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She jerked her arm free as panic flitted up her back. Surely he hadn’t looked inside the tampon box. Her brothers wouldn’t have touched it with a ten-foot pole, and she’d been smugly certain it was the perfect hiding place.
“This is my house and so’s everything in it. Needed me a new truck. Tackle got it in El Paso today.” Her father smirked and nodded toward the rear of the house.
The room tilted as she looked out the back window. In the driveway of the detached garage sat a brand-new truck with paper plates.
“You stole my money? All of it?” Her lungs collapsed and breath whooshed out, strangling her.
“My house, so it’s my money.”
Her money was gone.
She could have opened an account at Sweetwater Bank where Aunt Mary worked after all. Then Daddy might have found out about the money but wouldn’t have been able to touch it. Hindsight.
What was she going to do? Most of the money had been Mama’s, slipped to VJ on the sly when her prognosis had turned bad. It would take at least a week to earn enough at Pearl’s to buy a bus ticket. Never mind eating or any other basic necessities. Like rent.
Numb to the bone, she blurted, “My money, so it’s my truck. Give me the keys.” She held out a palm and tried to remember what Daddy had been like before Mama died, but that man was long gone.
He guffawed. “The keys are hid good, and it’s got anti-theft, so don’t even think about hot-wiring it. Now that you see how things are gonna go, getcher butt in the kitchen and fix me something to eat.”
“No, Daddy. You’ve gone too far. Do it yourself.”
A blow knocked her to the side, almost off her feet. Tiny needles of pain swept the surface of her cheek. She’d never seen the cuff coming.
“I’m tired of your mouth, girl. While you’re in the kitchen, clean up a little, too, why don’t ya? The boys left dishes in the sink.” He fell into the recliner as if nothing had changed.
Her cheekbone began to throb, overshadowing the painful bruising on her arm by quadruple. She had to get away. Now was her chance.
She sprinted to her room, ignoring her father’s bellowing. Her body felt heavy, almost too heavy to move. Once inside her room, she threw her weight against the door. After two tries, she wedged a chair under the knob good enough to stay upright, but not good enough to hold off a drunken rage if her father had a mind to follow her.
Numb, she stumbled around the room throwing things into a bag. Lots of things, as many as it would hold, because she wasn’t coming back. She couldn’t spend a couple of nights at Pamela Sue’s house and wait until Daddy sobered up like usual.
She tore out of her waitress uniform, ripping a sleeve in the process, but it hardly mattered since she’d never wear it again. Her father had been right—she would quit her job, but not because he said so. Because she was leaving. Without glancing at them, she pulled on a T-shirt and jeans, blinking hard so the tears would stay inside.
Abandoning Mama’s collection of romance novels almost killed her, but five hundred paperbacks lined the bookshelf. Maybe someday she could come back for them or ask Bobby Junior to ship them to her, but they’d likely be thrown out before she had the money for something that expensive. She couldn’t leave behind Embrace the Rogue and slipped it into the overstuffed bag. It had been Mama’s favorite.
A crash reverberated from the other side of the door.
Quickly, she yanked the curtain aside and threw up the window. With the heel of her hand, she popped off the screen and flung a leg over the windowsill, careful not to look back at the sanctuary she’d called hers since the day she was born. Her courage was only as strong as the sting across her face and when it faded, she feared reason would return.
She had nowhere to go, no money and a broken heart.
VJ started walking toward Main and got about halfway to Pearl’s before the tears threatened again. Two deep, shuddery breaths, then another two, socked the tears away. She didn’t have the luxury of grief. Other folks made a career out of drama and hardship, but none of that nonsense paid the bills. Only firm resolve got things done.
Twenty-six dollars in tips lay folded in her pocket, a windfall on most days. The crowd had been thick, thanks to lightning-quick word of mouth about the fancy foreign car in Pearl’s parking lot.
