Troubleshooters 04 Out of Control

by Suzanne Brockmann

  Ken tried not to think about the way her skirt hugged her hips, tried to forget he’d seen that pair of pantyhose she’d left back in the car, tried to ignore the burning question of the day—did she have anything on at all, underneath that skirt?

  She was even shorter than he’d guessed, and had to tilt her head up to look at him, which was cool, since he was not extremely tall himself.

  “Please,” she said in a husky, low voice that belonged to a stripper named Chesty Paree, not some sweet, Disney-big-eyed pixie. “I’d love it if you could help.”

  He’d gotten out of his truck with the intention of helping—whether she was a little old lady or a three-hundred-pound corporate CEO named Bob. But this was just too good to be true. She was pretty, she was red hot, and she wasn’t wearing a wedding band on her left ring finger.

  He could feel the testosterone flooding his system. Big Strong He-Man to the rescue. Why, sure, lil’ lady, I’ll save you. You just sit back and get ready to screw me blind in appreciation.

  Oh, please Heavenly Father, don’t let him say something stupid or hopelessly rude that implied he was unable to think about anything but sex. Even though it was true—98 percent of the time he was completely unable to think about anything but sex.

  But despite his errant thoughts, he was simply going to change her tire and then wave as she drove away. And then he was going to go home, unload his melting ice cream from his grocery bags, go for a swim in his pool, have an early dinner and veg out in front of the TV, watch some of the shows he’d videotaped this past week. The closest he was going to come to having sex tonight would be lusting after Buffy or Seven-of-Nine.

  And in a month or two, he’d finally stop thinking about this woman, this nice, well-to-do, intelligent, and completely undeserving-of-any-lewd-thoughts woman, and her underwear. Or lack thereof.

  Please Jesus, as long as he was asking for divine favors, don’t let her be a mind reader, okay?

  “But I don’t think anything short of explosives is going to do the trick,” she was telling him in that voice. “I managed to get one of the bolt thingies off, but it took twenty minutes. The others I worked on for close to an hour, but they didn’t even budge. What I’m really ready to do is blow this stupid rental car to hell.”

  Ken laughed, wishing he could see her eyes again. But they were hidden behind her sunglasses. “My neighbors might not like that very much.”

  “What neighbors?” she asked. “I’ve been out here for hours and not a soul drove past.”

  “It’s a dead end.” And on a Friday night, everyone but the most pathetic losers went straight from work to the local bars. She was lucky he was such a dweeb, and that for him, a hot Friday night meant watching TV, alone. “What are you doing down here, anyway?” he asked her.

  She stared at him as if he’d suddenly started talking to her in one of the funky languages that his pal Johnny Nilsson spoke so fluently.

  “Did you get lost?” He simplified the question.

  She cleared her throat and gave him the strangest little wavery smile. “I was . . . just driving around. I’m in town for only a few days and . . .” She cleared her throat again.

  Man, she was a terrible liar. Apparently she was too polite simply to tell him that he’d crossed the line and asked her a question that was none of his goddamned business.

  He crouched down next to the tire. “These lug nuts are tight.” He had to put some muscle into it to get them to move.

  She sighed as he got the second one off. “God, I’m such a wimp.”

  “I’ve got slightly more body weight to throw into it.”

  “Couldn’t you sweat just maybe a little?”

  Ken laughed. “Believe me, babe, I started sweating as soon as I walked over here.” Oh, crap, that sounded as if he’d meant . . . He glanced up at her, and found her looking at him over the top of her sunglasses again. Blue eyes. “I mean, as soon as I got out of my truck,” he tried to clarify. “Hot day, you know?”

  Yeah, right. Ah, he was smooth as shit.

  But she nodded as she hid behind her sunglasses again. “I thought it wasn’t supposed to get this hot in San Diego.”

  “This is unusual. This heat should break by tomorrow.” Yes, they were talking about the weather. He’d definitely freaked her out. Freaked himself out as well. “I’m looking forward to getting home and jumping into my pool.”

  “You have a pool?”

  The third and fourth lug nuts dropped into his hand. “Yeah, it’s the reason I rented this house—it’s just down the street. The house is nothing special, but the pool’s huge. I can actually swim laps.”

  “That’s what I need right now,” she told him. “A swimming pool. You can swim laps, but I’d like one of those floating chairs with a place to put a drink. And a frozen piña colada, please. A large one.”

  Man, he was stupid. She must’ve been incredibly thirsty—out here God knows how long, in this kind of heat . . . “I’ve got some pop and some beer in the truck. Help yourself.”

  “Are you sure?” She held herself back, but he knew from the way she was standing that she wanted to run to his truck and rip the door open. She was incredibly thirsty, but terminally polite.

  “Grab me a Coke while you’re at it, will you?”

  Ken glanced up to see her actually use the tail of her blouse to keep from getting grease on the door of his truck. That gave him a glimpse of her pale stomach and another flash of that red bra, Jesus save him.

