The comment stung, which was odd. It wasn’t any worse than one of his buddies had said before.
“Oh, man,” she mumbled.
He searched for the keys to the truck, remembered he needed to push a button, and raised a hand.
She stayed him, her warm fingers covering his. “Look,” she said, green eyes soft. “I’m sorry. That was really rude. You were trying to be nice. I mean, sure, you’re the Playboy Prankster, but you’re also a man. It’s possible you could have been hurt a time or two.”
More than possible. Really, really possible. Before Toyco, women had treated him like a big brother. Cute, but not someone you’d ever marry. Sure all that had changed, but hell, he still remembered what hurting felt like. Lana the Lesbian, Harry’d dubbed his ex-fiancée. The words stabbed every time.
“Obviously, you got over it. Just like I’ve gotten over my bad relationships.”
Yup. He’d gotten over Lana. Didn’t think about her at all. Nah ah. Not ever.
“But we don’t need to discuss our personal lives. In fact, we should probably get going.”
Yeah, they probably should, except her fingers felt nice on his hand.
“How much longer do we have, by the way?”
She was so natural. No goo on her face. No fufu hair color. No neon nails. Just CJ. “Forty-five minutes.”
She looked disappointed.
“Don’t worry, it’ll go quick.”
“Oh yeah?”
She was a Chevy, he admitted. Plain exterior. Big engine. His gaze caught on her breasts. Big engines.
“Relax. I’ll take care of you.” He clasped her hand in his own.
She looked startled. Their eyes met. Something clicked.
“You know what?” he said softly.
“What?” the word barely a whisper.
“You have dust all over your face.”
“Wh—” She drew back. “Oh.”
Bryce wanted to kick himself. Now why’d he have to go and do that?
“Is it gone?”
He’d spoiled a perfect moment. “Yeah.” But he knew why he’d done it. This feeling he had whenever he stared at her, it did funny thing to his insides. Things that should be avoided at all costs. After Lana, Bryce had vowed to steer clear of serious relationships, no matter how sweetly adorable a woman might appear.
“Thanks,” she said.
Too bad he had a feeling he was about to break his own rule.
Forty minutes later CJ wanted to die. Unfortunately, she hadn’t yet.
“How much longer?” she gasped.
“Shouldn’t be too much.”
They raced ahead, the truck scattering a flurry of sand and dust in their wake. Bryce had been quiet since their little one-on-one. That bothered her, especially since he kept glancing at her, frowning, then turning away. He must regret allowing her to come along. Not surprising since she regretted going, especially since she’d had the silly urge to kiss him back there…
“Tell CJ she’s got one minute to leave the truck.” Harry’s voice crackled over the radio.
Thoughts of kissing Bryce, and his not wanting to kiss her, scattered. “I’ve got how long?” she gaped.
“One minute,” Bryce repeated.
“He’s joking, right?”
“Nope.”
She’d been afraid he’d say that. Impossible. It would take one minute for her stomach to settle, much less figure out the seat belts. She looked heavenward, and asked God why She’d suddenly taken it upon Herself to desert her in this hour of need. She was a good girl; always paid her parking tickets, allowed little old ladies to cross the street, never slept with a guy on the first date. Heck, not even the fifth date, not that anyone had asked in a while…a long while.
“I’ll help you out if you like.”
Ha! That was the last thing she needed. Having Bryce touch her was like being jolted with a cattle prod. But at least a cattle prod’s sting went away. She could still feel where his fingers had stroked her own. No, thank you, she didn’t need to make a fool of herself any more than she already had.
“I can manage,” she said with more confidence than she felt.
Five minutes later they careered to a halt in front of the Star Oil transporter. Bryce cut the motor instantly. The silence was as startling as being plunged naked into a pool of water. Harry stood by a group of men all dressed exactly alike, a red star imprinted on the front of their black shirts. Each of them stared at the truck like it held the last cup of water in the whole wide world. A man rushed forward with a dump can of fuel.
