Beautiful Distraction (2 page)

God dammit.

He screams sex on legs.

The kind of guy you take home to let him fuck your brains
out, and then you discard the next day because there’s no way in hell a guy
like him settles for anything less than a harem.

He also screams incurable, arrogant bastard.

Everything he’s said so far tells me he’s a big-ass jerk.

I don’t know why the thought that his dick’s probably had
more mileage than a porn star’s pops into my head. But it does, and it reminds
me that I’m very angry.

Fuming mad.

He hit my car…I remember. I can’t afford any repairs. On top
of that, I shouldn’t be thinking about sex, especially not with Mr. Arrogant who’s
more concerned with his stupid car than with the damage he’s caused to mine.

“It’s just a scratch,” I point out. “Nothing a good paint
job won’t solve.”

“Look.” He sighs. His hot, sexy breath hits my face as he
turns to me. “I get it. You don’t have the money to pay for the damage. You
probably don’t even have insurance, and I wouldn’t wait for a check anyway, but
damn, I just had it flown in from Italy. Don’t you have eyes, woman?”

I gape at his audacity.

He’s the one driving like a moron, and he’s still trying to
blame
me
for
his
shortcomings?

And what kind of accent is that?

A slight drawl, rather subdued, as though he’s trying to
hide it.

No one’s ever made me hot and bothered by just
talking
to me, and it’s not even dirty
talk.

I can’t help closing my eyes for a moment, enjoying the
onset of sexual tension. When I open them barely a second later, I find him
staring at me, his tongue tracing his lower lip.

And is that the slightest hint of a smile I glimpse on his
lips?

It can’t be because that would imply he’s—

Laughing at me.

I cringe.

“Jerk,” I mutter.

“Really? Do you know who I am?” he asks, completely
oblivious to my growing annoyance with him.

My brows shoot up. “Should I? I don’t think so…unless you’ve
done something worth remembering, like saving the world or—”

I gesture with my hand, trying hard to think of something
that could prove my point. Truth is, I most certainly
wouldn’t
forget him if I knew who he was because he’s anything but
forgettable.

His grin turns into laughter. I stare at him, confused.

I just insulted his expensive ass.

Why the fuck is he
laughing?

“Trust me, if I
did
something, you wouldn’t be asking. You’d definitely be feeling it for days to
come.” His green gaze shimmers, challenging me. “I might be a jerk, but I’m the
kind of jerk who always lets the woman come first. And not just once.”

My eyes widen. “What?”

Sensing my confusion, he continues, “Either way, I’m okay
with settling this incident privately.”

“How do you propose we do it?”

“I know a few ways.” His lips crack open into a smile.

My jaw drops. Is he hitting on me? Can’t be because—

“What?” I croak, my voice suddenly hoarse and my body on
fire. My nipples strain against the thin fabric of my top, and most certainly
not because of the cool NYC air.

Oh, the traitors!

Mr. Sex On Legs licks his lips slowly and deliberately, his
gaze seemingly glued to my heaving chest. He doesn’t even
try
to hide the fact that he’s eye-fucking my breasts. Hell, in his
dirty mind, I’m probably eagle-spread on his bed with him on top of me.

“I’m sorry. I don’t follow.” I shake my head, trying to make
sense of his words. “What are you talking about?”

“You can repay the damage by going out with me tonight,” he
says. “After which we can head over to my place.”

I blink once, twice. My mouth parts ever so slightly. My
labored breath barely makes it past my suddenly parched lips.

Fuck, that’s hot!

Oh, I want that.

I haven’t been with anyone in more than a year. It’s been so
long I wouldn’t be surprised to find cobwebs down there.

If I were into one-night stands, he’d be perfect. Hot,
arrogant, the kind who wouldn’t even think about asking for your number, let
alone call you after you’d done the dirty deed.

But there’s no way in hell I’d hook up with someone who’s so
obvious and obnoxious about it. Somewhere in the background, I can hear my
phone ringing, reminding me that time is of the essence.

