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He refused to feel guilty over turning down yet another risk to his daughter’s well-being. As Mariah focused her attention on Jess and his bowls of sugar, Rafe peered closer at the Doppler image that appeared on the screen.
These past three days, they’d chased storms over western Texas and into Oklahoma, making their way to Jeremy’s home base, a rundown farmhouse near the cafе. Now chances looked ripe for late-afternoon storms. They needed to check the data, try to narrow their target area.
But the forecast failed to hold his attention when Jess giggled and Mariah laughed; an unaffected laugh that told him she’d momentarily forgotten her mission—namely him. He watched a packet of sugar being exchanged from Jess’s small hand to Mariah’s pretty crimson-polished fingers.
“The National Weather Service just issued a storm watch extending from central Oklahoma up into south central Nebraska. North central Kansas is ranked a high-risk zone.” Jeremy grinned as he drawled out the report, his dark eyes lit with excitement, as if he was sitting in paradise instead of Tornado Alley’s hot zone.
Rafe knew that for Jeremy, chase fever, which struck before the primary chase season of mid-April to mid-June, was a permanent condition. He was as close to being an outlaw chaser as Rafe was far from it since the birth of his child. Having a daughter had changed Rafe’s approach to his work for the better. Until lately…
Rafe knew his photos had made a difference in the study of storms that spawned killer tornadoes. That had been the purpose of his career. But the chase had taken on a different meaning since Ann’s death. He was taking risks he didn’t normally take, aware that each storm he “captured” on film gave Sunny a better understanding of the tornado that had claimed her mother’s life, helping Sunny to cope with her loss and her resulting fear of storms.
Mariah shot a furtive glance over her shoulder, no doubt sensing a story in the air. He kept his voice low. “We’re within striking distance if we leave now.”
Their fellow chasers, two impatient young college men aiming for careers in meteorology, and Gus, an old farmer who’d served as a weather spotter for years, had already scooted back their chairs. The college boys left in a whirlwind of khaki, not about to miss any action. Gus planned to go home and warn his wife of fifty years; she liked to tag along when he chased.
Jeremy moved into action, deftly disassembling his equipment. At the counter, Mariah dug bills out of her purse, tucking a twenty under a corner of the untouched plate Trixie had brought her. She slipped a dollar to Jess, and Rafe smiled reluctantly. But when Mariah’s gaze met his, he pursed his lips, straightening from the table. “The dryline looks to merge right on top of Highway 281.”
Jeremy’s eyes gleamed as he rose. “We should drive right into the son of a gun.”
“Let’s go.” Rafe was grimly aware of Mariah hitching her purse over her shoulder, scooting her small butt off the stool, ready to chase him down as surely as he’d chase a tornado.
Jeremy called out to Trixie, “We’ve got weather coming this afternoon. You and Jess be ready to take shelter.”
“I know what to do,” Trixie shot back at him.
With no doubt that Trixie would look after Mariah if need be, Rafe nudged Jeremy out of a stare-down with the stubborn cafе owner. Jeremy would have better luck facing down a tornado. As for himself, he wasn’t going to get caught face-to-face with pretty Mariah again.
He reached the door first, pulling it open. Jeremy pushed through with his equipment, the competitive edge still there, no matter that they were partners, gathering photos for a stock photography agency. Rafe followed him out, digging keys from his pocket, exchanging a round of “keep in touch” and “watch your backside.” They’d each find their own route, seeking storms based on their own forecasting quirks, converging later in the vicinity of the largest storm.
Jeremy climbed in a battered black pickup that often served as a second home. Rafe curled his hand around the chrome handle of his truck’s door, adrenaline kicking in. A strong jet stream moved this storm. He wasn’t going home tonight without “capturing” a tornado on film for his daughter.
“Wait!”
Impatient, he glanced back all the same when Mariah called out from the cafе door. She jogged toward him, gravel scarring her leather heels, her purse dangling by its strap from her hand. He grimaced. Anything for the story.
In a sense, he understood; he’d reached the point where he would do almost anything for a picture. Since she’d failed to win his cooperation, he suspected Mariah would resort to the ultimate threat, the way they all did, warning him that she would write her own version of his personal past if he didn’t reveal the facts.