Harry’s voice boomed over the radio. “Get out of the truck, CJ.”
Put your hands on top of your head. You have the right to remain silent.
But at least fugitives had longer than a minute, she thought disgustedly. They also had access to an item CJ would give her word processor to possess, a door handle. She looked forward to crawling out the window about as much as she would a tonsillectomy. But first she had to release the darn net thingy. “How does it come off?”
Bryce cleared his throat. “First, you should start with the zipper.”
CJ’s hands paused on the nylon web. “Do you mind,” she huffed. “I’m in a hurry.” She turned back to window. “The net. How do I get the safety net off?” she asked, fiddling with the catches.
“Oh, the net. Just slide it to the right.”
She should smack him. She really should. She did as instructed, relieved when the darn net slid free. Her seat belts came next, actually easier to undo than she’d thought. Unfortunately, her exit strategy was the next problem. If she went belly first then she’d slide blindly to the desert floor face first, and with her luck, probably land on it too. If she went feet first, she’d have to do it on her belly, and give the world outside a fine view of the world’s largest rear end in the process. Feet first, she thought. Dignity be damned.
She moved toward the window, her head suddenly jerking back.
“Helps if you take off the helmet and disconnect those ear pieces.”
“Right.” CJ fumed silently. He was enjoying this, the pinhead. Feeling every second slip by, she pulled off the helmet; cool air rushed over her face. Great. She probably looked as bad as Tina Turner on a good hair day. Her editor was going to pay for this, and it was going to be a slow, arduous death.
Gingerly, she pushed herself up so that she crouched on the seat, then turned and sat on the sill of the window facing Bryce. She gave him an Eat Doo-Doo and Die look, moved one leg, then the other out the window, her arms the only thing holding her in the truck. Slowly she tried to slide down.
Nothing happened.
She released a little more of her weight.
Still nothing.
She released a lot more weight.
Nothing. Nada. Zip.
She could, in fact, feel where her firesuit had snagged on the safety net. She looked up to see Bryce trying to contain his laughter.
“Well, don’t just sit there, help me.”
Then he did something she would never forgive him for; he threw his head back and laughed so hard CJ was tempted to toss something at him, except she couldn’t move. He released his helmet and earpieces. It was no comfort whatsoever that his dark hair looked like the spines of a porcupine, nor that his handsome face was as flushed as her own after he’d pulled off the helmet. She was too busy mentally ticking off the seconds she wasted by hanging half in, half out the dang window.
Bryce leaned toward her.
And suddenly CJ was aware only of the most fantastic pair of eyes she’d ever seen. They were beautiful—like liquid turquoise—only with blues and grays and greens and laughter all mixed in. Those eyes never left hers as he leaned closer…and closer still, until he was only micrometers away.
CJ tensed. He stared at her for a long moment. She held her breath as he bent his dark head; the caress of his hands on her waist was like the touch of a laser. She closed her eyes and tried to control the ra-tap-tap of her heart. He sm
elled like a forest after a summer rain. Great, she thought. She probably smelled like Mrs. O’Leary’s cow.
“You’re caught on the net.”
“I know.”
“Just move a little to your right.”
She did.
“Wow.”
CJ tensed. Her eyes sprung open. “Oh, man, what’s wrong?”
He looked up, his lips only inches away. “You have nice breasts.”
At that moment something pinged, something ripped, something split. Down she went, sliding toward the desert floor like Fred Flintstone, sans the dinosaur tail. She landed with an oomph.
The men in her immediate vicinity started to laugh, Harry, no doubt, one of them. She took a moment to catch her breath. Gingerly sat up. Bryce hung his head out the passenger side window; one arm rested on the sill ostensibly to see if she was okay, but in reality to gauge her reaction to the nice breasts comment, CJ was sure. She’d like to wipe that sexy grin right off his face with a twenty pound eraser.
Trouble. No doubt about it.
The belief doubled when he said, “Gee, CJ, you have big tools too.”