  The final lug nut came free, and Ken took off the tire. What the hell—what did he have to lose? Go big or stay home, alone, watching TV, for the rest of his life. “You know, if you want, you could—”

  Come back to my place and go for a swim. He didn’t get a chance to ask because, as she handed him the can of pop, at the exact time he spoke, she also said, “Your ice cream’s melting. Did your wife—”

  They both laughed at the conversational head-on collision.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Go ahead.”

  “No, you go.”

  She shook her head, her cheeks tinged pink, as if she weren’t going to say anything. But then she took a deep breath. “I just . . . You’ve got a lot of groceries in your truck. I was thinking how nice that must be, you know, for your wife? Do you . . . Do you pick up groceries for her all the time?”

  Hel-lo. That was a full-fledged, deep-sea fishing expedition if he’d ever heard one. I don’t have a wife. Want to come for a swim in my pool? Naked? With your legs around my waist?

  Ken clenched his teeth, locking in all the things he shouldn’t say, all the things that would reveal just how pathetically inexperienced he was at this kind of social and sexual game.

  It was at times like this that he really, truly missed Adele—not because he still loved her. No, he was finally done with that. What he missed was belonging to her. They hadn’t been married, but they might as well have been. On again and off again, but mostly on again, from senior year in high school until just over a year ago—he wasn’t counting months any longer—they’d been a couple. He, at least, had been faithful for all those years—almost ten of them. The relationship had been long distance and way, way less than perfect, but he still missed the relief that came with not having to play this will-she-won’t-she, if-I-say-this-then-maybe-she-will game with every beautiful stranger whose tire he changed.

  He took a long drink of the cold pop before he answered her. “I’m not married.”

  It came out matter-of-fact. Casual. No big deal—certainly not as if inside he was running around and crashing full speed into walls in his blind hope that this good-looking woman, whose name he didn’t even know, would sleep with him tonight. She was interested. She was definitely interested.

  “Oh,” she said, equally casually. And then, obviously casting her fishing rod again, she asked, “You have a lot of vegetables in your bags . . . Do you live alone? I mean, stereotypical bachelors live on tacos and pizza, but I suppose that’s just the stereotype . . .�
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  “You caught me on a good day,” he told her. Wanna go have sex? No, no, no shit-for-brains. Ask her her name. Tell her yours. He cleared his throat. “I’m Ken Karmody, by the way. And yes, I live alone. Completely. Alone.”

  Oh, Jesus. Not quite as casual as before.

  She took off her sunglasses. X-Men’s Cyclops, with his laserbeam gaze, had nothing on this chick. Those eyes were incredible. Forget about her underwear, forget about sex, all he wanted to do was stare into her eyes for the rest of his life.

  “You are so fucking pretty.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. “Whoa,” he said. “Excuse me. Wow, I’m sorry. I spend most of my time with a bunch of guys who—” A siren sounded, a few blocks over. “Great. Here comes the language police, to lock me up.”

  She was laughing, thank God. “I’m Savannah.”

  “Savannah. That’s um . . . very pretty. It suits you. You got a last name, or are you like Cher? One name says it all.”

  It was a lame joke, but she laughed again, and he teetered, on the verge of falling desperately in love. Just like that.

  Ken knew he was prone to losing his heart to the girl behind the cash register at McDonald’s before he even got his super-sized fries, but this was even more ridiculous than usual. Savannah had said she was in town for only a few days. If there was going to be something between them, it was going to end almost before it began. And as far as getting a strenuous workout, his heart was not the primary organ he wanted to exercise here.

  “Savannah von Hopf,” she told him. She held out her hand, but pulled it back, wrinkling her nose at the grease that was on her fingers.

  Ken held out his own hand, showing her there was no way she could get him dirtier than he already was. “Savannah von Hopf—that’s a mouthful.”

  She smiled again as she put her hand in his. He tried to keep breathing, tried to keep his heart from stopping at the warmth of the contact.

  But her fingers were long and slender, her palms soft. He held onto her longer than he should have, turning her palm up and running his thumb across it. “So you dig ditches for a living, huh?”

  “No. I’m . . . an appellate attorney.” Her eyes were wide and she’d stopped smiling, but she didn’t pull her hand away, so he didn’t let her go.

  So what do you say we jump in my truck, drive up to Vegas and get married?

  His brain was definitely shorting at her touch. He knew there was something he should ask her that lay somewhere between “Wanna go have sex?” and “Wanna get married?” but his mind was completely blank.

  “I’m from New York,” Savannah told him, and the reality of a three-thousand-mile commute from his house to hers crashed onto him like an anvil from the sky.

  “The city, or . . . ?” As if it actually made a speck of difference to him.

  “I live about forty minutes north of New York City,” she told him.

  “I live in San Diego.”