The sun-heated chrome burned hot against his palm, the need to protect his daughter churning through him. Jeremy gunned his pickup, fishtailing by with a grin and raising a cloud of gravel dust. Rafe muttered a curse and yanked open the truck door. He wasn’t waiting around—
He drew up short, Mariah suddenly wedged between his hip and the truck seat, blocking his slide in. She squinted up at him, the sky still a deceptive baby blue—kind of like her innocent eyes.
He braced himself for the threat, or maybe even a bribe.
But her gaze turned dark and desperate, her voice low and gritty as she told him, “If I don’t get this story, I’ll be fired.”
Chapter Two
Time hung suspended on the hot, dusty air between them, Rafe weighing the consequences of physically moving Mariah from his path so he could climb into his truck to chase a storm he instinctively knew would be less threatening.
A light, sweet scent lifted from her skin, wafting through the heat and the grit. With his next breath, he knew the consequences would be high. He kept his hands to himself, determined to turn down her request for his time—and his story.
But the refusal wouldn’t come. He kept picturing her inside the cafе, giving Jess a dollar, tipping Trixie a twenty for her trouble, all the while aware she’d just lost the interview that would save her job. Even knowing the threat posed by the desperation in her eyes, he couldn’t bring himself to turn her away.
“All right, get in. But I’m not promising anything.”
She turned in the small space between them, tossing her purse on the truck seat. Rafe sucked in a breath, leaning back in a halfhearted effort to give her more room. Then she was pressing her hand to his chest, her bright crimson nails seeming to burn through his drab field shirt.
“I’ll be right back—I have to get my things.”
She edged by with a brush of curls and silk and curves. Rafe exhaled, bracing his free hand atop the truck.
A chase required precision forecasting and an eye to the elements. Only the merging of specific atmospheric elements and events at the same time could form the kind of storms that produced tornadoes. And only perfect timing on his part would put him in the right location for a photograph.
Mariah promised to thoroughly distract him.
Even now, she leaned inside her rental coupe, her flirty shorts hiked up her silk covered thighs. Rafe grimaced. Who would have thought a journalist would be the one to stir his hormones back to life?
She straightened, her arms filled with electronic gear—a laptop, a tape recorder, a cell phone. The lady meant business, he realized grimly. He hauled himself into the truck, her little black purse occupying the passenger seat. He ought to toss it out and drive off. As she started over, Mariah’s wary gaze met his, as if she suspected he might do just that.
Then it was too late. She deposited her gear atop her purse, scrambling in with a flash of leg. Rafe thrust her things in back with his equipment. Buckling her seat belt, she said breathlessly, “Ready.”
Gravel sprayed from beneath the truck’s wheels as he shot out of the parking lot.
Mariah clutched at the dash, disturbing neatly rolled maps, earning a frown from Rafe. She straightened them, sinking into the bucket seat.
At least he drove reasonably near the speed limit. Panning the endless blue sky for clouds, her focus suddenly narrowed. On the passenger side, tape had been placed in a “X” over a star cracked into the bug-splattered windshield. Dents riddled the hood. Hail? she wondered. What kind of storm produced hail large enough to cause that much damage? An image of the truck’s mud-crusted wheel wells registered in her mind. Considering Rafe’s reputation for risk taking, joining him on a chase seemed foolish in retrospect.
But she had a job at stake.
Putting herself at ease the best way she knew how, she perused the truck’s interior. Video camera mounted on the dash, radios, scanners, even a TV monitor. She peered between the seats. He’d apparently gutted the back for storage.
Awareness tingled through her, triggered by an earthy scent she recognized as Rafe’s. His shirtsleeve grazed her cheek; his body heat warmed her. A glance revealed the clench of his stubbled jaw. Unfamiliar as she was with meteorology, Mariah recognized the charged atmosphere between them. She eased back into her seat.
And she proceeded to grill him on his interesting array of equipment, right down to the cell phone she knew he carried in his pocket.
“So, you’re saying your cell phone system interfaces with your laptop for on-road reports?”
“That’s right.”
A man of few words. “What about that odd-looking instrument mounted outside? Not the antennas, but the staff with the three little cups attached?”
“The anemometer. Measures wind speed.”
She attempted a closer look out the window, pushing at the creeping hem of her shorts. “How does it work? Do the cups rotate—”
“Yes. They do. Just…sit back. I need to…listen to the radio for NWS reports.”