“Is that your boyfriend calling?” He grins. “You seem to be
ignoring him.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“No boyfriend, then.” His arrogance is monumental. You can
probably see it from outer space. And it irritates the hell out of me. “So,
what do you say? In case you didn’t get it, I asked—”

“I heard you loud and clear, and the answer’s no.”

“No?” His brows shoot up in surprise.

“No.”

“You sure?” He peels his gaze off my breasts, albeit
unwillingly, and finally settles on my face.

I cross my arms over my chest and regard him coolly. “Has
your flavor of the day stood you up and now you’re in desperate need of a
replacement hookup? I’m no replacement fuck, ever. There’s definitely not going
to be any coming. And I’m not a hooker. I’m not offering up my body to pay for
the damage to your car.”

“I figured that much. At least let me buy you a drink, and
we’ll take it from there.” His gaze sweeps over me again in that deliberate,
tantalizing way. “You owe me.”

In spite of his harmless words, I can feel what he’s
thinking.

“Owe you?” I laugh. “Why are you like this? You don’t even
know me.”

“In my line of work, I don’t have time to waste, especially
not when I like what I see.” He peers behind him. I follow his line of sight to
the long queue in front of the club.

What is it that he does?

Is he a pimp?

A drug lord?

I’m fascinated and curious as hell.

I almost take the bait and ask, but bite my tongue to stop
myself before I do.

“Sorry, I think I’ll pass. You’re not my type.” I take a
step back to put some distance between us. A pang of disappointment flashes
across his face, but he seems to get the message.

“I’m everybody’s type,” he says. “You just have to realize
it.”

I have no doubt about that, but I keep my stony expression
in place, proud that I’ve just rejected the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. Later,
in the loneliness and privacy of my four walls, I’ll probably feel differently.

His flirty expression seems to change before my eyes.

Yeah, he definitely got the memo.

His gaze travels the length of my Ford, assessing it with
what I assume are knowing eyes. Without waiting for my reply, he pulls his
wallet out of his back pocket and begins writing a check that he goes on to
squeeze into my hand. I peer at the sum he’s just agreed to pay, and my mouth
goes dry.

Holy cow.

That’s a lot of money.

My Ford’s not worth that much.

“This should cover your repairs, though my advice is to buy
a new car.”

My gaze jumps from the stark white piece of paper to his
smug expression and then back to the check. I thought I was angry before, but
it was nothing compared to what I’m feeling now.

The lump sum he’s offering is enough to cover the cost of a
new car.

My heart pumps so hard, it might just be about to burst out
of my chest…and not in a good way.

I’m humiliated…and furious.

Not because his gesture implies that the accident was all
his fault and he’s basically in my debt. I’m furious because the smugness in
his expression tells me he’s convinced of the exact opposite.

He feels sorry for me, and his generous check is basically a
handout.

A pity check.

The audacity!

Is that the reason why he hit on me in the first place?
Because he thought I might be poor and impressed by his flashy car and clothes,
and consequently eager to spread my legs for him just because he’s
privileged
?

“What do you think? Is this enough?” he prompts impatiently.

Ignoring his questions, I smile sweetly and step closer.

The plan is to look straight into his eyes and tell him where
he can shove his check. But instead, I find myself having to tilt my head back
to look all the way up into a pair of sinfully green eyes the color of deep,
dark forests and haunted meadows. Somehow, my frosty stance doesn’t look as confident
and significant as I had planned it to be.

In fact, his height intimidates me and I almost choke on my
words.

“Keep it. I don’t want your money,” I push out through
gritted teeth. “And there’s no way I’d ever sleep with you. Not today. Not
tomorrow. Not ever. Got it?”

With shaky fingers, I throw his check at him, careful not to
touch him in any way.

His brows rise. Slowly, his smile dies on his lips.

“I’m not demanding that you—”

I’m no longer listening as I turn my back to him and jump
into my car, then slam the door shut.

