by Tami Hoag
“Hmmm…”
His heartbeat quickened. He pushed the image of her fanny from his mind and leaned beside her over the engine. “What? That sounded more ominous than the other ‘hmms.’ What is it?”
“Hmmm…”
Dixie turned her head. He was right there. Close enough for her to catch the scent of mint on his breath. Close enough to see three different shades of gold in his hair and the faint shadow of his beard on the hard planes of his cheeks. Close enough to lean over and kiss if she were to completely lose all common sense.
“There’s nothing in your radiator,” she whispered breathlessly, desire grabbing her by the throat.
He blinked at her, looking a little mesmerized, then he shook his head and cleared his throat. “That’s bad,” he mumbled, his gaze straying to her lips. “Even I know that’s bad. What do we do?”
Trying to shake off the spell of his closeness, Dixie replaced the radiator cap, motioned him back and closed the hood. “Nothing to do but haul her in and have a better look. Could be the water pump, could be a hose down underneath, could be a puncture in the radiator.” She looked up at him with a grave, earnest expression. “You might have blown the engine.”
A pitiful sound of dread and suffering caught in his throat. He paled visibly beneath his tan. Dixie patted his arm consolingly. Poor thing. Poor cute thing. She wanted to give him a hug, but thought better of it. Instead, she went to the tow truck to prepare to load the car.
Jake wobbled on his feet at the thought of a blown engine. Lord, what would Andre say when he got back to L.A.? The mechanic treated all of his client’s cars as if they were children. He was an import auto pediatrician, recommended from car owner to car owner by reverent word of mouth. He had purred over Jake’s new Porsche. A blown engine. It would probably reduce the Frenchman to tears. Jake shuddered at the thought.
The sound of hydraulic wheezing broke in on his thoughts and he bolted toward the back of his car. Long iron spear-like things were emerging from the tow truck, the kind of things he’d seen run through junkers in order to lift them onto the scrap heap. His imagination raced ahead to picture the rods impaling his Porsche. Control snapping, he flung himself spread-eagle on the car. “No! Please! Anything but that!”
Dixie shook her head and sighed, working the levers, lowering the bars that would slide under the car’s rear wheels and lift the vehicle off the ground. “You’ll have to move, now, honey, else you’ll be squashed. You’re welcome to sit up in the cab of the truck if it’s too painful for you to watch.”
Embarrassed beyond words, Jake stormed up to the wrecker and climbed in on the passenger’s side. What was the matter with him? Where was his pride? He’d managed to make a perfect ass of himself. The woman obviously knew what she was doing. He of all people knew mechanical ability had nothing to do with gender. It was just that she looked so…soft. He wouldn’t have expected a female wrecker driver to be quite so…female.
“Jeez, Gannon, what would you expect? Arnold Schwarzenegger with breasts?” he growled, shaking his head in self-reproach, and turned his thoughts to other matters.
It looked as if he was going to begin his search for Devon Stafford in Mare’s Nest. An obscure tidbit of news he had unearthed had mentioned she had once spent a summer on the Carolina coast as a girl. It seemed to him the romantic lure of a childhood memory would appeal to an actress. Mare’s Nest may not be the most logical choice to begin with, but he didn’t really have any options now.
A blown engine. His heart sank and a hard lump lodged like a rock in his throat. His beautiful Porsche.
His rescuer pulled the cab door open and hauled herself up into the driver’s seat. “She’s all loaded up, honey, and none the worse for wear. You can relax.”
Jake sent her a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry I was such a jerk. It’s just that, it’s my first Porsche and—”
She held up a small hand to stem the apology. “You don’t have to explain. I know all about men and their cars. Knew a fella once who had a Testarossa that threw a rod on the Ventura Freeway at rush hour. He flung himself flat on the hood and cried like a baby. It was a pitiful thing to see.”
“I can imagine.”
