Childish, yes, but boy did it feel good. Show that on the evening news.
She faced Harry again, motioning him forward since talking was pointless. Officials kept the crowd from getting too close. A second truck pulled up behind them, the noise of the two trucks combined deafening. If the CIA ever wanted a sure-fire way to keep their conversations under wraps, they could hold their top secret meetings next to a race truck. She’d need a hearing aid by the time this was all over.
As it turned out it would have been simpler if she had used a crane. It took not only Harry but Bryce tugging on her from the inside to get her in, the camera whirring away as it captured her humiliation for the six o’clock news and an Off Road Racing Bloopers tape. Fortunately her firesuit didn’t snag as she tumbled headfirst into the cockpit.
“Why in the hell doesn’t this thing have door handles?” She didn’t care that she’d broken her cardinal rule not to swear. She was in a swearin’ mood, dang it. Just right now all she wanted to do was push herself into a sitting position, give Bryce a piece of her mind, and somehow make it through the next hour of purgatory.
She connected herself to the radio, then shoved her borrowed helmet over her head. “You’d think these people would at least be able to do that.”
“What?” Bryce asked in her ear.
She glowered at him and said, “Pick someone to drive who has a brain.”
“Hey,” he said, his dark brow rising. “What’d I do?”
“For one thing you forced me to ride in this truck again.”
A black brow arched. “I’m not forcing you to do anything. I thought you’d be pleased.”
“Yeah, well, I’m jumping for joy, can’t you tell? But that’s not what’s really bothering me. What’s really bothering me is you told God and everybody you like my breasts.”
“I do.”
CJ frowned.
“Really,” Bryce added, and dang it if he didn’t look serious.
Delight surged through her. She squashed it down like a bug. “Listen, buster. You may think your comments are cute, but I’ve got a career on the line here. If my editor hears about your fetish for my breasts, he’s going to think the worst.”
“Worst?”
“Yeah, the worst.”
“What’s the worst?”
“That…well, you know.”
He gave her a deliberately blank stare. And why did she think she saw that wicked gleam in his eyes? But two could play that game.
She leaned close to him, as close as her radio leash would allow, then placed her hand on his thigh, for added effect, she told herself, but in reality he see if it felt as good as it looked; hard and taut. Yup.
His blue eyes narrowed.
“He’ll think I’ve screwed your brains out.”
The truck lurched, then stalled. CJ bit back a laugh. Served the jerk right.
“What happened?” Harry screamed.
“We’re fine, Harry. My foot just slipped off the clutch.”
Silence. The buzz of the radio, then Harry’s irritated voice, “Thought you blew the freakin’ motor.” She could hear the deep breath he took. “Listen, the timer will let you go in a sec. So far you’re thirteen minutes behind the leader.”
“Roger, Harry.” Bryce turned to look at her, starting the motor at the same time. “That was a raunchy thing to say.”
She pursed her lips in puritanical fashion. “You deserved it.”
“I like raunchy women.”
“I bet you do.”
“And I’ve never made love to a woman in a truck before.”
She tilted her head at him. “Oh yeah? Couldn’t squeeze it in, huh?”
He gave her a sly look.
She raised her hand. “No, no, no, no. Do not make a comment about squeezing things in. I know where you want to go with that and I refuse to follow.”
She heard him laugh softly. Jeez. Did the man have no shame? And did he have to make her want to laugh too? Her anger at him had slowly dissipated, leaving behind the awareness she’d felt from the moment she’d met him, an awareness that doubled when she’d touched him. Her firesuit had just about melted right off her overheated body.
“Look this conversation is going nowhere—”
“We could make it go somewhere,” he said flirtatiously.
“Stop it,” she ordered, hoping the helmet hid her blush.
His expression seemed to say, “But why?”
“Look, you and I both know I’m not your type—”
“You’re not?”
She rolled her eyes. “No. My waist size isn’t the same as my IQ.” Good lord, had she really said such a catty thing out loud?