I avoid looking at him as I start the engine, but I can feel
his gaze on me, and it’s burning my skin. My insides are on fire, even though
my anger seems to have evaporated into the balmy night.

Without looking back, I speed past him. I don’t live in his
world, so I know I’ll never see him again. But that doesn’t make his eyes
easily forgotten, nor does the knowledge dull the delicious throb between my
legs.

The fact still remains: he was a jerk.

Some arrogant bastard I’ll never see again.

I’d rather eat his check before I accept a handout from a
stranger with the sick fantasy of settling it in private—in his bed.

Three months later

A bitch of a hurricane is brewing up. It’s been all over the
news for the past few days. I was too wrapped up in my research for my new
article to watch TV or read the headlines, but Mandy has no excuse for dragging
me along on this road trip through Montana with dark clouds gathering above our
heads.

Okay, maybe she has a reason…in the form of two tickets to
see Mile High—the hottest indie band in the world. Too bad the concert’s
taking place in Montana, which is probably the reason why it isn’t sold out. I
mean, would you drive across half the country to see a pretentious bunch of
delusional idiots dry humping the air and lip synching the life out of some
auto tune while believing they’re the incarnation of Mozart?

Yeah, me neither.

But Mandy’s a fan.

Apparently, the fact that they’re wearing black carnival
masks (and not much else) and no one knows their real identities makes them
even hotter—or so Mandy says. She doesn’t just have the band’s entire
repertoire, which I swear consists of all of five songs that seem to run on
replay across all stations nationwide (you can’t escape them anywhere); she’s
actually not even ashamed to admit she’s into them.

Talk about turning into a groupie and reliving her teens.

Imagine my dismay when my car license registration won two
concert tickets in a big radio swoop. I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but out
of all the great prizes (think a new iPhone and a makeover with a celebrity
hairstylist), I had the misfortune to win the tickets when I’m probably the
only female in the world who wouldn’t know who they were if it weren’t for Mandy’s
eclectic taste in music.

The moment I won the tickets, someone must have also bashed
me over the head because I was stupid enough to tell Mandy about the win
and
reveal that I was considering
selling them on eBay. Mandy almost blew a gasket and basically dragged me into
the car to head for Madison Creek.

The fight was lost before it even began.

Which is why I’m here—God knows where—with the
enthusiasm of a turtle at the outlook of putting my poor ears through the
torture that’s about to befall Montana.

Poor Montana, too.

Forget the band.

Fortunately, the tickets come with a ‘one-week all expenses
paid hotel stay for two.’ That’s the only upside of my prize, at least in my
opinion, and the main reason I agreed to keep it.

I desperately need the one-week vacation before the boring
work routine engulfs me once again.

I’ve no idea where we are, only that we’re hours away from
New York City, when I unplug Mandy’s iPhone in favor of some local radio
station’s playlist of Sheryl Crow and David McGray songs. We’re halfway through
the second song when the news comes through.

“Storm Janet is picking up speed as she makes her way across
western Montana. Residents are advised to stay indoors as severe, rare storm
force winds with heavy rain are expected across some parts of…” Mandy switches
off the radio.

Suddenly the gray clouds gain an ominous new meaning and my
throat chokes up.

“A hurricane? Are you fucking kidding me?” I yell at Mandy,
who’s speeding along an unpaved country road, past green pastures and untouched
nature.

“Relax. It’s just a bit of wind, Ava,” Mandy says. “Besides,
we’re almost there. Relax and enjoy the scenery.”

Relax?

I cringe and bite my tongue hard so I won’t say something I
may come to regret later. Mandy isn’t exactly irresponsible; she’s just
easygoing
, to put it mildly.

Maybe even a bit reckless, which is what I usually adore
about her.

When I met her in kindergarten, we found our friendship
based on opposites:

I loved to collect coins and shells; she amassed clothes for
her impressive doll collection.

I collected novels; she collected the phone numbers of hot
guys.