  “Yeah, I know.” She smiled weakly, turning to gesture down the street toward his house. “You said.”

  What the hell did that smile mean? He turned back to her car. Where was the goddamn spare? He should put it on her car, push her inside, and make her drive away. Letting himself fall for this woman would be idiotic. “How long did you say you’re here for?”

  “I’m not sure exactly,” she said. “Just a few days.” She cleared her throat. “I’d like to repay you in some way for . . . I mean, not repay but, rather, thank you for helping me like this and . . .”

  Unbelievable. “The spare’s flat.”

  She stopped trying to get up her nerve to ask him whatever it was she was going to ask him, and came to look at the tire. “It is?”

  “Look at it.” It was completely soft.

  “It’s not supposed to be that way?” She was serious.

  “Nope.” He tossed the spare back into the trunk, quickly put the old tire back on, fastening the lug nuts loosely. “You got the rental information in the glove box? There’s probably a number to call for assistance.”

  She nodded. “I feel so stupid. If I had known . . . Instead I got all dirty, and you got all dirty, and I . . . I completely wasted your time.”

  Ken cranked the jack and lowered the car to the ground. “No sweat. Grease washes off.” He put the jack in with the spare, closed the trunk.

  “I’m so sorry.” She was actually upset about this.

  “So you’re automotively challenged—so what? You want to see real trouble? Ask me to practice law.”

  Jackpot. He’d coaxed a smile out of her. “Are you always so nice?” she asked.

  “Nah, like I said, you caught me on a good day.”

  And there they were, standing next to her flat tire, smiling at each other like a pair of fools.

  Ken cleared his throat. “So, um, where are you staying?”

  “At the Hotel Del Coronado.”

  The Del. Holy God. She either had money or worked for a company that did. “Okay, look. If you can give me five minutes to put my groceries in the house, I’ll give you a lift back there. Or—” Or you could come over to my place, call the rental car company, have ’em tow the vehicle while you stay and have a swim in the pool, stay all night, stay for a week, stay forever . . .

  “Will you have dinner with me?” Savannah asked.

  That was it. That was the question that he should have asked her.

  He had to clear his throat so the words could come out. “I’d love to.”

  She actually looked relieved—as if there was a snowball’s chance in hell he’d turn her down. “There’s a restaurant at the hotel that’s supposed to be wonderful—”

  “At the Del?” She wanted to have dinner with him at the freaking Del? That place was pure gourmet—five stars on a scale of one to four. “Uh, Savannah, you know, we’re not exactly dressed for the Del.”

  “Well, of course I’d have to change—”

  Oh, man, he didn’t want to go to the Del and sit there all starched and uncomfortable. And while he was all for her taking off the clothes she was wearing, he didn’t want her putting on anything else.

  “Honey, you’re going to have to do more than change. You have to hose yourself down. You’ve got grease, like, behind your ears.” Ken looked at his watch. It was already almost 1830. “And it’s a Friday night.”

  She looked so disappointed, he felt himself cave. Maybe going to the Del wouldn’t be a bad thing. He could put on his dress uniform—some women really dug that. “If your heart’s set on it, I could try calling for a reservation,” he told her. “But I’d bet big money the place is booked solid from 1900 on.”

  “I should have made a reservation this morning.”

  Ken had to laugh. “Yeah, if only you checked your crystal ball, you would have known you were going to meet Prince Charming this afternoon.”

  She gave him the oddest look, and he kicked himself for being an ass. He’d meant it as a joke, but it came out sounding as if he was serious. Him, a prince? Yeah, right.

  “What do you say we hit the Del tomorrow for lunch, instead?” he suggested quickly, before she could run away, screaming in horror. “You know, the restaurant outside on the deck?” That would be a little easier on his wallet, too.

  “Oh.” She looked worried. “Are you busy tonight?”

  “No, it’s just . . .” Ken tried to explain. “Friday night, it’s a pain in the ba—backside to get a table for dinner just about anywhere. I’m not a fan of crowds, so I thought . . .” Oh, Christ, just say it, loser. “I thought, if it was okay with you, we could maybe have dinner at my place. I’ve got a steak I could put on the grill, and some salad, and I thought we could go for a swim, you know, I could lend you one of my bathing suits, and—”

  “That sounds great.” She was smiling at him.

  “Great,” he echoed. “Yes, it does sound very great. Extremely great.” God, he sounded like an idiot, but Savannah just kept on smiling back at him as if she liked idiots. As if
she liked him.

  Holy shit, she was going to go home with him.

  He looked into her eyes, lit up the way they were from her smile and he knew.

  Forget about writing to Penthouse.

  This one was going to be a story for their grandkids.

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  Two

  “Tell him I’m not here, Laronda.” Alyssa Locke turned, heading back toward her office, and came within inches of slamming into Max Bhagat, the head of the FBI’s most elite counterterrorist team.

  Max Bhagat, her boss.