More curious than apprehensive now, Mariah caught her lip. Then she asked, “What’s NWS?”
“The National Weather Service. Look, this isn’t Tornado Tours.”
“They give tours to see tornadoes?”
“That’s it! No more questions. Just…study the map.”
He thrust “Kansas” into her lap. Mariah slumped in the seat, chastened by his tone. She’d bet Stormy “Charisma” Taylor didn’t pad his income giving tours.
He’d apparently meant it when he said no promises. Well, he’d underestimated her determination. She was part of this chase, no matter how he tried to shut her out. Before the day was over, he’d be so convinced of her sincerity regarding his absurd career, he’d be begging her to write the feature.
But concentrating on the map she spread over her lap quickly proved unnecessary; how much expertise did it require to drive straight up 281? And watching the sky seemed pointless when there wasn’t a cloud in sight. Chasing storms apparently involved a lot of driving in perfectly lovely weather. Mariah stifled a yawn, wondering if his reputation, like that of so many famed personalities, was more fiction than fact.
When he finally spotted a storm, she supposed he would stop and wait for a tornado to form in the distance, then take a picture. After all, this wasn’t the movies. She’d seen news footage of what happened to fools with video cameras who got too close to storms. You didn’t drive right up to a tornado and take photographs in real life. That was what zoom lenses were created for.
Mariah absently folded the edge of the map with her fingers, only to smooth it when she caught Rafe’s frown. Sighing, she slid farther down in the seat, heedless of her tidy bun. As she gazed through the windshield, past the taped-over crack, the clear line of the horizon blurred. Even in the company of a handsome man, chasing storms was actually quite boring….
Mariah stirred in the warm cocoon of her blanket, breathing deeply of a fragrance she’d come to savor, an earthy scent that triggered a basic need deep within her—
She stilled, hiding behind lowered lashes. She wasn’t in bed. This wasn’t her blanket she’d just curled her fingers into, a button poking into her palm. The heat encompassing her came from the body invading her space. And the earthy scent she breathed wasn’t fragrance, it was Rafe.
Mariah blinked and gazed into Rafe’s startled eyes.
He leaned over her, perilously near, his weight braced on his hand atop the seat, the tail of his field shirt grazing her silk-covered knees. The heat of him seemed to press upon her, intensified by the glow that came into his eyes. The glow deepened to a burn and expectation shivered through her. He was going to kiss her….
Mariah closed her eyes as he settled his mouth over hers, a soft touch that reached deep. With the rasp of his whiskery jaw and the warmth of his breath on her skin, longing rose within her, had her pressing her lips against his. A kaleidoscope of color whirled behind her closed lids, his kiss stealing her breath, that same mix of awe and apprehension she’d experienced facing the storm spinning through her. Helpless, she felt her heart race as he blew her away with his kiss.
His mouth left hers, his shirt tugging against her clenched fingers. Mariah opened her eyes, her pulse pounding as he hovered over her. Yearning speared through her. She realized now the extent to which she’d neglected her sexual side in her quest for a career.
Rafe’s breath rushed out. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
Her face burned. She let go of his shirt. “Neither did I. Let’s just forget it happened.”
“Deal.”
Deal? Mariah curled her hand in a fist. Maybe he’d like her to sign a contract, too?
“I need my camera.” He pressed close again, reaching past her to open a cupboard in the back of the truck. She suffered the near choke hold of his muscled arm, his dusty shirt falling across her face. Settling into his seat, he adjusted the settings on a still camera. “I have to scout out a place to shoot from.”
He climbed out of the truck, shut the door and left her frowning after him, still feeling the effects of a kiss he’d already put behind him.
Well, she was as willing as he to ignore the kiss he’d stolen. She was especially willing to overlook the fact that she’d kissed him back.
Locating a clock among his myriad gadgets, she realized she’d wasted almost two hours sleeping. Kissing.
At some point, he’d left the highway for a northbound gravel road. Getting out to stand on the grassy shoulder, she noticed “Kansas” was no longer spread over her lap, the map rolled neatly on the dash once more. Rafe must have slipped it from her hands while she was asleep.
Recalling the startled look in his eyes, she realized he hadn’t intended to wake her at all.
She gritted her teeth. He hadn’t intended to wake her, but he’d been willing to kiss her when she did.