Jake studied her features a little more closely now that the initial crisis had passed. She really had a very pretty mouth, and the faint scent of a soft sweet perfume cut through the aroma of oil and stale cigar smoke that hung in the cab. Lilies of the valley. The scent drifted into the orderly storehouse of his memory to be filed away for future reference.
Dixie stared at him, unnerved by the stirring of attraction warming her tummy. Of course, he was an attractive man, big and blond and brawny. It was kind of startling to feel so drawn to him because she hadn’t really thought about men in that way for a while; she hadn’t had the time or the energy. She had been too busy finding herself, healing and becoming whole. This one had the most gorgeous smile—winning, dazzling. There was nothing quite like a great smile on a big handsome guy. His teeth were white and straight—perfect, like everything else about him.
Perfect. That was all the reason she needed to steer clear of him. She’d had her fill of the quest for perfection.
“You’ve been to California?” he asked, just to break the silence and the silky strand of sexual tension that had suddenly spun between them. He didn’t have time for that kind of thing now. He had a job to do. Besides, she really wasn’t his type, he reminded himself yet again. He tended to lean toward tall, slender blondes as a rule, not perky, curvy brunettes.
She dropped her head, giving all her attention to a dirty, curling log sheet on a battered clipboard. Her hair fell around the sides of her face like a veil. “Oh, sure. I’ve been around. I’ll need your name and address for our records.”
“Jake Gannon, 6868 Grafton, Santa Mara, California,” he recited dutifully, watching her. “And you are?”
Her head came up, eyes round beneath the tangled fringe of her bangs.
“Dixie. Dixie La Fontaine,” she said, feeling oddly trapped in the beam of his blue eyes. Her breath caught in her throat when he reached up a hand and brushed the end of her nose.
“Grease,” he murmured, his gaze still holding hers as the magnetism between them soared. “You had grease on your nose.”
“Oh.”
She dropped her head again to stare at the log sheet, chiding herself for being a ninny. What was the matter with her, reacting to a strange man this way? A strange man from California, no less!
No, no, no, Dixie darling. If and when you go looking for a fella, he’s gonna be a nice Southern good ol’ boy who likes chicken-fried steak and chocolate pecan pie and dances at the American Legion hall with girls who have a little meat on them.
All she had to do was look at Jake Gannon to know he probably belonged to a health club and ate muesli for breakfast and cringed at the mere mention of the word “fat” in any context. He just had that look about him, that California image. She had more important things to focus on in her life than having an image.
“Are you staying some place around here?” she asked, forcing her mind back to business. “We’ll need a local phone where you can be reached.”
“That’s my next problem.” He grinned engagingly, flashing two deep dimples. “I hadn’t made plans to stay here. Is there a motel or something in Mare’s Nest?”
A wry smile quirked up the right side of Dixie’s mouth as she set the clipboard aside and started the tow truck. “Or something.”
“Do you think I’ll have any trouble getting in without a reservation?”
“Naw, don’t worry about it,” she drawled, resigning herself to the fact that Jake Gannon was not going to be out of sight or out of mind for a while. “I know the manager pretty good.”
TWO
LA FONTAINE. JAKE turned the name over in his mind, feeling genuine excitement. Devon Stafford’s mother’s maiden name was La Fontaine. Maybe Dixie was a distant cousin. He glanced at her, looking for a resemblance.
/> “What?” she asked sharply. She pulled one hand off the steering wheel to rub her cheek.
“Have I got more grease on me?”
“No, no, nothing. I was just admiring the way you handle this truck.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
He stretched a little, subtly altering his position so he could study her better. Everything about Devon Stafford was sharply stunning, from her cool blond tresses to the delicate bone structure of her face with its prominent cheekbones and full, pouty lips. Dixie had a much softer look. The slight fullness to her face made him think of women of a bygone era. She would have been considered a great beauty back in the days of Lillian Gish, but she was no Devon Stafford.