He laughed, the sound of it startling.
Apparently, she had.
He had one of those laughs that was deep and rich and utterly masculine. Her heart lurched, then resumed beating at a furious rate. There was a look in his eyes, one she didn’t recognize.
“Who cares about your waist size?”
“I do,” she answered warily.
“You shouldn’t.”
“Oh?”
“You have other attributes.”
“Like what?” Okay, so she was fishing for compliments. Who cared?
“Your eyes.”
Don’t let the compliment go to your head, Ceej. Trouble, remember?
“I like the way they glitter when you’re mad.”
“Jennifer Haynes.”
He blinked. “Huh?”
“You dated her for a year. Said the same thing about her eyes.”
His brows rose. “How’d you know that?”
She shifted in her seat. “I read it in my research.”
“Well, you have prettier hair than she does. Brown, with a hint of—”
“Autumn fire,” she finished for him.
He looked genuinely horrified. “And how’d you know that?”
“Easy. It’s a favorite saying of yours. Used it to describe one of your Irish Setters.”
He looked speechless.
“There’re tons of articles about you, you know. TV clips too. ‘America’s most eligible bachelor’,” she mimicked. “The toy store tycoon. I spent a whole week going through it all.”
He glanced at her again, and for a second she thought he was about to say something, but he didn’t.
“Want me to tell you what I learned?”
He didn’t answer.
She filled him in anyway. “You like kids, fast cars and anything in a tight skirt. You don’t like men who beat women—a point in your favor—but you think women with careers are a social calamity, a point not in your favor. You’re a notorious flirt. Have a girlfriend in every city and prefer blondes over brunettes.” She smiled. “On the other hand, you don’t drink, have a brilliant mind and a wicked sense of humor. You love animals, country music and cooking flamboyant dinners for your many dates. In fact, you’d be perfect husband material except for the fact that you’ve sworn never to marry. Have I got it right?”
Bryce didn’t say a word. His blue eyes stared into hers. She could see the little hamster wheel in his mind spinning madly.
Then his eyes narrowed.
Uh oh.
He leaned toward her.
Double uh oh.
“All except the part about career women,” he answered, placing his hand on her thigh. “I like them just fine.”
Her heart stopped. Yeah, right. He was just trying to save face. Obviously, her character sketch had hit a little too close to home. “Don’t play games with me.”
He stroked her thigh. “Why not?”
She shoved his hand away. “Because I’m a professional.”
“Professional what?” He touched her again.
“Shuttle pilot,” she snapped sarcastically, shoving his hand away again. “Reporter, you nimrod, what else?”
He chuckled, leaning away from her, which was a relief, or so CJ told herself.
“You know something, CJ, I enjoy baiting you. You make me laugh.”
>
“Yeah, well, I once made Ted Bundy laugh too, but that didn’t change who he was inside.”
“Bundy! You’re comparing me to Bundy?”
“Why not? You’re both lady killers.”
He drew back.
She smiled. As hits go, it wasn’t all that bad, and it had the desired effect.
“You really don’t like me, do you?” And he sounded surprised, maybe even hurt. Okay, so maybe she was a little hard on him. Maybe that’s why she found herself being unusually snarky when around him. But she needed to be. She had to keep him at a distance, had to keep it professional, because if she didn’t, well, she didn’t want to delve into what would happen if she let her body rule her actions.
“I didn’t say I don’t like you. You’re just…not my type.”
“Is that a challenge?”
She rolled her eyes. The man just wouldn’t stop. “Look, can we change the subject?”
“Sure. What’d you want to talk about?”
“How you’re going to tell Harry you lied about seeing my breasts.”
Snap. Back came the flirt.
“But I wasn’t lying. I also saw your pink lace bra.”
Oh greeeat.
“Do you have matching panties on too?”
It amazed her the way the sound of his voice could make her body flush, make her squirm in her seat, make her skin tingle.