Stiffening her travel-weary legs, she trudged to the back of the truck, where Rafe was in the process of unlocking the hatchback. She gave him a lethal glare. “You could have wakened me.”
Then she ducked as he raised the door.
“Sorry. I’m kind of busy right now.” He pulled out a tripod with a video camera mounted on top. Hefting it to his shoulder, he lowered the hatch, brushing by her to hurry up the roadside slope.
Mariah hiked after him. Dry weeds tugged at her sheer stockings. Silk stockings. She wondered if they were an accountable expense.
Rafe stationed the tripod halfway up the knoll, fiddling with the video camera. Curiosity overrode her pique. Brushing back wispy curls the breeze blew across her cheek, she queried, “What, exactly, are you doing?”
He straightened from behind the camera and gave her a pointed look. But she couldn’t help it. Her mother claimed she’d been born asking questions.
“I’m trying to align the viewfinder. Could you step out of the way, please?”
“I don’t see what the rush is.” She tilted her face to the sky, a scattering of fluffy white clouds floating by.
He stepped from behind the camera, looming over her for a moment during which his height was imprinted on her mind. Then he grasped her by the shoulders and turned her to face the northern sky. “In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a storm moving by.”
For a moment she didn’t notice; there was only the heat of his strong hands cupping her shoulders, obliterating even the perpetual Kansas wind in her face. All she could think was that she wanted him to kiss her again. The way his hands lingered told her he wanted it, too.
A strong sense of self-preservation made her focus intently on the distant storm. Though acutely aware when he took his hands from her, she drew a breath of surprise at the panorama building before her.
“Oh my.” A few miles to the north an explosion of pure white cloud billowed in high puffed layers. Beneath the mass, varying shades from greenish-gray to dark blue, from glistening white to black, extended from the northeast reaches to the southwest edges of the storm. “It’s beautiful.”
“I wouldn’t mind getting a picture of it,” Rafe said dryly. She faced him with a determination meant to convey she was here to stay. He’d already raised his still camera, shooting away. Seemingly at her.
Mariah moved hastily out of range, conscious of her windblown hair, wrinkled clothes and run stockings. There was obviously no use in talking to him now. He fired off that camera like an automatic weapon, going through a roll of film in less than a minute, trading it for a fresh roll from his pocket, reloading and shooting again.
The storm was indeed a magnificent sight moving across the prairie, more imposing than when viewed from the confines of the city. Yet she felt that same safe feeling she’d felt as a child, watching the rain from the shelter of her parents’ front porch. With Rafe standing between her and the approaching front, broad-shouldered and enlightened to any danger, it was easy to understand where that sense of security came from.
Her untrained eye began to distinguish the storm darkening as it traveled in a northeasterly direction. Questions gathered in her mind as he captured the scene on film. But he seemed to have forgotten she was there.
He already regretted her presence; rather than interrupt him, Mariah took a moment to survey her surroundings. Behind her, the land rose, leveling off at a barbed-wire fence. Cropped pastures lined the roadsides, and she wondered if there were cows grazing up there. Or maybe even a horse. Like most females, she was drawn by the equine mystique.
Lightning crackled in the distance. Mariah flinched, glancing over her shoulder. Rafe’s back was to her, his camera aimed at the flashes that streaked the sky. If she found a horse and rode away, he wouldn’t notice until he ran out of film.
Calmed by his lack of alarm, she climbed to the top of the knoll and curled her hands around the fence.
Disappointment swept through her. Not a horse in sight. Not even a cow, though evidence of them lay in pungent dried chips on the ground.
The breeze seemed stronger at the top of the slope and felt good on her skin after the climb. Goose bumps pricked her arms, tingled her scalp—
Rafe reached around her, closing his hands overtop of hers, prying her fingers from the wire. Before she could protest, he swung her away from the fence. Jagged bolts dropped from the clouds, effectively closing the miles between them and the storm. Thunder reverberated, but failed to drown out his curse—likely over the picture he’d just missed. He ushered her down the weedy slope to where he’d set up the video camera, and her temper flared with each step she took.
He faced her abruptly, grasping her arms as if tempted to shake some sense into her. “Are you crazy? If lightning strikes that wire, even milesaway, you might as well grab hold of a power line! Always keep your distance from a fence in a storm.”
“Well, excuse me. But I don’t chase storms for a living.”
“I know. Your mother sends you to the basement.”
