THE BRIDE WORE BLUE JEANS

by Mary Anne Wilson

  Leaving the Corvette idling, he jumped out and went to the other car. From what he could see, the car was maybe a mid-seventies' compact with oxidized blue paint with primer on the back fender. It had New Mexico plates and it was hopelessly burrowed into the soft bank of a three-foot deep ditch at a thirty-degree angle.

  Quint eased down into the side of the ditch, using the side of the car for support, raising more dust in the process. He grabbed for the driver's door handle to pull himself close enough to look through the closed window. Inside, the lone occupant, a woman with brilliant auburn hair, was slumped against the steering wheel. She wasn't moving at all.

  He pulled on the door handle repeatedly, but all he accomplished was to send a shooting pain up his arm and into his shoulder. All the while, he never took his eyes off of the unconscious woman in the car.

  Finally in frustration he hit the window with the heel of his hand. "Hey! Hey!" he shouted over the constant blaring of the horn. He struck the glass again and again, and just when he was about to go around to the passenger side to try the door there, he saw the woman stir.

  Slowly, she eased back. The horn stopped immediately, then she raised a shaky hand to her forehead, tangling her slender fingers in the coppery curls. Quint struck the window again. "Hey, lady!" he called.

  The woman turned, and Quint finally saw her face. Her features were vaguely blurred by the failing light, but she looked pale and delicate, with finely boned features, a dusting of freckles across a straight nose and full lips touched by pale pink color.

  A deep red trickle of blood stained her temple and smeared onto her cheek where she'd touched herself; the source was a small gash near her hairline by her left temple. She stared at him with eyes that looked almost emerald in the dim light.

  "Open the window," he shouted, making a circular cranking motion with his hand.

  She closed her eyes for a fleeting moment, then as she opened them again, she looked down at her hand stained with her own blood on the tips of her fingers. Her skin paled even more, and Quint could see her hand start to tremble.

  "The window," he yelled, banging on the glass again as he dropped to his haunches by the car. "Roll it down."

  She flinched at the noise he made, then she turned and awkwardly reached toward the door with her blood-stained hand. Slowly, the window was lowered and she looked up at him, her eyes vague and barely focused.

  Quint gripped the door frame and leaned forward, speaking quickly to keep her from going any further into shock than she was now. "Just take it easy. The door's stuck, but I'll get you out the other side."

  She touched her tongue to her pale lips and asked in a husky whisper, "My car … is it ruined?"

  She was definitely in shock to be worried about an old junk heap like this. "It's down for the count, at least until you can get a tow truck out here."

  She grimaced and slowly sank back against the seat, muttering, "Damn, damn, damn. This can't be happening."

  "I know the feeling," Quint muttered.

  She turned her head to look at Quint. "Where am I?"

  Oh, God, amnesia, too? Things were going from bad to worse here. "Oklahoma."

  She frowned, finely arched eyebrows tugging together as her face actually started to regain some color. "I meant the road. What road?"

  "The state highway. I don't know the number. You just pulled out in front of me and—"

  "Damn," she muttered again, and moved abruptly with more speed than Quint would have guessed she could muster. She reached for the door inside, frowned as she jerked her hand up, and said, "It doesn't open from the outside," as the door swung outward.

  Quint moved back to keep from being hit by the door and grabbed at the top of it to keep from stumbling backward into the dust. Before he could do anything else, the woman grasped the car frame with one hand and braced herself on the seat with the other. In the next instant, she'd levered herself out of the car and was steadying herself not more than two feet in front of him.

  She was taller than he would have guessed at first glance, maybe five feet eight inches or so, with a slender figure shown to full advantage by worn jeans that hugged long legs and softly swelling hips. A white shirt had been partially buttoned, then knotted at her middle, but didn't quite hide the hint of something frilly under it.

  Her lightly tanned skin was touched by a sheen of moisture from the unrelenting heat, and loose strands of coppery hair clung at her cheeks and throat. As he heard her take a deep, shaky breath, he looked up and he saw her high breasts test the soft fabric of her top.

  With a suddenness that almost made him reel, Quint was totally aware of how close the woman was to him – and how incredibly potent that closeness was. She was nothing like the women he used to find attractive, dark, busty and petite. She was none of those things, but his body didn't seem to care.

  God, two years in prison had extracted a high price from him, snatching away his freedom and a part of his life, but there had been another toll. Although there hadn't been any particular woman in Quint's life for a very long time … if ever, he faced something he'd pushed away for two years while he was lost in a world of coldness and pain. He missed touching softness and heat. He missed that unique sensation of being totally lost in another human being.

  He'd heard about men getting out of prison and heading straight for a whorehouse, but he'd never thought about it. He'd never been a man to have a woman just to have one. Not any more than he'd ever been a man to find someone and settle in for the long haul. But right now he knew how much he'd missed and ached from the lack of a woman's touch.

  This woman in front of him seemed the embodiment of everything he'd needed for what seemed an eternity. The sight of her and the closeness of her was bringing an unexpected response in him that was almost embarrassing.