Twenty-six dollars would barely cover a day’s worth of meals at the cheapest fast-food restaurant, if by some miracle she could hitch a ride to Van Horn anonymously. Everyone for fifty miles knew her and would tattle to Daddy before breakfast. He’d come after her for sure if that happened.
The school she’d attended for twelve years loomed ahead, ghosts of those years dancing in the weak moonlight illuminating the playground. The next building on the block was the garage, and the sight of it almost changed her mind. Lenny and Billy would only miss her at meal time, but Bobby Junior and Tackle depended on her to pitch in around the shop.
Then again, Tackle had bought the truck for Daddy. Surely he’d asked where the money had come from. Daddy could have lied, but her brother’s probable betrayal hollowed out her insides.
She passed MacIntyre’s Drugstore. No more hanging out there with Pamela Sue at the lunch counter.
The end of things would have come soon enough once the condo in Dallas was built, but that was later. This was now, and it was harder than she’d expected.
Mercifully, there were no buildings on Main past the drugstore for a quarter of a mile. She finally reached the one and only motel in Little Crooked Creek and rehearsed some lines designed to talk her way into a free room.
A flash of yellow drove everything out of her mind.
Moonlight glinted off the muy amarilla Ferrari parked under the lone streetlight. Her pulse hammered in her throat. Kris was still here. Not driving toward Dallas and Kyla, to whom he wasn’t engaged.
It was fate.
Maybe he’d give her a ride in exchange for directions. He’d defended her against her brothers. He would help her, she knew he would.
But then she’d have to explain what happened to her money and why the big hurry to get out of town. She ground her teeth. Kris didn’t need to be burdened with her soap opera. Neither did she want to lie.
What if she made it seem like she was helping him? What if something was mysteriously wrong with the car?
Oh, it won’t start? Let me look at it. Ah, here’s the problem. No, I couldn’t accept anything in return. Except maybe a ride to Dallas.
Stupid plan. It’s a Ferrari, dummy, not a Ford. What if the engine was different than the domestic ones she knew?
There was only one way to find out and what else did she have? Not money. Not choices. Here was a golden opportunity to escape Little Crooked Creek forever and start over in Dallas. Her future roommate would surely take her in a little early, allowing VJ to crash on her couch. Once she got on her feet, she’d pay Beverly back, with interest.
Holy cow, the trip to Dallas was like nine hours. Nine hours in the company of Kristian Demetrious. Five hundred and forty minutes. More, if she could stretch it out.
She peered into the interior of the car, careful not to touch the glass in case the alarm was supersonic. The dash was devoid of blinking red lights, which hopefully meant no alarm at all. She fished a metal nail file from her purse and frowned. Not nearly long enough to pop the lock from the outside. Maybe she could peel the convertible top back a little and stick the file in that way.
On a hunch, she tried the handle. The door swung open easily. Unlocked. Only the rich.
Quickly, she released the deck lid and beelined it to the rear of the car. At least she knew the engine was in the back instead of the front. But it was downright foreign, an engine for a space ship instead of for a car, but one mechanism was the same. She reached in and wiggled the ignition coil wire loose.
Now nothing would start this car without her help. She closed the deck lid with a quiet click and retrieved her bag. Now, where to wait for Kris?
Wrinkling her nose at the space next to the Dumpster, she settled onto the concrete by the ice machine and tried to relax enough to fall asleep. Not likely with the knowledge this was probably the first of many nights sleeping on the street.
This plan had to work. Had to. Heavy, humid air pressed down on her in the dark silence. Crickets chirped in the field beside the motel, but the music did nothing to take her mind off the panic rolling around in her stomach.
What if Kris wasn’t meant to be her knight in shining armor?
Three
Kris examined the engine of Kyla’s car. Nothing seemed out of place, but how would he know if it was? The Ferrari had started fine every time he’d driven it. Why had it picked now, and here, to flake out?