His gaze strayed to her mouth again, to the perfect archer’s bow curve of the upper lip. It wasn’t as full or blatantly sensual as Devon Stafford’s, but there was a slight similarity. He leaned a little closer. She shot a suspicious look his way and Jake treated her to a charming smile, leaning ahead to catch the true slope of her nose and the angle of her chin.
Dixie’s gaze darted nervously from the road to Jake Gannon, back and forth. She didn’t much care for the way he was looking at her, kind of strange and familiar-like. Slowly she inched her right hand across the seat and stuck it in her purse. Swallowing down the knot of tension in her throat, she said, “If you’re some kind of pervert, I’m just gonna tell you straight out—I’ve got a gun and I know how to use it.”
Jake sat back with a surprised bark of laughter. Leaning against the door of the truck in a deceptively lazy pose, he fixed his gaze on the business end of a snub-nosed .38 pointed at his chest.
“I’m not a pervert,” he declared, stunned that he’d let her get the drop on him. He stared at her in disgruntled amazement, trying to think how he might best disarm her. There were a number of methods at his disposal, but if the gun went off in the process in the close confines of the truck, someone could get hurt or the tow truck could go off the road and his Porsche could be totaled. He didn’t like that thought much better than the thought of getting shot himself.
Dixie slowed the truck to a stop. They just sat there, Dixie looking at him long and hard in the gathering gloom, with Bonnie Raitt singing in the background about finding love in the nick of time. It was difficult to picture Jake Gannon as a slavering fiend. He looked completely clean-cut, well turned out in a chambray shirt and stylish pleated tan trousers. Still, she knew as well as anyone that looks could be deceiving. He regarded her with a steady gaze, and while he appeared to be completely relaxed she had the sensation of leashed power lurking under that handsome surface.
“How do I know you’re not a pervert? How do I know you’re telling the truth?” she asked.
“Trust me,” Jake said dryly, laying his hand over his heart. “I’m a real stand-up guy. I’m an ex-Marine. I pay my taxes. I’m a registered voter.”
Dixie scowled. “Ted Bundy was a Young Republican. It didn’t stop him from being a serial killer.” Her eyes widened and she gave a little gasp, motioning to Jake’s outfit with the barrel of her pistol. “He even dressed like you!”
“Lots of guys wear chinos! They’re not all homicidal maniacs.” Heaven help him, he was about to be shot because he had impeccable taste in sportswear.
“I suppose they’re not,” Dixie admitted grudgingly. She let the nose of the .38 tilt downward. She nibbled on her lower lip in indecision as she looked Jake in the eye. “Do you swear you’re not a pervert?”
Jake had to wonder at the intelligence of a woman who would accept the oath of a man she suspected of heinous crimes, but he played along with her just the same. After all, she was the one holding the gun and pointing it at a very important part of his anatomy.
“I swear,” he said firmly. “I swear on my mother’s life.”
“Do you love your mother?”
“Yes. But not too much. Nothing unhealthy. Just regular love. None of that Norman Bates kind of thing. I’ll give you her phone number, you can call her. And while you’re mulling it over, would you mind pointing that thing elsewhere?” he said sardonically. “I think I’d rather be killed outright than shot where you’re aiming right now. I’m kind of sentimental about that particular body part.”
Dixie’s cheeks tinted a delicate shade of rose as she sighted down the barrel of her gun. It was plain the good Lord had left no detail unattended when he’d fashioned this man. “Sorry,” she mumbled, tipping the pistol a few degrees to the left of him and tearing her gaze away from his fly.
“Don’t mention it,” Jake said dryly. “Does this mean you believe me?”
“Well…I guess.”
She stuck the pistol back in her purse and rested her hand on the gearshift. “I’m sorry, but a girl can’t be too careful these days, you know. I mean, here I am alone on a road in a tow truck with a man from California, who I don’t know from a goose. For all I know, the car breakdown could have been an elaborate ruse just to get some poor unsuspecting soul into your evil clutches.”
One golden brow rose. “What a vivid imagination you have.”
