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He helped her into the passenger seat and slammed the door. She slumped against the leather, and even through the tinted glass, she radiated an aura that pinged around inside him, seeking a place to land.
Dangerous, that’s what she was. When was the last time he’d willingly tossed away his stay-detached rule?
Once settled behind the wheel, he slipped on his sunglasses and said, “I’ve already checked out, so where would you like me to take you? Your girlfriend’s house, the one from last night?”
She stared out the window, pointedly not looking at him. “I’m afraid it’s a little more complicated than that.”
VJ flat-handed sunglasses against her face and debated how to explain she was going to Dallas without coming across as a freeloader, or worse, a stalker.
Her only plan had died the second Kris held her and let her cry on his fifty-dollar T-shirt. How was she going to convince him to let her tag along when she had nothing to give him in return? Well, nothing other than an annoying set of calf eyes, cowardice disguised as automotive expertise and twenty-six dollars, twenty of which Kris had tipped her in the first place.
“Complicated is my specialty,” he commented mildly and drove to the motel lot exit. His graceful fingers draped over the wheel casually, as if he was so in tune with the car, it anticipated his bidding instead of relying on mere mechanical direction. “Right or left?”
She inhaled sharply and the scent of new car and fresh leather hit her like a freight train. A fitting combination for a new start.
Might as well go for broke.
“Left and then another right at the Feed and Seed. Go about five hundred miles and then another right. That’ll put me pretty close to where I want to go.”
“Ah.” He nodded sagely and slapped a palm to his chest, Pledge of Allegiance style. “A woman after my own heart. You’re running away. Why didn’t you say so?”
Because running away sounded so juvenile, especially out of his mouth.
“Am I that transparent?”
“Yeah.” That slow, sexy smile spread across his face. “Don’t worry, I like it.”
“Hmmpf. I’d rather be a woman of mystery and secrets.”
“No, you wouldn’t.” His gaze shifted to the highway and stayed there. “You just think you would. Secretive women are irritating.”
He meant someone specific. Her curiosity spiked, but the firm set of his mouth said don’t ask. So she bit her tongue and mirrored his feigned fascination with the road stretched ahead through the windshield. Little Crooked Creek fell away at a rapid pace. Good riddance.
After a while, she might miss someone or something other than Pamela Sue, Bobby Junior and Tackle. Mama’s grave. Pearl probably. The sunset against a mountain backdrop.
For now, the call of adventure and a new life drowned out whispers of the past.
Kris nodded toward the floorboard, where a broken-in black leather bag was wedged under the dash. “Find my MP3 player and pick out some music. It’s a long drive to Dallas.”
“You’re going to take me?” She’d been studiously avoiding the subject, hoping to segue back into it later. Like after it was too late to turn around.
“You’re in the car, and I’m driving to Dallas. Seems like that’s going to be the end result.”
Relief lessened the weight on her shoulders. Nine hours in the company of Kris. Nine hours in an amazing car with her Greek god in shining armor. It wasn’t nearly long enough, but far more than she deserved. “You aren’t mad?”
With a half laugh, he said, “About what? Didn’t we go through this already?”
Sinking low in the seat, she tried to make herself as small as possible. “Because I wasn’t honest with you. I practically forced you into taking on an unwanted passenger.”
After a beat of silence, he tapped the steering wheel in a staccato rhythm. “I drink coffee black, I refuse to screw the lid on the toothpaste when I’ll have to take it back off again, and no one—no one—can force me to do something I don’t want to do.” A wealth of pain and untold history underpinned the sentiments, darkening his tone. She hated being responsible for bringing back bad memories. “Now you know the three most important things about me. Next time, ask instead of making assumptions.”
Her fantasy gained dimensions and layers. And she craved more depth, more knowledge, more understanding of this extraordinary person in the next seat.
“Oh, no. You busted my deal all to pieces. I can’t worship someone who doesn’t screw the lid back on the toothpaste.” She shook her head and tsked. “That’s wrong. What if it gets lost?”
His million-dollar smile burst into place, and she intended to keep it there. It was the one repayment she could give him. Of course, it was a win-win in her book.
“Lost? I throw it away. Waste of plastic.”
“Figures.”
The craving intensified. What kind of music did he listen to? She hooked the bag and pulled it into her lap, then rifled through it, absorbing, touching. These were Kris’s personal belongings. A green toothbrush. A stick of deodorant. A brush with a black stretchy band twisted around the handle. She’d never seen him with his hair tied back and hoped she never did. His loose, shoulder-length style was nothing short of mouthwatering.
“Having trouble finding it?” he asked a touch sarcastically, as if he knew she was a heartbeat from inhaling the citrusy scent of his deodorant.