Today, I’m a journalist; she’s an environmentalist lawyer working
for a non-profit organization and needs to work as a club hostess on the side
to make ends meet.

I’m a worrier; she reminds me of the positive things in
life.

While I have a list for everything, including the contents
of my wardrobe, she would get bored halfway through
writing
a list and always ridicules me for being overly
conscientious, which she lovingly calls obsessive-compulsive.

“You should have told me we’d be facing bad weather. We
could have waited until tomorrow. We didn’t have to depart today.” I shoot her
a venomous look, even though she can’t see me because her eyes are fixed on the
road, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on her thigh.

“And risk missing a day in a free five-star hotel? Maybe.”
She shrugs. “But the thing is, if I had told you just how bad the weather might
be, you wouldn’t have trudged along to see Mile High. We’ve wanted this for
ages.”

As in,
she’s
wanted
this for ages and sort of insisted that I come along.

I set my jaw and let her continue her little monologue.

A heavy gust of wind rocks the car. I wiggle in my seat
nervously. “Are you sure the hurricane’s not heading our way?”

“Relax,” Mandy repeats. I swear she’s turning into a walking
mantra. “Hurricanes can only form over water. Montana is far too inland to be
hit by one. “

“Why were storm force winds mentioned then? What is this if
not a hurricane?”

Mandy casts me a short side-glance. “A little storm or
hurricane won’t stop us from having the adventure of a lifetime. For all we
know, it might not even hit Montana. They said so on TV. We both know the
weather newscast tends to be a little overdramatic.”

There, she just said the word.

Oh, my frigging God.

The wind howls louder, the trees whip back and forth in a
wild frenzy, and the car trembles with the force coming sideways. Mandy tries
not to show it, but I can see the whites on her knuckles as she holds on
tightly to the wheel, forcing the car to stay on course.

I try to calm my thumping heart, but it’s hard. Hurricanes are
unpredictable. Mandy might even be right about the last part, but I don’t want
to be outside, in the middle of frigging nowhere, to find out. I sigh and slump
into the passenger seat, keeping my eyes focused on the road ahead, praying
we’ll reach our destination soon—a hotel near Madison Creek.

The tickets couldn’t have come at a more fortunate time.
Mandy had been a fan for ages. She had also been talking about looking forward
to a last adventure together. With my career as a journalist really taking off,
Mandy figured we might as well see more of the world before we end up stuck
behind a desk in an air-conditioned office in stuffy New York City. Not that I
don’t like NYC; I’ve lived there my whole life and couldn’t imagine living
anywhere else in the world. But lately, it’s been oppressing…filled with people
and memories I want to push into the proverbial filing cabinet deep inside my
brain.

That was the only reason why I agreed to trudge along.

“This kind of wind rarely lasts more than an hour,” Mandy
says, resuming the conversation.

“I hope so,” I mutter and close my eyes, slumping deeper
into my seat. “So, where are we
exactly
?”
I ask for the umpteenth time.

“It’s a road trip, Ava. The beauty of it is that you
don’t
know where you are,” she says
dryly, leaving the rest open to interpretation.

I watch her in thought.

Her lips are pressed together, and her grip on the steering
wheel has tightened.

“Basically, you have no idea where we are,” I say
matter-of-factly.

She shrugs. “You’re wrong.”

“I’m so not wrong.”

I wouldn’t be surprised to find out she hasn’t thought about
a stopover to get dinner either.

I should have known better than to leave the planning
details to her. Now, with thick rainclouds roiling and twisting over our heads,
and the wind picking up in speed, I can only hope the satnav will guide us
safely to the nearest town.

I groan audibly to communicate my displeasure. “You said you
were taking a shortcut, but this shortcut is taking longer than the estimated
time to arrival. How do you explain that?”

“Fine. If you
must
know.” Mandy shoots me a disapproving look. “We sort of got a bit off track,
but don’t worry, we’ll get there eventually.”

I sit up, suddenly alert. “What do you mean by ‘off track’?”