Penance, for the delay. That’s why. Kyla had undoubtedly cursed it, then texted him to bring it to her in Dallas, pretty please. He should have shipped the car instead of driving it. She wouldn’t have cared either way, but no. He’d driven to allow time to obsess over the inflexible Hollywood machine. Muttering slurs on Italian engineers, he yanked his phone out of his back pocket.
“Car problems, chief?” VJ’s honeyed drawl rang out from behind him.
He grinned, strangely elated, and twisted to greet her. Whatever he’d been about to say died in his throat.
With a succinct curse, he ran a thumb over the welt on her upper cheek. “What happened to your face?”
She flinched and turned away, but he hooked a finger under her chin and guided her face into the sunlight. The injury wasn’t bad enough to need medical attention but quick-burning rage flared up behind his rib cage nonetheless.
“Who did that to you?” he demanded. “One of your brothers?”
She better start naming names really fast before he tore this town apart, redneck by redneck, until someone else spilled. VJ was small, so small. How could anyone strike her with force hard enough to bruise?
“Nobody. I tripped.” She shifted her gaze to the ground and pulled her chin from his fingers. “It was dark.”
“Right.”
The maids rearranged the furniture again, my darling, his mother used to say. Regardless of the continent, the excuses were equally as ineffective, as if he was both blind and stupid. This time, he wasn’t a scared kid, hiding in his room, creating stories in his head where he controlled what the characters did and it all turned out happy in the end.
Fury curled his hands into fists. He’d never been able to help his mother, distancing himself further and further from a powerless situation. Distancing himself from the rage, the only defense he had against turning into his father.
His parents had been madly, passionately in love once upon a time and their relationship had degenerated into ugliness Kris refused to duplicate. So now he employed strict compensation mechanisms: avoiding confrontation, avoiding serious relationships and staying detached. Women got sick of it fast, which he accepted. Maybe even encouraged. Kyla had been no exception.
Now, it was too late to disengage and even he wasn’t good enough to pretend indifference. VJ needed his help. Like it or not, his role in this had a second act.
“Really,” she said, refusing to meet his eyes. “It was an accident. Can I help you with the car?”
“An accident.” He crossed his arms and stared down at her. “What did you trip over?”
“Uh, the couch.”
He nodded to the ugly blotch on her arm, which wrapped around her biceps in the shape of a hand, with half-moon cuts at the top of the purple fingers. “Did the couch have hands with fingernails?”
Her face crumpled, and he spit out a curse. Panicked, he enfolded her into his arms, determined to do something, anything to help.
Then he remembered VJ barely knew him. She’d smack him with her bag for being so familiar.
But she didn’t. Instead she snuggled into his chest, sobbing. Her head fit into the hollow of his breastbone as if it had been shaped for her, and VJ’s slight frame kick-started a fiercely possessive, protective instinct. He tightened his arms and inhaled the coconut scent of her warm cinnamon-colored hair.
After a minute, the bawling stopped. She wiggled away and took a deep breath. Her face was mottled and wet. She swiped at it with the hem of her giant T-shirt, this one with a cracked emblem for Tres Hombres Automotive Distributing, and looked up. “I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from.”
“I do,” he said grimly. “You’ve had a rough night, which wasn’t helped by sleeping outside. Let me take you somewhere, as long as it’s not back to whoever hit you.”
“I didn’t sleep outside,” she protested. “I’m on my way to work. That’s the only reason I’m out this early.”
“You have a concrete-patterned print down the side of your face. The other side,” he clarified as she tentatively touched the bruises. She obviously had no clue how much practice he had in seeing through a woman’s lies. Normally, he’d be infuriated with her attempt at deception, but instead, the urge to take action, to fix things for her, unfolded.
“Get in the car.” He swore, colorfully, but mindful enough of the offensive content to do it in Greek. “I forgot. Something’s wrong with the car. Can you give me the number to your garage?”
Out of nowhere, she burst into tears again.