“You’ll never know,” she said as firmly as she could. Her heart pounded. The pulse point on her neck throbbed. His next comment almost had her in cardiac arrest.
“I’d like to know.”
Easy, Ceej, a little voice warned. He’s not serious. He’s just trying to make you squirm. You called him a notorious flirt, and now he’s showing you just how notorious he can be. And even if he were serious, you can’t risk your job by becoming one of Bryce’s gal pals.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” she said more to herself than to him.
“Ahh, Bryce, would you mind paying attention? The starter said he’s going to disqualify you if you don’t go through the timer within the next thirty seconds.” Harry’s frustration came through loud and clear over the radio. They both looked up in time to see an official waving a green flag.
“In a minute, Harry.”
“A minute. Damn it, Bryce, we don’t have a min—”
Bryce clicked the off switch; Harry’s voice abruptly disappeared. He turned to her. “Put your harness on.”
Her harness. Shoot. She’d almost forgotten. Her stomach lurched. The realization that she was about to bounce around on her tush again filled her with as much enthusiasm as having a rectal exam.
It must have showed on her face because Bryce said, “I asked one of Harry’s crew to put some motion sickness pills in the first aid kit, so if you haven’t taken any more, you can take one now. I can hold off for a sec.”
She glanced at him, telling herself not to be affected by his thoughtfulness, but it was hard. Just when you worked yourself up to not to like a guy, he went and did something sweet. And though she hadn’t mentioned it to him, that was something her research had revealed too. Bryce Danvers was famous for doing nice things, like taking customers on shopping sprees. Supplying children’s toys to homeless shelters. Or racing a truck across the desert to raise money for critically ill children. He was a one-in-a-million man, but she’d never be his one-in-a-million lady, she reminded herself. Men didn’t see her that way. They saw her as a plain, slightly overweight gal. Someone to fool around with until something better came along. Bryce just toyed with her to pass the time. She could see it in his eyes, even if it hurt her to admit it.
Face it, Ceej. You have about as much chance catching his attention as you do catching a star. Just remember what happened with Ed.
Ed.
The news desk’s hottest reporter at her last job. Handsome. Smart. And a big flirt, too. She’d been flattered when he’d asked her out, had thought that maybe she’d finally found a man who could look past her full figure and plain exterior. But then one of the story ideas she’d been secretly working on had turned up on the front page under his byline. And she, the queen of naive, had believed him when he’d told her it was all an accident. And then it’d happened again and CJ had come to the bitter conclusion that she was being used. When she’d confronted Ed all hell had broken loose. Nasty accusations had been hurled, and because she was the new kid on the block, she been fired when she’d gone to her editor. Later, she’d heard it was Ed who’d accused her of stealing his ideas. Unbelievable.
“Reach behind the seat if you’re interested. There’s a squeeze bottle of water in there too.”
“Thanks.” She should have learned her lesson then. Trouble was not to be trusted.
The kit was right where he said it’d be, a white box emblazoned with an Avon Red Cross. She would take the whole bottle. Maybe then she wouldn’t feel as miserable. The first ever comatose reporter, but what the heck. A drug-induced story would most definitely be more entertaining to read…and probably write. She pressed the button.
The box exploded.
Well, not the box, exactly. It was what was inside that blew up…and up…and up…the center of it inflating at a rate of speed on par with a 747’s escape ramp.
“What the hell—” Bryce yelled.
It must be a life raft, but how in the heck she’d triggered the darn thing was beyond her, and what was a life raft doing inside a first aid box? An odd shaped raft, at that. It had cones sticking out of it, cones with red bull’s eyes in the center.
And that’s when it hit her.
It was not a life raft.
“It’s a Joceline in the Box,” Bryce pronounced on a laugh. “Harry’s self-inflating blow up doll.”
“What’s it doing in my lap?” she squeaked.
Bryce laughed. “Harry told me the crew likes to booby-trap the truck every now and then.”