Warily, I peer at the satnav, which is a palm-sized black
device attached to the windshield, its screen turned to Mandy. Given that
neither I nor Mandy are particularly adept at reading road maps, the whole
purpose of buying the thing was to get us from A to B without the need for a
map. I realize it’s been at least two hours since we last stopped at a petrol
station. It’s been even more than that since we last drove past a city.

With a strong sense of foreboding in the pit of my stomach,
I turn the screen toward me and realize in horror that all it shows is a
country road surrounded by a huge patch of green and a message stating ‘no
service available at this time.’ There’s no street name, no information on the
nearest highway, no sign of a petrol station or motel. Wherever we are, it’s
not on the freaking map.

Shit!

We probably left civilization behind a few hours ago.

“We’re off the grid,” I say, mortified, as I stare at the
screen. “Mandy!”

“It’s not a big deal.” She shrugs again.

“How can you say it’s not a big deal? We’re lost.”

“We’re not lost,” Mandy protests feebly. We’ve been friends
for ages, which is why I know she’s lying. She catches my glance. “As soon as
the storm calms down, the satnav will start working again. I’m pretty sure we’re
headed in the right direction anyway.”

“How do you know?”

“Call it my gut feeling.”

“Is this the same gut feeling that almost got me expelled
from school after you suggested we paint the walls red as a means of protest
against the lousy food?”

Mandy remains quiet, so I ask the most obvious question in a
voice that can barely contain my anger, “How did this happen?”

“I took a shortcut.” Her words come so low I’m not sure it
wasn’t just the howling wind gathering around the car that spoke to me.

“What?”

“I said I took a shortcut!” she yells at me. Then she adds
quietly, “Or so I thought. And then the damn thing failed—” she points at
the satnav “—probably because I forgot to update the software.”

“This is so typical of you.” I open the glove compartment to
pull out the roadmap, but all I find are cans of soda and several packs of
Twinkies. “Where’s the map?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

“I didn’t think we’d need it.” Mandy shrugs and stares ahead
at the darkening road.

I laugh from the waves of hysteria collecting at the back of
my throat.

Why would anyone
ever
take a shortcut in the middle of nowhere and consciously decide against packing
a map? Then again, this is Mandy. Given that I’ve known her all my life, I have
no one to blame but myself.

“There goes my backup plan,” I mumble.

“It wasn’t really that much of a backup plan anyway, given
that neither of us has ever found her way around with the help of a map,” Mandy
says, not really helping.

“But still. You should have known better.”

“What about you?” Mandy prompts. “You could have thought
about packing one instead of obsessing over your non-existent love life.” The
accusation is palpable in her voice. She’s trying to blame it all on me.

“I’m not even going there because I wasn’t obsessing. I
spent the last few months working my ass off. You know how hard I had to work
to get where I am now.”

“Where?” she asks innocently. “We both know that by ‘work’
you mean you were secretly obsessing about the fact that you shouldn’t have
brushed off the guy who hit on you at Club 69.”

Oh, for crying out loud.

She’s trying to divert attention from her mistakes by
annoying the living shit out of me.

I roll my eyes. “Get us out of here before we end up
completely lost and living in a self-made wooden hut. I’m not learning how to
set traps and collect berries to keep your sorry ass alive.”

“If this helps, I did pick up how to make a fire when I was
a Girl Scout.”

I grin at her. “Yeah, your fire will be of immense help when
we’re trapped in a storm.”

“Check the cell,” Mandy says, her face brightening at the
idea.

“And call who if we don’t even know where we are?”

“The police, obviously. They could track us.”

Intentionally, I don’t praise her as I retrieve my cell
phone and then stare at the no signal sign. “Dammit. No bars.”

Which isn’t much of a surprise.

We
are
in the
middle of nowhere. There’s no doubt about it because ninety-nine percent of
mainland USA has cell phone coverage, which is about everywhere. Mandy has just
managed to find the remaining one percent, and she didn’t even have to put a
lot of effort into it.