity, it might have been recently hit by the plague. All the houses were dark, the shops were closed up tight and the town’s only garage looked totally abandoned. Just to make certain, he got out of his truck and knocked loudly at the office door. His only answer was the forlorn “meow” of an alley cat passing by.

He could drive on to the next town, wherever that might be, and hope to find a garage open. Or he could forget the woman. Somebody else was bound to come along and help her. Anyway, she wasn’t his worry.

He opened his truck door and climbed back inside.

Forgetting her would be the best thing all the way around. His decision didn’t make him feel good, but hell, he wasn’t about to get tangled up with another big-eyed helpless female. Nobility wasn’t worth suffering for.

He chuckled to think how angry the woman in the road would be to know he was thinking of her as helpless.

They all were. Till they got what they wanted. Take Lurlene, for instance. His wife down in LaBelle, Florida. Well, she used to be his wife. She wasn’t anymore. Not since he’d walked in and found her on their four-poster bed with the B-Quick Man. It was right funny now that it was all over and he could think about it without wanting to take his shotgun and blow them to Kingdom Come.

Wormy little old Horace Clemmens had been thought of as the B-Quick Man because he ran a printing shop in Labelle called by that name. It had taken on new meaning the day Russ had come in from his orange groves and seen old Horace, skinny bottom and all, showing that two-timing Lurlene a trick or two.

And to think Russ had once felt sorry for her with her story of having no place to go. He’d even been willing to give up his wandering ways and settle down in a white-washed house and two hundred acres of orange groves. It probably wouldn’t sound like much to most folks, but it was more than he had ever had. Lurlene, too.

Thank goodness he’d never been foolish enough to believe he loved her. But it was the closest he’d ever come, and he’d paid the price. He never wanted to see LaBelle, Florida again.

But that was all behind him now. And so was that woman on the road in her fancy broken-down car.

His key was in the ignition when he heard the music. He cocked his head, listening. It was drifting his way from both ends of town, “Almost Persuaded” from one side and “Pass Me Not” from the other.

The truth dawned. That’s where everybody was, Sunday-night church services. As the words came faintly to him, wafting on the mountain breezes, he smiled. The woman had powerful allies. How could he turn his back on her when guardian angels were urging her rescue?

Shaking his head at his own foolishness, and still grinning, he turned his truck around. He was going back for the tiger lady.

o0o

Bea heard the rattle before she saw the truck. She had almost resigned herself to spending the night locked in her car. Shading her eyes against the glare of approaching headlights, she peered into the darkness. He had come back, her blond rescuer. The wheezing, clanking truck was unmistakably his.

He climbed from his truck and tapped on her window. She eased it down.

“Where’s the tow truck?”

“At your service.” He waved his arm toward the ramshackle vehicle.

“You must be joking. That truck looks as if it will barely carry you, let alone tow a car.”

“I’m afraid it’s your best bet under the circumstances. The town is locked up tight as a drum. From the looks of things, everybody has gone to church.”

“It’s Sunday... of course.” Bea got out of her car to assess the situation. She walked around his truck, kicking the tires and pressing her weight against the fenders.

“Maybe you’d like to check my chassis, too.”

Her rescuer was leaning nonchalantly against the fender of her Jag, the glow in his eyes announcing very plainly that what he did best was have women check his chassis.

“In your dreams!”

“You’re not even tempted, I guess.”

“You couldn’t tempt me if your chassis was solid gold.’

“Good.” He unfolded his long legs and began to unload gear from the pickup. “Now that we don’t have to worry about
that
, we can get on with this tow job.” He uncoiled a length of chain. “The name’s Russ Hammond, and if you want to get into that little burg they call Pearcy before next Christmas, you’d better get a move on, tiger lady.”

“The name’s Beatrice Adams, Bea for short, and we might as well get one thing clear—I’ll do whatever it takes to get into Pearcy save one thing. I will not grovel on my knees in your stunning male presence, nor will I kiss your chauvinistic boots.”

He propped one foot on the tailgate of the truck. “So you noticed. Genuine snakeskin, taken right off the hide of an ornery old python that slithered my way. I’m hell on snakes, ma’am.” He grinned. “You sure you won’t change your mind about kissing them?”

“Your sense of humor almost redeems you, but not quite. Your sins are far too numerous.”

“I try.” He handed her a flashlight. “Here. Hold this while I rig up a tow.”

The chain rattled and clanked as he began to hook it on to the bumper of the Jaguar.

“You’re sure you know what you’re doing?” She trained the flashlight on his hands.

“This is not my everyday work, but I’m the best you’ve got, unless you want to wait until somebody better comes along.”

That was true. She’d waited nearly two hours in the dark while he went to summon help, and not one vehicle had passed her way. It was just her luck to be stuck with the most aggravating man west of the Mississippi.

She trained the light closer to his work. “Are you sure those chains will hold?”

“No.” He glanced up with a look as cold as the Arctic. “I’m not sure about anything in life. Are you?”

“Only the things I’m in charge of.”

Russ turned back to his work. “Are you in charge of much?”

“Unfortunately, no. But I
will be
someday
.
An advertising firm in Dallas, the
best
in Dallas.”

“It figures. You look like the kind who wouldn’t associate herself with anything except the best.”

The words sounded like a compliment, but the tone sounded like an insult. She didn’t know why she even bothered to care. Once she got to Pearcy, or wherever he’d said the next town was, she’d never see him again. Thank goodness.

She watched while Russ eased his pickup in front of her Jaguar and hooked the vehicles together. It was an unlikely pairing.

“All set,” he said.

She caught the door handle of her car. He reached out and covered her hand.

“You can’t ride back here.”

“Of course I can. It’s my car.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m never ridiculous.” She opened her car door.

“Then don’t be so damned stubborn.” He slammed the door shut. “Just what kind of ride do you think you’d have, bumping along back here, chained to my truck? And what do you think you’d do if the chain broke loose?”

“Well, it looks like it will hold.”

“That’s all I need. A bossy, stubborn woman.”

“You make me sound like the plague.”

“You are.” He caught her wrist and propelled her toward his truck. The door squeaked on rusty hinges as he opened it. “Get in.”

Common sense told her he was right. But Bea hated being told what to do, especially by a man with his primitive, Me-Tarzan-You-Jane attitude. She favored him with a fierce glare before lifting one foot inside the truck. Her skirt was tight and the truck was far off the ground. In order not to tear the black gabardine, she hoisted her skirt over her knees.

Russ swatted her on the behind and gave her a boost. “In you go, Toots.”

“Has anyone ever told you that your kind belongs in the jungle, swinging from vines?”

“Aren’t you the lucky one? Tonight’s my night off.” He got in himself and started the engine. “I was hoping for a nice quiet night with a glass of coconut juice before I had to go back to the jungle. Instead, I got you.” Easing the truck into gear, he started down the road.

“I told you I’d pay.”

“My needs are modest. You can buy the gas.”

“Deal.”

They drove along, not speaking, for the next five minutes. The only sounds were the rattle-banging of the old truck and bump of tires along the rutted mountain road.

“Do you mind if I listen to music?”

She was surprised he’d asked.

“A little Chopin might be nice,” she said, goading him.