Booby being the operative word. Terrific. Just what she needed, a bunch of pranksters making her life hell, as if she didn’t have her hands full already.
She tried to shove the thing out the window, but forgot about the net. It bounced right off with a hollow thunk. The thing was all arms and legs now, a life-sized rendition of Pink Pumps with painted blonde hair and Morticia eye makeup. She tried to maneuver it toward Bryce, who, by now, was laughing uncontrollably.
“Unplug the air valve,” he offered, his words barely understandable. The doll’s head was in Bryce’s lap, face down, it’s big inflated behind bouncing just beneath CJ’s nose.
She wanted to die.
Outside, Harry’s crew, all five of them, doubled over. The crowd of spectators standing around were laughing too. Everyone was chuckling, except for Harry. He was too busy glancing from his stop watch, to the truck, to the white-clad official, to the truck, to his stop watch, to the white-clad official…
His face turned redder as he furiously waved them forward. She saw his mouth move, and she didn’t need a radio to know he screamed at them to go, go, go.
“Finish putting your harness on, CJ,” Bryce choked out, apparently having read Harry’s lips too.
Get a hold of yourself, Ceej. Now was not the time for an emotional outburst. She fumbled with the doll, unexpected and unwanted tears clouding her eyes.
Why was she crying?
“Hurry.”
“I can’t. She’s in the way.”
Her frustration mounted as she tried to shove the plastic doll to the floor, but one of its breasts got caught on the steering wheel. There wasn’t enough room to shove her under the dash, either.
“Here, let me help.”
Bryce picked the thing up, ducking beneath it to help her secure the myriad of belts. A leg sailed over the back of CJ’s head, the other obstructing her vision. Bryce’s hands fumbled around; she heard the distinct click of the belts. When he straightened, he took one look at her and roared with fresh laughter. It was only as she gazed at him across an expanse of beige, plastic flesh that she unders
tood why.
The doll was facing up now, its conical-shaped breasts pointing gloriously to the headliner, a leg on either side of her head. It was obscene…it was disgusting. It was…
“Hilarious,” Bryce supplied.
Chapter Five
But she didn’t look like she thought it was hilarious, Bryce noted. In fact, she looked distinctly like a woman he’d once pinched, right before she’d slapped him. Funny. He’d have thought CJ the type to enjoy a good joke as much as he.
“Get it out of here,” she sniffed.
He reached for the doll, wondering what the heck had gotten in to her. Gone was the little pistol who’d analyzed his life with such cutting sarcasm. In her place sat a woman who looked distinctly like she was…“You’re crying,” he accused.
“No, I’m not,” she huffed.
But he’d been around women long enough to know blotchy complexions went along with teary eyes.
“You’re crying,” he accused.
Someone pounded on the door. Harry.
“Damn it,” his long-time friend screamed through the net. “Get your butt out there.”
“In a minute, Harry. CJ’s crying.”
“She’s what?”
“No, I’m not,” CJ protested.
“Yes, you are.”
“Why’s she crying?” from Harry.
“I don’t know.”
“I’m not crying,” CJ all but yelled.
“Must be the prank the boys pulled,” Bryce surmised.
“It’s not the prank,” she moaned. “It’s…it’s…PMS.”
Bryce drew back.
Harry said, “See ya.”
CJ looked away.
Harry had the right idea. PMS? Great. “Do you need some aspirin or something?”
“I need a life,” he thought he heard her moan. Not a good sign. Especially when it came from the mouth of a woman experiencing a hormonal imbalance.
“Look, if this is about that prank, don’t think anything of it. The boys are always—”
“It’s not that,” she sniffed. “Oh, gosh, I can’t believe this is happening to me.”
“What? That you’re crying?”
She turned a look upon him, a look men the world over recognized and feared. “I am not crying.”
“Okay, so you’re not crying. Tell me why you’re not laughing at what was—” he patted the doll’s bottom, “—a very good prank.”
Playboy Prankster Page 5