  He shook off the feeling and got back to the business at hand. "Stay here and I'll go see if I can find someone to help." He made his way up the side of the ditch and stepped out onto the shimmering asphalt.

  Before he could do more than look up and down the deserted road, he heard the woman making her way up the bank behind him. When he turned, he almost bumped into her. In a flashing second, she was reaching out to him, and he had her by both hands to keep her from falling backward into the ditch.

  As unpremeditated as the contact was, it seemed to culminate what had started when she'd first stood in front of him. In a single heartbeat he could feel every inch of skin touching skin, and it formed a heat that seared into him. The light scent of blossoms mixed with a hint of something he knew he'd dreamed about in prison. It was the sweetness that was unique to a woman, and its presence was almost unbearable.

  Quickly, he spun to his right, and in the process pulled her up and clear of the ditch. Then she was standing not more than five inches from him, their hands still tangled and, in self-defense it seemed, he jerked back and broke the contact cleanly and quickly.

  "I'll go and find a phone," he said, his voice sounding alien to his own ears.

  He turned from the sight of her, but when he started for the Corvette, she was there, running around to stand in front of him and block his retreat. Short of colliding with her, he had to stop in his tracks.

  "You're not leaving me here," she said in a breathless voice, her eyes darting past him to the road behind them. When she looked back at him, she said, "You can't leave me."

  The softness of the coming summer evening cast shadows at her cheeks and throat and darkened the bloody smear at her cut. "I'm going for help," he said.

  She shook her head sharply, making her rich curls dance around her pale face. "No," she said as she folded her arms under her breasts. "You don't understand. I can't stay here."

  He tucked the tips of his fingers in the pockets of his jeans when the urge to touch her exploded in him. There was no way he was going to brush the curls back from her damp skin, or try to blot at the blood on her forehead. "Yes, you can. I told you, I'd get help."

  She glanced bac
k at his car idling a few feet from them. "You ran me off the road."

  "After you pulled out in front of me."

  "I'm not going to argue with you," she muttered and turned abruptly to head for the passenger side of the Corvette.

  Quint went after her, catching up with her as she reached for the door handle. He stopped her by grabbing her upper arm and wished he hadn't. Damn it, he was one raw nerve and she was running over it in a horribly basic way. He drew back as she turned to look at him and he balled his hand into a fist.

  "Okay, okay," she said. "I'll pay you. All right?"

  "I'm not a taxi service."

  She came closer and faced him toe-to-toe, her soft scent almost overwhelming. "Listen to me and try to concentrate on the facts. You ran me off the road and I need to be someplace away from here. All I'm asking is for you to take me to the next town so I can do what I need to do."

  "Lady, back off," he muttered.

  Anger flared in the green depths of her eyes. "Any decent person would do that much for me, since my car's stuck and probably wouldn't start even if I could get it out of the ditch." She held his gaze. "And you put it there."

  It was gradually getting to him that this woman, despite her strong stand, was desperate in some way. God knew he was a sucker for a woman in trouble, he thought bitterly. The hairs at the back of his neck began to tingle in a way that he understood all too well. She was in some kind of trouble, he just knew it.

  He'd been here before, helping someone he shouldn't have helped, and he wasn't going to be here again. He didn't want any part of it.

  "Maybe I'm not decent," he murmured.

  He saw a flash of something cross her face, maybe a touch of uncertainty, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. And she was back on track. "As long as you take me to the next town, your moral character doesn't mean a thing one way or the other."

  Yes, she was desperate, desperate enough to plunge headlong into a situation that could have been dangerous for her. She was willing to get into his car without knowing anything about him. "It should matter."

  She looked past him down the road, then when her gaze met his again, she changed tactics. She held up one hand in a gesture of surrender. "Okay, okay, you're right. I may be taking a chance, but I don't think you're some crazy who just made a grand escape from an asylum or from jail."

  Her words were too close to the truth, and they made Quint uncomfortable. "Why not?"

  "A person like that would have passed by laughing maniacally, or they would have stopped and shot me. You didn't do either."

  "Don't tempt me," he muttered.

  She only looked a bit flustered for a moment before she regrouped. "Okay, you stopped. You got me out of the car."

  "I didn't really have a choice."

  She regarded him for a long moment, then changed tactics once more. She shrugged sharply. "All right. Forget it. I don't have time for this. I'll walk." He had to give her the fact that she didn't waste her time on a ploy that wasn't working. But this was ridiculous. "You can't do that."

  "Why not?"

  "It's too hot to walk, and God knows how far the next town is."

  "Twenty miles."

  "You're from around here?"

  She evaded the question. "It's twenty miles."

  "Then it's going to take you all night."

  She folded her arms on her breasts again and he averted his eyes from the suggestion of cleavage it produced at the neckline of her shirt. "Then it's up to you. Give me a ride."

  Every man for himself – and every woman for herself. He didn't need this. He didn't want this, but that didn't stop him from foolishly asking, "What's going on with you?"

  She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then her lush dark lashes swept low, veiling her green gaze. Then she did it again. She changed directions in a flash, but this time she did it literally. She walked past Quint in the direction of her disabled car.

