by Hope Ramsay
“To bully me, you mean,” Tulane said as he settled back into his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. His biceps twitched with annoyance. He was angry.
And huge. Tulane Rhodes filled the reclining seat with six feet and two hundred pounds of South Carolina good ol’ boy. He possessed all the classic markers of his kind—a broad drawl and buzz-cut hair that framed an angular face with too many sun-induced laugh lines and crow’s-feet. A well-worn Alabama T-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders. And a battered Atlanta Braves baseball cap topped off the ensemble. Maybe if Tulane had worn a blue worsted suit or a Nike golf shirt with khakis, he might have overcome the stereotype. But he hadn’t, and he didn’t.
Sarah was in trouble. This man was dangerous, and angry, and likely to run her over at two hundred miles an hour if he ever found out she was the reason he was driving a pink stock car. He was also wickedly handsome. And those steely eyes of his had the unsettling effect of making her feel as if her panties were on fire.
She needed to concentrate on the task at hand, but she had no idea where to begin. So she borrowed a page from Grandmother Howland’s handbook. She gave Tulane Rhodes The Look.
When given with the proper stare and just the right lift of an eyebrow, The Look could turn someone to stone in about one second flat. Grandmother Howland, who had been a devoted librarian and churchwoman for fifty years, could lift her eyebrow perfectly and command silence, just like that.
“I am not a bully, Mr. Rhodes. I expect you to be an adult about this,” Sarah said in a soft voice that she tried to invest with all of the proper venom of her grandmother.
Tulane cracked the smallest of smiles. Lines bunched up around his eyes while his lower lip stretched into a sexy curve that displayed a couple of dimples. The mental image of Grandmother faded.
“Ma’am, pardon my asking, but you got something stuck up that butt of yours?”
“I beg your pardon?” The Look vanished.
“Well, you were kind of grimacing, you know? You looked like you had gas pains or something. I guess it was just a passing thing, huh?” His smile broadened.
The man was onto her. Her black power suit hadn’t hidden her nice-girl nature, apparently. Sarah had no other weapons at her beck and call, so she forged ahead just like Grandmother would have done.
“Mr. Rhodes,” Sarah said. “I would appreciate it if you would refrain from using such vulgar language. I must remind you that you will be the spokesperson for Cottontail Disposable Diapers, a family product with a wholesome image.”
“Well, I’m not the wholesome family man you’re looking for.” He broke eye contact and ducked down to look out of the window to his left. The jet had just taxied to the end of the runway, and the engines revved in anticipation of takeoff. The glare from the window highlighted the pulsing tendons in his jaw.
Tulane looked back at her. “I know diddly about diapers. On the other hand, I did read something about National Brands making some real fine rubbers. You want to paint my car with a logo for condoms, I’m right there with you. I’m willing to stand up and talk about safe sex any day of the week. In fact, I try to stand up and practice safe sex every day of the week. But diapers. Uh-uh. Way I figure it, a diaper bunny is about the shittiest thing you could put on Jim Ferguson’s Cup car.”
Sarah could feel her cheeks coloring at Tulane’s use of profanity. When was she going to get over this? She was twenty-three years old, a graduate of Harvard University, and she wanted to be like Deidre Montgomery, National Brand’s vice president of marketing—a woman totally fluent in business profanity. How could Sarah ever achieve success in business if she blushed every time someone said a four-letter word?
“Don’t,” Tulane said, pulling her away from her fantasy of corporate success.
“Don’t what?”
“Sputter. I hate it when a woman starts sputtering in outrage. It always reminds me of Miz Lillian Bray, the chairwoman of the Christ Church Ladies Auxiliary, back home in Last Chance, South Carolina. You cuss in front of her and you’re dead, or you find yourself detailed to altar-boy duty. Miz Lillian, now, she’s a real bully.”
Tulane looked out the window again. The Learjet was rolling, and the engines pressed Sarah back into her seat. With a roar, the little jet sped down the runway, rotated nose up, and surged into the sky. The ground dropped beneath them, providing a view of the spring-green vistas of the Virginia countryside.
Sarah studied the man for a long moment, trying to imagine him as an altar boy. She failed. Her experiences with altar boys had been far-reaching and entirely unsatisfying.
“Mr. Rhodes, I think it would be helpful if you considered me to be just like Miss Lillian. Just remember that my reports back to headquarters will make or break your career.” Oh, boy, she was so lame—like she really had that kind of authority or power.
He gave her a smarmy kind of look that started at her chest, came up to her face, and went back down. She should have resented that gaze, but it made her feel oddly titillated and strangely alive. She didn’t think any man had ever looked at her quite like that, as if she were a fat slice of Boston cream pie.
“If you don’t mind my saying so,” Tulane said, “you are a whole lot younger than Lillian Bray. And, for the record, you sure don’t have her skill when it comes to The Look, either.”