He rubbed her shoulder and said the first thing that came to mind, “I’m sorry. That wasn’t a dig at your mechanical skills. I’d love it if you’d look at my car. Please.”
“Don’t apologize,” she grumbled, sniffling. “That only makes it worse.”
“Um, this seems to be the sole situation where it’s wrong for a guy to apologize. Can you possibly explain what wouldn’t be wrong to say?”
Without a word, she skirted him and leaned into the engine bay. With a couple of skillful twists, she reattached a loose wire he hadn’t noticed and she mumbled, “I disconnected it last night. Try it now.”
Speechless, he slid into the driver’s seat and pushed the start button. With a meaty roar, the engine sprang to life. The RPM needle flicked back and forth with each nudge of the accelerator.
He vaulted out of the seat and rounded the back end before she fled.
“Now get in the car.”
“I can’t.” Misery pulled at her expression. “This is all wrong. I’m sorry. I had a stupid plan to trade fixing your car for a ride, but it wouldn’t have needed fixing if I hadn’t sabotaged it. Then you had to be all nice and wonderful and understanding about my…” She waved a flustered hand at her bruises. “Problems. I’m a terrible person, and I can’t take advantage of you.”
Kris bit his lip so the bubble of laughter wouldn’t burst out. “Let me get this straight. You can’t accept a ride because you don’t want to take advantage of me.”
“Your hospitality,” she amended quickly. “I don’t want to take advantage of your hospitality. Or take advantage in any other way. Not that you’re repulsive or anything. I mean, I would take advantage if I had the opportunity. You’re totally hot.” She hissed out a little moan, and he yearned to hear it again. “That didn’t come out right. Can I crawl in a hole now?”
“No.” He crossed his arms and leaned a hip on the side panel. Was it terrible to be charmed by how negotiating a simple ride tore her up? “It’s too late. You’ve already admitted you can’t be trusted with my virtue. Whatever will I do?”
She glared at him but then her expression wavered. “I do have a reputation in the greater Little Crooked Creek area. Mothers have been known to lock up their sons when they see me coming.”
Her humor and winsome self-deprecation was back, loosening the bands around his lungs. “Well, my mother is six thousand miles away so I guess I’ll have to risk it. Let’s try this. I’ll forgive you for sabotaging the car if you’ll forgive me for not believing you tripped.” Smoothly, he captured her hand and led her to the passenger side. He opened the door. “Shall we?”
She didn’t climb in. Staring at their joined hands, she said, “Yesterday morning you were blissfully unaware I existed. Why do you want to get mixed up in this?”
A fair question, but the wrong one. His involvement had begun the moment she pulled off the highway and ensnared him, forcing him into the action.
A better question was how long he’d stay involved.
“Is someone going to come after me with a shotgun?”
“I doubt it.” She snorted out a laugh. “Bobby Junior and Tackle might consider it, but they’re too busy. The cretins…sorry. My other brothers would have to notice I was gone first.”
“What about your father?”
Shadows sprang into her eyes and her grip tightened. He had his name.
“I honestly can’t say what Daddy would do. That’s the best reason of all for you to forget about me and drive away as fast as you can.”
“You’ve obviously mistaken me for someone without a conscience. I couldn’t sleep at night if I did that. Get in the car, VJ.”
“How can you be real?” She studied his face, the same as she had last night, as if looking for the answers to her deepest questions. “It’s like I dreamed up the perfect man and poof, here you are.”
It should be a crime to be that naive. He dropped her hand. “I’m far from perfect. If you get in the car, you’ll doubtlessly find out I’m not always a fun date. Don’t turn me into some altruistic saint because I’m offering you a ride.”
She hesitated, then nodded once. “Okay. I’ll take the ride, but I’m allowed to worship you in secret or no deal.”
The bruising on her face stood out in sharp relief against her fragile skin yet when the corners of her mouth flipped up in a small smile, he couldn’t help but smile, too. “How could I turn that down?”
