Iris Johansen (27 page)

Victoria fiddled with the end of her long, auburn braid. Amos was putting her in an awkward position. If she refused to go storm chasing with Roan Cullen, she would be insensitive to Amos’s worries about his nephew. But if she agreed, she might be endangering herself. She had her own reasons for avoiding people who didn’t hold a healthy respect for the power of a storm.

In the face of her indecision, Amos added the final, irresistible incentive: “I’ll let you take the van.”

Victoria’s mouth dropped open. “You mean you’d actually let me drive the Chasemobile? Take it out of your sight?” In the year since he’d bought the minivan and loaded it up with a mind-boggling array of weather-sensing and communications equipment, he’d hardly let anyone else ride in it, much less drive it. Victoria couldn’t blame him. He had well over thirty thousand dollars invested in the vehicle.

“I have complete faith in you, my girl. You’re a good driver, and you keep your head during tense situations.”

Victoria sipped another spoonful of soup. “I could call you from the road, I suppose, and get your forecasts—”

“Dang it, missy, what’s the point of hauling around
that computer if you’re going to hang on my apron strings? You can do your own forecasts.”

Victoria went silent again. She had a master’s degree in meteorology and a job as a forecaster for the National Weather Service. She was good at her job. But not as good as Amos. Just about anyone could analyze the data and come up with a general area where a storm might brew. But Amos could scan the horizon, sniff the breeze, and then drive with unveering certainty to the exact point at which the tornado would form. He knew the moods of a storm, where it would go, and how fast. That’s why she’d always felt so safe with him.

Would she feel as safe relying on her own abilities?

“You’d better decide pretty quick,” Amos said, “ ’cause unless I miss my guess, that squeal of tires I hear means we’re about to have company from Mississippi.”

There was certainly nothing wrong with Amos’s hearing, Victoria mused as, moments later, the crunch of gravel under tires and the shriek of brakes in need of new pads signaled the arrival of Roan Cullen.

“I’ll get the door,” she said just as the bell chimed.

“Victoria?” Amos stopped her. “Will you do it? As a favor to me, please. I can’t think of anyone who could benefit more from your common sense and your reverence for life than my nephew.”

She was not going to allow Amos to send her on a guilt trip. “I’ll have to meet him first,” she said, trying to sound sensible.

“Fair enough.”

The bell chimed again, followed by a loud rapping
and a muffled voice. “Unc? You in there? Up and at ’em! Those tornadoes aren’t going to wait for us, you know.”

“Oh, Lord,” Victoria murmured as she hurried to open the door.

The man standing on the front porch looked exactly as she’d pictured him—only worse. No, not worse, just … more. More rugged, more powerful, taller, broader, stronger, wilder. His loose khaki shorts were slung low on lean hips. His bright blue T-shirt, bearing the phrase
I SURVIVED THE RIVER RAT RACE
,
COLDWATER
,
MISSISSIPPI
hugged his wide shoulders and bulging biceps. His hair was on the long side, hanging almost to his shoulders in untamed waves of caramel brown streaked gold from the sun, and it hadn’t seen a comb in a while.

Most disturbing were his eyes, a vivid, piercing blue assessing her boldly from his lean, weather-whipped face. He was almost intimidating—until he suddenly smiled, and tiny crinkles appeared at the corners of those alarming eyes and a dimple formed at the corner of his arrogantly upturned mouth.

“So, at long last, I get to meet the infamous Victoria Driscoll.” He extended his hand, and Victoria took it automatically, acutely aware of the power in his casual grasp, the long, tanned fingers wrapping around hers.

“You must be Roan,” she said coolly, not at all sure she liked his assessment. “And I’d say that between the two of us, if anyone’s infamous, it’s you. I’m surprised you’ve even heard of me.”

“Oh, everyone in the Cullen family knows about you. Years ago we all thought you were a gold digger,
but I guess if that were true, you would have either married Amos or left for greener pastures. Can I come in?”

Victoria could only stare in openmouthed shock. The man was unforgivably rude. In the first place, Amos wasn’t exactly a prime target for a gold digger. He lived in a two-bedroom frame house in a modest neighborhood of Lubbock, Texas. He was a tenured professor at Texas Tech University, so he had some security, but he was hardly rich. In the second place, Amos was her friend and mentor, nothing more. Anyone who thought otherwise was an ignorant fool.

Well, at least Roan Cullen had admitted that his assumption was mistaken. Figuring the best defense was to ignore his tactless comment, she stood aside to let him in.

“It’s hotter than hell in here,” Roan said. “Is the AC broken?”

“It’s warm in here because Amos has a fever and he was chilled,” she said, closing the door.

“A fever?” Roan’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. “Is he okay?”

“Get in here, boy, and I’ll show you okay,” Amos called irritably from the kitchen. “Can’t stand it when people talk behind my back.”

Victoria shrugged and led the way to the kitchen. She had already made up her mind—she wouldn’t go on the road with Roan Cullen. She needed to think clearly and act sensibly while she was chasing. With Roan around, she was sure she could do neither.

“So, what’s this about a fever?” Roan asked as he strode into the kitchen to find his uncle sitting at the table, hunched over a bowl of soup.

“It’s not just a fever, it’s the cold from hell,” Amos grumbled. “And if you don’t want to catch it, you’ll keep your distance.”

“I never get sick,” Roan argued, leaning down to give the old man a hug. Amos was one of Roan’s favorite relatives. They rarely saw each other these days, and Roan wasn’t about to keep his distance.