Sarah opened her mouth and shut it again. How on earth did he know about The Look?
“You were about to say something?”
Just how had this conversation taken this strange turn? “Mr. Rhodes, I need you to remember you are now a spokesperson for Cottontail Disposable Diapers. You have to be a role model. Why don’t we spend our time more profitably, by going through our schedule for the next couple of days?”
He settled back into the brown leather seat and tipped his baseball hat down over his eyes. “Honey, you can yammer all you want, but I was up late last night going over car setups with my crew chief, and I thought I’d get a little shut-eye before you have me officiating at diaper-changing contests.”
“Mr. Rhodes, those events are designed to build traffic at the store.”
He opened one gray-green eye and angled his head. “Oh, really? I thought it was just for the fun of it.”
“Sorry.”
“Uh-huh. Look, lady, I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to go to Value Mart and put on a pink shirt with a bunny logo and sign autographs for people who are laughing at me. So you could do me a huge favor and just hush up.” His head slapped back on the seat, and his eye shut.
That was it—Sarah’s career was officially over.
Tulane tried not to concentrate too hard on the high-pitched white noise of the jet engines. Their revs were not quite matched, and that sent a little harmonic buzz through the cabin that made his skin crawl.
He hated flying. He could never admit this or the entire world would laugh at him. A man who drove cars two hundred miles an hour should not be afraid of flying. He took a deep breath and told himself he would be okay.
The plane hit a serious bump in the sky, and every nerve ending in his body fried. He concentrated on relaxing the tense muscles in his jaw and thought about the little-bitty woman that National Brands had sent down to take charge of him. He had to admit that this particular woman was a bona fide nice girl. Which, all by its lonesome, made her immediately irresistible, even though being bossed around by a little girl was humiliating.
At least she was easy on the eye. Some pretty impressive curves lurked under that black suit. She had killer eyes, too, of a shade not quite brown and not quite green. Her eyes kind of scrunched up when she smiled, and her freckled face was adorable when she blushed. Someone up in New York either had a sense of humor or knew exactly the kind of nursemaid to send in his direction. He really couldn’t be nasty to a nice girl like that.
The plane was buffeted sideways. Tulane opened his eyes and realized Sarah was studying him with a calculating look on her face. He needed to act fast before she figured out
he was a sissy when it came to planes.
“I reckon I owe you an apology.” The words came out of his mouth without conscious thought.
She smiled up at him with a toothy grin that hit him like the G-forces on turn two at Bristol Speedway. The plane skipped around the sky.
“So I couldn’t help but notice that you come from up north.” Oh, brother. How the heck was he supposed to get around this little-bitty obstacle with a line like that? His body flushed hot.
“I’ve lived in Boston most of my life. I moved to New York right after graduation from Harvard to take the job with National Brands.”
“So your folks come over on the Mayflower or something?” he asked.
Sarah gave him an icy smile. “Everyone asks that question. As a matter of fact, my mother’s family did come over on the Mayflower.”
“And your daddy’s family, too?” With his luck, her daddy was a governor or something. That would make her not only a cute bully, but a well-connected one.
“Dad’s from Wyoming.”
“Really?”
She nodded. The plane bumped. Tulane clutched the armrests. She noticed but said nothing. Good.
“And what about you, Mr. Rhodes?”
He relaxed his death grip and reached for his southern charm. “Well, I reckon you know all about me, ma’am.”
“I know you grew up in a small town in South Carolina with a peculiar name. Your mother is a hairdresser and your father is a mechanic?”
He tried not to cringe. He wasn’t about to make his daddy a national laughingstock by telling the truth about him. He’d been protecting Daddy’s honor all his life, so he’d lied through his teeth in that bogus bio. He needed to change the subject. Now.
“So tell me,” he said, “how’d a nice girl like you get into the business of advancing celebrity athletes like me?”
“Mr. Rhodes, I hardly think—”
“Better fasten up back there,” came the disembodied voice of the pilot. “We’re going to have to weave our way through a few thunderstorms.”
Just then the plane took another hit from turbulent air. The clouds outside the window were turning an unsettling shade of gray. Tulane tried to battle his fear by tightening his seatbelt.
He turned back toward Sarah. She didn’t seem to be all that worried about falling out of the sky or being struck by lightning.
She leaned forward, as if nothing untoward was happening. “What I was about to say is that I hardly think driving a stock car makes you an athlete. An entertainer perhaps. Certainly a daredevil, but not an athlete.”
“Trust me, it’s a sport,” he said through his locked teeth.
“It’s entertainment. And besides, you just go around in circles for five hundred miles, so it’s not very entertaining entertainment. That probably explains why it’s the fastest-growing phenomenon in the entertainment industry.”
“Look here, you name me one other sport where a man goes out and risks his life every time he performs.” And every time he has to fly to another city.
She smirked at him. “Bull riding.”