“I confess. I’m actually a reporter for a celebrity magazine doing an expose on independent film directors. And their luggage.” She was rambling. Spitting out whatever came to her mind because her fingers had closed around a small, square box with a hinged lid that every woman on the planet could identify. Blindfolded. “You caught me.”
She dropped the ring box, but her hand still stung. Why did an engagement ring in the bag of a man she’d just met put a lump in her throat? So he wasn’t engaged to Kyla yet, but obviously it was only a matter of time. Better all the way around to accept that he was completely unavailable. Much, much better. Then she could make a clean break. Wipe him from her mind once he left her in Dallas.
He glanced at her over the top of his sunglasses. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” She yanked the only electronic device from the bottom of the bag and waved it, hoping it wasn’t a newfangled garage-door opener. “Got it. Let’s see what we have here. How do I turn it on?”
“You’ve never used an MP3 player?” Amusement colored his question. “Touch the screen to wake it up.”
“It’s asleep?” Fascinated, she flipped the gizmo over and right-side up again. “Does it snore and hog all the covers, too?”
His rich laughter washed over her and she wallowed in it. He reached over, slid a fingertip across the device and colors illuminated the screen. Colors she barely registered because his arm pressed against her shoulder, sparking like a firecracker in a Coke bottle as he deftly tapped the MP3 player.
The brush of body parts was totally innocent but the pang low in her belly unleashed a flood of longing more akin to original sin.
“There’s the song list,” he offered nonchalantly. “Pick one.”
She glanced down at the screen, contracting her diaphragm until she could speak again. “I don’t know any of these artists.” Was that her voice? She cleared her throat and prayed it eliminated the huskiness. “Any Kenny Chesney or Miranda Lambert?”
Nope, still croaking like a late-night ad for a 1-900 number.
“There’s no country music on this and there’s not going to be.” He took the player from her and stuck it in the holder on the dash. Two taps later, a stringed instrument wailed through the speakers, the melody so instantly heartbreaking, it stole her breath. She’d never imagined such passion could be poured into music.
“The musician is Johannes Linstead,” he said. “Do you like it?”
“It’s so beautiful, it hurts my chest. Is it weird that it makes me feel like weeping?”
With two fingers, he slid off his sunglasses and impaled her with stormy, liquid eyes, searching her face with an immeasurable intensity. “The music makes me feel like that, too.”
She couldn’t break their locked gazes. Didn’t want to. A whole other world lived inside his eyes, a world she wanted to fall into.
“It’ll be our secret,” he whispered and snapped his attention back to the road as he obscured his eyes with the sunglasses again.
Her heart beat so fast, she was shocked it wasn’t audible. She stared at his profile. What had just happened? It had been A Charged Moment. Thrilling—for her, at least. But what did it mean?
She might be from Nowheresville but she could follow instructions. “Instead of assuming again, I’m going to ask. Why does it seem like you’re flirting with me sometimes?”
“I am.”
“Why?” Additional words, phrases, ideas escaped her. In fact, it had been a surprise her tongue worked at all.
“Why not?” He lifted a shoulder. “I like you. You’re fun. Beautiful.”
He thought she was beautiful? The jumpy crickets stampeded through her stomach.
Stuff like this didn’t happen to her. Oh, she’d had her share of boyfriends—small-town, small-minded boys who wouldn’t know romance if it bit them in their unimaginative butts.
The difference between them and this enthralling, charming man beside her was the difference between Ford and Ferrari.
But he wasn’t finished. “What does it hurt? It’s harmless and has zero calories. Besides, you’re flirting back.”
Harmless. Nothing more than sport for the beautiful people. Yes, Kristian Demetrious was exactly like his car. Smooth, exotic and his engine was equally unfathomable.
The crickets died a quick death. “Of course I’m flirting back. You’re driving. I’d hate to be dumped on the side of the road.”
He paused for a beat and didn’t laugh. “Women don’t flirt with me. They slip me room keys and follow me into the bathroom. Flirting with you is the polar opposite of that. I enjoy it. There aren’t any expectations. It’s safe.”
Now she was safe. How appealing.
She needed to throw it in reverse, distance herself, or eventually he’d drive right over her heart, flattening it like an unfortunate armadillo too transfixed by the bright lights of the freeway to see the splat coming. “Tell me about Kyla. Where did you meet her?”
He glowered, tightening the lines of his cheeks and mouth, and the expression looked wrong on him. “I don’t want to talk about Kyla.”
The reference to his glamorous soon-to-be fiancée was like a shock of icy water. The atmosphere in the car cooled and grew icicles. Fantastic. Exactly as she’d intended. Now she wasn’t thinking about that seething, charged moment. Or the sparkling weight of his arm against hers.
“Well, I don’t want to talk about Kyla, either. Tell me about your next movie.” That should be an innocuous enough subject, and she’d been dying to revisit it after seeing his entire demeanor transform upon mentioning it at Pearl’s.