“Hey,” she said, starting the truck and easing it forward. “I read the papers. I watch the news. The world is full of kooks and weirdos, and I don’t mean to be rude, but the way I understand it, most of them come from California.”
Jake choked back the urge to laugh only because the gun was still within her reach. He wanted to ask her why, if all the kooks were in California, had everyone in California warned him about the red-necks of the South and told him to run like hell if he were to hear strains of banjo music in the hills. But it just didn’t seem prudent to antagonize a woman who drove a one-ton wrecker and carried a gun in her purse, so he steered the topic toward saner, potentially profitable ground.
“I can assure you, Miss La Fontaine, I’m just a regular guy. No skeletons in my closet or basement or backyard or anyplace else for that matter. I’m a writer—a generally nonviolent profession, although it has its moments.”
She hit the brakes, sending Jake skidding into the dashboard. His head smacked the windshield with a dull thud.
“You’re a writer?” she asked with something like panic in her eyes. “What sort of a writer? You’re not a reporter, are you?”
Jake rubbed his head, wincing, his attention torn between Dixie’s extreme reaction and the little explosions of pain bursting in his head.
“No, I’m not a reporter. No need to pull the gun again,” he said sardonically. “May I ask why you would care if I were one?” He held up a hand. “You don’t have to answer if it’s going to upset you and drive you to commit a rash act.”
Maybe he really was on to something here, he thought, his heartbeat again picking up a stroke of excitement. If the tabloid hacks had been nosing around Mare’s Nest, making people nervous, then he might indeed be on the right track. He was going to have to tread carefully, though. If the skittish star caught wind of someone on her trail and bolted, his hunt for her might drag on interminably.
“You have something in particular against reporters?”
“It’s just that a reporter came here from Charleston a while back,” Dixie said, a little hesitant, hurt furrowing her brow and tugging at the corners of her mouth. She stared out at the darkening ribbon of road and made up a tearjerker of a tale without the slightest hesitation. “He came in acting all friendly, asking folks all kinds of questions about life in Mare’s Nest. Then his story came out and everybody in town bought a copy of the paper. Harper’s Grocery Store never sold so many papers in one day before.”
She sucked in a little breath and shook her head at the horror of it all. “That story was just pure mean. He made fun of the town and everyone and everything in it. Here we all thought he was a nice guy when he was just mean, as mean as cat meat.”
Jake watched, his heart wrenching with sympathy as Dixie’s eyes became awash with tears and her chin gave a little quiver. She glanced at him self-consciously, sniffled and blinked. He felt an almost overwhelming u
rge to comfort her, to put his arms around her and protect her from the callous world. She had managed to strike a chord deep within him and bring out all his guardian male instincts. She seemed awfully sweet, if insane, and she was so sincere. Plus, she really was pretty, and she had those wonderful breasts….
“I’m sorry, Mr. Gannon,” she murmured, sniffing. She swiped at her damp lashes with the heel of her hand. “I didn’t mean to get so overwrought. It’s just that that kind of thing…”
Shaking her head, she let the sentiment trail off, the silence speaking eloquently of her feelings.
“It’s all right,” Jake said, absently rubbing his elbow, completely enthralled by her earnest confession. “I understand.”
He understood and yet he wasn’t exactly coming clean with her. He didn’t like keeping the truth from her, but he didn’t have much choice. In view of her past experience, if he revealed his true purpose for being in Mare’s Nest she was liable to pull that gun out of her handbag and shoot him dead. At least he could console himself with the knowledge that the job he had come here to do wasn’t going to hurt anybody. Even after he found Devon Stafford, he realized that nothing might come of it. There was always the chance that she wouldn’t want to share her story with the world, although Jake was determined to do his best to convince her otherwise.
He dug an immaculate white handkerchief out of his hip pocket and handed it to her, leaning close, the lure of her sudden fragility overpowering. He hovered protectively as she dabbed the last of her tears. When she looked up at him and smiled a tiny, embarrassed smile, he felt as if he’d been hit in the chest with a hammer.