Chapter Four
“I’m not leaving without her, Harry.”
Harry Santini looked ready to spit piston rings. “What do you mean you won’t leave without her?”
Bryce smiled down at him, the same smile he’d used on Harry for more than one business deal. “I mean it, Harry.”
“Did she put you up to this?” He jammed a thumb over his shoulder toward CJ, who sat on the bumper of the transporter about fifty yards away, the big rig dwarfing her. The helmet she’d discarded lay at her feet. She looked ready to vomit.
“She doesn’t even know I’m asking you, Harry.”
“She doesn’t know?”
Bryce studied his watch. “We’re losing time.”
“Don’t tell me that, you dang idiot. If we’re losing time, it’s your own fault.” Harry clutched the clipboard in his hand like he wanted to bash him over the head with it. “You were supposed to take off again ten minutes ago.”
“Go get her, Harry.”
“Damn it, Bryce. Give me one good reason why I should.”
“She has nice breasts.”
Harry’s eyes bulged, and for the first time Bryce noted Harry bore a striking resemblance to Rodney Dangerfield, especially when he was in the midst of a really good rage, like right now.
“She has nice breasts,” Harry muttered. He tilted his head back toward the sky. “She has nice breasts?” he repeated, then pinned Bryce with a glare. “So?”
Bryce looked over at CJ. She stared at them, no doubt wondering why they hadn’t left the staging area. “I like women with nice breasts, Harry.”
“I’ve seen you with plenty of women with bigger jugs than hers, but you never looked at them the way you’re looking at her.”
Did he look at her differently? That gave him pause, especially coming after their little heart-to-heart. But he’d only had that little chat to take her mind off her motion sickness, he reassured himself, not because he was interested in her or anything. He liked his life just the way it was: Nice, heterosexual women when he wanted. No fuss. No muss. Even if there was something about CJ that appealed to him. Maybe it was that lost puppy look in her eyes. Yeah, that was it.
“She needs us, Harry. That editor of hers sounds like a real jerk. First he conned you into thinking she was a man, and now she tells me if she doesn’t do a good job, she’ll get fired.”
That got Harry’s attention. One thing never changed about Harry Santini. He had a heart of gold, which was how Harry had known Bryce would agree to drive his million dollar race truck in the name of charity.
Harry darted a glare in CJ’s direction, then looked down at his stop watch. When he scowled back up at him, Bryce knew he’d won. One other thing about Harry, he wanted to win. It didn’t matter if it was a race or a game of Monopoly, the man liked the thrill of victory…and he wanted to be the victor of the Charity Pro/Am 2000.
“I’m going to regret this,” Harry said. “I just know I am.”
“You’re a prince, Harry.’
“Yeah? Tell it to my ex-wife.”
“Wives, Harry. It’s ex-wives.”
“Whatever.” He turned and started to stomp away; a small gust of hot desert wind rustled the papers on his clipboard.
“Oh, and Harry?”
Harry stopped, then slowly turned to face him.
“Tell her to take more motion sickness pills.
“Motion sickness?” Harry roared. “She gets motion sick?”
Bryce started the truck. He could see Harry’s mouth open and shut like the flaps of an exhaust valve. Never mind Harry, he thought, tightening the strap of his helmet. He’d calm down. And it’d be great to have some company along for the ride.
That was why he’d done it, he told himself. Not because he was interested in CJ or anything. Nope. Not his type. He preferred women with a little more pizzazz. A little more zing. Women who were, well, womanly.
He looked back at CJ. She watched Harry approach with a wary look in her eyes.
“He wants me to what?”
“He wants you ride alongside of him for the rest of the day.”
That’s what CJ thought he’d said. She narrowed her eyes, studying Harry’s face intently. He didn’t look like he had heat stroke. Still, looks could be deceiving.
“Why?”
Harry grew flustered. Not surprising since he had a truck idling like it was in the middle of the Santa Monica freeway.
“I dunno why. But he told me to tell you he’s not leaving without you.”