“I’d rather not talk for a while.”
She flinched at the bite in his tone. “Sure. No problem.”
The less they talked, the better, because then his beyond-sexy accent wouldn’t skim down her spine and take up residence inside, heating every pore of her skin as if she’d crawled into the sun.
They barely knew each other. They were strangers soon to part ways and only thrown together because she lacked the fortitude to leave Little Crooked Creek on her own. What else could they possibly be to each other?
Road signs for Van Horn flashed by twice before Kris sighed. “Sorry. I can be a jerk.”
She waved dismissively. “Don’t apologize for not wanting me to pry into your life. I’m sure people do that all the time, and you’d like to keep some things private.”
“That’s true, but it’s not the reason I’m a jerk. It’s complicated.”
“Complicated is my specialty.”
He grinned and shot her another of those enigmatic glances over the top of his sunglasses. “Have I mentioned how much I like you?”
“Yes, but you should definitely tell me again.” Maybe she was getting better at the sport of flirting. The trick was not to let on how that kind of statement thrummed straight to the place between her thighs.
He bit his lip, contemplating. She had to avert her eyes from the sight of his white teeth sinking into flesh.
“The problem is,” he said, “Kyla’s starring in my next film, Visions of Black. I guess I’m kind of touchy about it because of the unconventional demands around the financing. Without the right backing, the project’s dead. The downside of not being affiliated with a studio.”
“Contract negotiations are shaky. I get it. Is it worth whatever your investor is demanding?”
He froze, and her hand flew to his arm before she’d realized it. She wanted to comfort him but had no idea why.
She did know one thing—Kris wasn’t and never would be a stranger. There was something between them. A recognition. A mystical draw she couldn’t ignore or pretend to have imagined.
“Is it worth it?” He exhaled and nodded slowly. “To have a chance to direct this film, which will solidify my career and put me on the A-list? Yes, it is. I’ve been busting my back for years to get this shot.”
The raw longing and aspiration carved into his expression hit her in a wave way hotter than the music. She swallowed, hard. Her fantasy imploded and shrank down to one crystalline shard of desire—that he’d look at her like that. She tucked it away before it grew too sharp.
“That’s a lot of mileage for one film.” No doubt he’d be successful, as soon as his investor was happy. “Out of curiosity, what is he asking you to do?”
A tiny muscle in his forehead jumped. “Announce that Kyla and I are engaged.”
Four
Kris could have gone at least another hundred miles without mentioning that. Next he’d be telling VJ it was all a publicity stunt, one he strongly suspected Kyla had talked Abrams into as a method to either push her way into Kris’s bed again or drive him insane. Maybe both. Kris assumed she’d split with Guy Hansen and was on the hunt for another warm, male body, but, knowing Kyla, she could have other ulterior motives. Until he figured out her agenda, it was better to stay off the subject.
Regardless of who had devised the fake engagement, he recognized the value of Kyla’s attachment to Visions and had to suck it up. Without her in the starring role and without the publicity, Abrams would pull out. Without Abrams’s experience making blockbusters, Kris’s career couldn’t move to the next level. Period.
“Oh.” As if fascinated, VJ stared out the window at the landscape dotted with lumpy cactus and heat shimmers, which she’d doubtlessly seen a million times.
VJ was at a loss for words. That was unfortunate, but the less said about Kyla and engagements, the better.
“Hungry?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No. Thanks.”
“Is that your wallet talking or your stomach?” He glanced at her, certain it was the former. He’d never met someone so determined not to accept nice gestures.
Her forehead scrunched. “Are you practicing your ESP?”
“Yeah.” He turned back to the road. “For my next trick, I’m going to levitate.”
The joke went over like his last film, with zero reaction and a lot of white knuckles. Where had all the fun and flirting gone? From the moment VJ appeared out of a swirl of dust, the awful temper he’d been in since leaving L.A. had fled and he didn’t want it to come back.
After a few minutes of silence so loud his eardrums hurt, she said, “So. Kyla’s a lucky woman. I’m sure you’ll be really happy together. How are you going to propose to her? Put the ring in a champagne glass?” Her tone was bright and saccharine-fake.
Kyla had her spooked. Inexplicably, he opened his mouth to tell her that he and Kyla had split up a while ago. But, he closed it. He valued his relationship with Jack Abrams and hoped to partner on many more films with the man. VJ probably wouldn’t tell but accidents happened and his job was to drive positive press. Not put the smile back on the face of his desert mirage. “I haven’t thought about it. I’ll probably give her the ring and ask.”
VJ gaped. “You can’t do that. It’s a proposal, not asking her to dinner at a dress-up place. She’s dreamed of it her entire life. It has to be perfect. Something she can tell your kids and grandkids over and over because it’s so outrageously romantic. You have to do better.”