“Amos, can I warm that soup up for you?” Victoria offered.

Roan turned his attention to the woman who’d answered the door. He had known she would be coming with them on their trip; Amos apparently never chased without her, not since his former chase partner had retired four years earlier. But Roan hadn’t expected to find her firmly entrenched in Amos’s house, playing hostess.

When she’d answered the door she’d been so cool and regal, looking down her nose at him, judging him, that he hadn’t been able to resist saying something outrageous to shake her composure—which he had. But he’d never really believed her to be after Amos’s money, not even all those years ago, when the rest of the family was all fired up about this coed Amos had become so fond of. Amos had more sense than to be taken in by a pretty face.

But Roan hadn’t been prepared for her to be
so
pretty—tall and slender, with a classic cameo face, large hazel eyes, and thick russet hair pulled into a demure braid that trailed halfway down her back. The moment he’d laid eyes on her, he’d wondered what her hair would look like loose, falling over her shoulders. Bare shoulders.

Not that she was Roan’s type. He liked women with easy smiles, the kind who flirted and teased and ultimately gave in, the kind who played hard and were willing to put up with his rather lackadaisical approach to commitment. Victoria Driscoll, he suspected, was none of those things. And yet she was intriguing, perhaps the type a staid older man would fall for.

Roan wondered. She certainly moved about the kitchen with ease, as if she were accustomed to it.

“Would you like some soup, Roan?” she asked, all politeness.

“You should try it,” Amos said. “Victoria made it herself. She’s a marvelous cook.”

“Well, in that case I’d love some. Haven’t eaten since lunch, four hours ago.” His smile was met with cool complacency. Maybe he shouldn’t have made that gold-digger crack. He’d meant only to tease her, not turn her into a permanent enemy.

“There’s beer in the fridge, and some cold cuts,” Amos said. “If I know you, you’ll want something more substantial than soup.”

“Thanks, I think I will. It was a long, hot drive from Mississippi.”

“How did the raft race go?” Amos asked. “You win?”

Roan laughed easily. “There were almost two hundred entrants. I was in the lead for a while, but then I hit a snag in some white water. The milk jugs got hung up on—”

“Milk jugs?” Victoria asked, pausing in the middle of ladling soup into a bowl.

“The rafts had to be homemade to qualify.” He located salami, bologna, ham, and cheese in the refrigerator, along with some onion rolls. With practiced efficiency he began assembling a sandwich. “I floated old tires on a base of empty milk jugs. It was a damn good design too. I would have won if I hadn’t gotten caught up on those rocks.”

“Well, you can’t win ’em all,” Amos said.

“I came in third. Won a two-hundred-dollar prize, and a documentary production company bought my film, so it wasn’t a total loss.” He took his sandwich to the table and sat down at the place Victoria had set for him. She put a steaming bowl of soup in front of him without comment.

Well, it was a cinch his rafting exploits weren’t impressing her, which was rather refreshing. He sampled the soup. “Mmm, this is great, Vicky.”

A cold wave seemed to descend on the room, and Roan knew darn well no one had turned on the air-conditioning. Everyone grew very still.

“My name’s Victoria, not Vicky,” she said, her voice crisp.

“Oh, sorry. I’ll try to remember, but nicknames just sort of pop out of my mouth. Most people like them, right, Unc?”

“I don’t,” she said.

Amos frowned disapprovingly, but Roan wasn’t sure whether his uncle was displeased with him, with Victoria, or both of them.

“So, what time do we leave tomorrow?” Roan asked, diplomatically changing the subject.

Amos laid down his spoon. “Roan, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m hanging on to life by a thread. My sinuses are on fire, my eyes are practically swelled shut, and my lungs sound like a calliope. I’m also running a hundred-and-one-degree fever, last I checked. I’m not going anywhere for at least a week.”

“You mean you’re canćeling the trip?” Roan’s disappointment was keen. Although he wouldn’t have minded a day or two to recharge his batteries, the thought of canceling the whole trip depressed him. For years he’d wanted to go storm chasing with his uncle, and this was the first time Amos had ever consented to let him come along. He might not ever get another chance to see a tornado up close and personal.

“No, not exactly. You and Victoria can go without me. She needs a chase partner and you need a guide. The arrangement should work out perfectly—provided, of course, that Victoria agrees.” Amos exchanged a meaningful look with his protégé.

Roan could have kicked himself clear to Katmandu. Now he really regretted the gold-digger comment, and he shouldn’t have called her Vicky either. His fate rested in her hands, and judging from the black looks she kept aiming his way, the prognosis wasn’t good.

“I’ll get my stuff from the car,” Roan announced decisively. He left the kitchen, but not before giving Victoria a long, almost challenging look.

She was glad to see him go. She would be relieved of his overwhelming presence for a few minutes anyway.

“You could at least be civil to the man,” Amos scolded.

“Civil? He’s lucky I didn’t ‘accidentally’ dump that soup down the front of his shirt. He called me a gold digger!”

Amos’s bushy white eyebrows drew together in an expression of incredulity. “Gold digger! Good Lord, I thought I’d laid that stupid rumor to rest years ago.”

“It’s okay,” Victoria said quickly, before the professor got all excited and worked himself into another coughing attack. “He corrected himself. Said if I was after your money, I would have married you by now or moved on.”

Amos laughed uproariously at that, prompting a series of hacking coughs anyway. “And what a catch I’d be too,” he said when he’d recovered. “Don’t worry, missy, I think Roan was just rattling your cage. He doesn’t mean any harm. You’ll take him along, won’t you?”