  When she half slid, half walked down the side of the ditch to get to the vehicle, he was shocked. She was actually going to do what he'd suggested in the first place and wait here for him to get help. But that delusional thought lasted for as long as it took her to reach inside, then reappear with a beat-up old suitcase in one hand, a purse in the other.

  He stood very still, watching her make her way back up the bank, using the side of her car for leverage. When she stepped out onto the road, she dropped the suitcase at her feet and something white fell from it into the dirt. He stood very still, wondering what he'd have to do to make her stay right here so he could send someone back to help her. That way he'd do the right thing, be on his way and never have to lay eyes on her.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  « ^ »

  Quint watched her take a deep breath, then loop the strap of the purse over her shoulder and pick up her suitcase. She ignored whatever had fallen from the suitcase and headed back toward him, her eyes down. She reached him – then kept right on going.

  She was leaving. Walking away down the road. He felt instant relief for a moment, then uneasiness as he watched her slowly making her way down the road, struggling slightly with her beat-up suitcase. Dammit, she was infuriating. "Hey, what do you think you're doing?" he yelled after her.

  "Walking," she called without turning around.

  "Come on, you can't do that," he shouted.

  He saw her shrug, but she didn't stop. She kept going, her hair ruffled by the hot air, her slender legs covering the distance with a speed that surprised him. But when finally she stopped, brushed at her hair with her free hand, then regripped her suitcase and started off again, he'd had enough.

  He looked around, then went back to retrieve what had fallen off her suitcase. When he bent to pick it up off the ground, he saw it was a wreath of white silk roses that were partially crushed and soiled by the dust. He looked away from the roses to the woman who was a good two hundred feet down the road now. He jogged to the car, got in and pushed the crumpled roses into the side pocket on the door before he shifted into gear. He started down the road and, despite his better judgment telling him to drive right on past her and never look back, he found himself slowing as he pulled up beside her.

  "This is stupid," he called to her.

  She cast him a cutting glance, then lifted her chin a bit, never broke stride and didn't say a thing. He kept beside her, driving at a crawl with his right arm around the back of the passenger seat. He couldn't help but notice the way her top was beginning to cling to her damp shoulders.

  "All right. All right," he said when he knew he didn't have a choice. "Get in."

  She stopped immediately and turned. "How far will you take me?"

  "To the next town. That's where you wanted to go, isn't it?"

  "That'll do," she said as she approached the car.

  Quint got out of the car and went around to pop the trunk, but before he could go to get her suitcase, she was right beside him, tossing her bag into the trunk on top of his things. Then she went around and opened the passenger door.

  Before Quint snapped the trunk shut and got back in the car, she was settled on the gray leather scat with her purse on the floor between her feet. "Can we go now?" she asked when he looked at her curiously.

  A trickle of blood was escaping from the cut again. He flipped open the compartment in the console, took out a wad of tissues and tossed them onto her lap, not about to take the chance of making contact with her again. "Here," he said. "You're still bleeding."

  She balled up the white tissues, then pressed them to her cut. "Now, can we go?"

  Beautiful and rude. What a combination, he thought, then muttered, "Why not," and put the car into high gear. It surged forward and they were on the road in seconds with the hot air rushing past them.

  When his passenger kept silent, he chanced a look at her. She was clutching the bloodied tissue in one hand that rested on her thigh, and she'd turned in the seat so she could look past the high seat at the road behind them. Her hair tan
gled around her face, and as her eyes narrowed, she tried to catch at her errant curls with her free hand.

  "Do you know what the next town's called?" he asked.

  "Langston."

  "What did you do, check a map?"

  "Excuse me?" she asked without taking her eyes off the road behind them.

  "A map, a piece of paper with lines all over it that are roads?"

  She shrugged, a fluttery movement. "No, I just know it's there."

  "You don't live around here, do you?"

  "Why do you say that?"

  "New Mexico plates."

  "Oh, yeah, sure."

  "There's nothing behind us," he finally said.

  That brought a reaction. She looked at him, but didn't say anything as she turned in the seat and sank down to stare straight ahead of them.

  "Were you expecting someone to be there?"

  "No."

  "Then what were you looking for?"

  "Nothing."

  Quint had been around enough people who were in tight situations in and out of prison to recognize someone who was running. "Whatever you say."

  Annie closed her eyes for a moment, as if she could shut out his sarcasm by the simple action. Or maybe she could ease the pounding in her head and the nervousness in her stomach. When she opened her eyes again, she looked down at the bloodstained tissue wadded in her hand.

  The image of Trevor lying motionless on the floor of the stables cut through her. Everything had gone wrong, but she couldn't turn back now. She had no options.

  Her car was dead and she was traveling with a stranger whom she knew wished he had never seen her. She cast a furtive look at him. A psycho in a black Corvette? She knew that creeps came in all shapes and sizes and drove any type of a car—

  Her hand tightened on the tissue. Then she brushed at her hair with her other hand as the strands stung across her cheek, whipped by the rushing air. Actually this man wasn't much like Trevor. Where Trevor had pretty boy good looks, this man probably wouldn't even be called attractive in a conventional way.