Bryce not leaving without her? Ha! Still, it was a nice gesture. He probably thought he did her a favor, but she wanted to ride in that truck again about as much as she wanted a leg amputated.
“Gee, Harry, tell Bryce that’s really sweet, but I think I’ll pass.”
Harry didn’t take the news well. At all. His forehead dripped with sweat. His face got as red as the mammoth-sized toolbox sitting next to them. He didn’t look healthy. In fact, CJ was about to suggest a low fat, low cholesterol diet when he suddenly said, “He told me you have nice breasts.”
At first the comment didn’t register.
“Said they were real nice. Plump,” Harry went on, shoving his clipboard under one arm, then cupping his hands like he tested the weight of melons. “Like this.”
CJ stared up at him in dismay.
“He. Said. What?”
Slowly she pushed to her feet, her sore body trembling.
“He said—”
“Never. Mind.” She raised her hands and cut him off mid stream. She turned away.
“Where’re you going?”
“To tell him he can kiss my bruised and battered derriere.”
“In front of the fans?”
She paused, looked at the various faces milling around them. The smell of exhaust hung on the air, the big rigs lined up with their back facing each other like gunfighters in a stand-off, but didn’t seem to dissuade the people who’d arrived to watch the Celebrity Pro/Am 2000.
She put on the brakes, then turned back to face him. “You’re right. Give me those.” She reached for the headset resting around his neck.
“Now hold on a minute,” Harry said, moving it before she could snatch it away. “Maybe you shouldn’t use these.”
“Why not?”
“Because if you do, every person listening in on this frequency will know all about it…just like they heard him tell me you had nice breasts.”
What? Then she remembered. Radio frequencies the teams used were common knowledge. Quite a number of people listened in on the conversations between driver and crew. Officials. Fans. Sponsors. You never knew what you might hear, like somebody saying a woman had nice breasts.
She wanted to choke Bryce.
No, wait, she wanted to castrate him.
It was one thing to make a comment about breasts in the privacy of your own
race truck, quite another to share it with the rest of Western civilization. And what if Miles-the-Editor-from-Hell heard about it? Oh man, what if Miles thought she and Bryce were… Or what if he didn’t, but still used it as an excuse to send her packing? And if she got fired again she could kiss her journalistic career good-bye. She wouldn’t let that happen…couldn’t let that happen. Even if it meant climbing back into that four wheeled gas chamber and riding along just to prove to Miles what a darn good reporter she was.
Not giving Harry a backward glance, she pushed her way through the fans to get to the starting line. Just her luck that a camera crew turned their lenses upon her when she approached. No doubt they, too, wondered why the children’s toy store tycoon hadn’t taken off.
“Hey, lady, do you belong here?” asked a lanky official dressed in, of all colors, dirt-enhancing white.
“Yup,” she nodded, pointing to the truck. “I’m the boobs riding along with Danvers.”
The man bit back a smile and waved her through. Terrific. All the officials must have heard too. Just terrific.
Bryce spotted her, revving the motor, the truck emitting a puff of white smoke potent enough to make birds drop out of the sky. Out the corner of her eye she saw the cameraman step closer. Great. Just what she needed. Now her rump would be broadcast on the evening news, probably with some ditzy blonde saying, “The moon made a sudden appearance over the Nevada Desert today. But what was originally thought to be an ass-tral phenomenon turned out to be journalist CJ Randall…”
“Need some help?” offered Harry, who’d followed her.
Did she need help making a fool of herself? Of course she didn’t. Getting into the truck was the problem. Darn thing was as big as a tank and the only way in it was with the help of a crane, a catapult or a hefty pair of hands. Earlier, she’d had a step ladder. No such luck now. She just hoped she didn’t throw old Harry’s back out when he lifted her up to the sill. But first she looked through the open window, took careful aim at Bryce’s head, then threw her helmet at his handsome face. It bounced off his helmet with a clunk.
“Hey!” she saw him mouth.
Playboy Prankster Page 4