“What?”
“Bull riding. Not only do bull riders have to hang on to a raging bull, but they take their lives in their hands every time they enter the ring. I might also point out that bullfighters regularly wear pink, too.”
“Yeah, well, I reckon you’d never catch a bull rider in pink.”
Her eyes widened, like she knew some great big secret. “You might be surprised what bull riders wear.”
“And just exactly what do you know about bull riding?”
“My father rode bulls for a living. He was pretty good at it, too. I saw some pictures of him all dressed up in fringe and sequins—purple ones.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“Why would I kid you about that?”
A flash came from outside the fuselage, followed by a crack of thunder, and it felt as if God were trying to strike one of them dead. “Shit,” Tulane said aloud.
The red crawled up Sarah’s neck, but otherwise she seemed unperturbed by the thunderstorm.
“How did a bull rider produce such a prissy little daughter?” Tulane asked.
“You think I’m prissy?” Sarah sat even straighter in her chair and looked down her nose. She looked like a twelve-year-old trying to be outraged.
“Yes, ma’am,” he drawled, forgetting about the black cloud beyond the window. Teasing her was so much fun.
Her eyes sparkled with ire. “I am a lady, Mr. Rhodes, not a priss. I realize this distinction is probably lost on a person such as yourself.”
“You don’t like being prissy, do you?”
“I’m not prissy. I’m a businesswoman. I have a job to do, and I’d appreciate it if you would—”
“Like hell,” he said.
The blush staining her neck started to crawl up her cheeks.
“See? I say the world ‘hell’ and you light up like a neon Budweiser sign. Honey, hell isn’t even a really bad cuss word. NASCAR wouldn’t even dock me points or fine me if I said that word in a TV interview.”
“I don’t think it’s necessary for us to have a full discourse on profanity, Mr. Rhodes.”
“Honey, if you want to learn how to cuss, I can sure teach you how. Believe it or not, I have been fully briefed on the Federal Communication Commission’s list of seven dirty words that are never to be said over the airwaves. Would you like me to help you learn them? We could start with the filthiest one on the list. By the way, it’s f—”
“Don’t say it, please.” Sarah closed her eyes, but her face glowed. She didn’t look very angry. She looked kind of turned on.
“Okay, I won’t say that word, although it almost escaped my lips a while ago when that lightning hit.”
“I’m not surprised.” She opened her eyes and gazed up at him. Yep, she was like every nice girl he’d ever met. A naughty spirit lurked deep inside her, yearning to be free. And wasn’t it fun to play dirty with a nice girl?
“Okay, forget the FCC,” Tulane said with smirk. “Let’s start with something easier, like taking the name of the Lord in vain. People these days hardly think that’s cussing.”
“I’m surprised you would want to chance such a thing, given the way you’ve been clutching the arms of your seat.”
Uh-oh. He didn’t like that. If she ever told anyone he was afraid of heights, he’d be laughed at from one end of America to the other. What in the world was he going to do about that?
One answer came immediately to mind as he studied her nice-girl pearls and pumps. It would be easy to compromise her integrity.
He took in a breath and launched his attack. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. But why don’t we just move to the really easy cuss words, like ‘hell’? No one considers that a cuss word anymore. C’mon, girl, just say it once for me.”
Sarah angled her chin up and something naughty ignited in her eyes. Tulane breathed a little easier. This might be fun.
“The hell I will,” she said, and then her face turned beet red.
And just at that moment, a ray of sunshine came cascading through the window, lighting up her hair with fire and making her look like a demonic angel. Tulane’s pulse rate climbed, but for the moment it had nothing to do with his fear of flying.
THE DISH
Where authors give you the inside scoop!
From the desk of Hope Ramsay
Dear Reader,
Picture, if you will, a little girl in a polka-dot bathing suit, standing on a rough board jutting out over the waters of the Edisto River in South Carolina. She’s about six years old, and standing below her in the chest-high, tea-colored water is a tall man with a deep, deep Southern drawl—the kind that comes right up out of the ground.
“Jump, little gal,” the man says. “I’ll catch you.”
The little girl was me. And the man was my Uncle Ernest. And that memory is one of those touchstone moments that I go back to again and again. My uncle want
ed me to face my fear of jumping into the water, but he was there, big hands outstretched, steady, sturdy, and sober as a judge. He was the model of a man I could trust.
I screwed up my courage and took that leap of faith. I jumped. He caught me. He taught me to love jumping into the river and swimming in those dark, mysterious waters, overhung with Spanish moss and sometimes visited by snakes and gators!
I loved Uncle Ernest. He was my favorite uncle. He’s been gone for quite a while now, but I think of him often, and he lives on in my heart.
There is even a little bit of him in Clay Rhodes, the hero of my debut novel, WELCOME TO LAST CHANCE. Jane, the heroine of the story, has to learn that Clay is the type of guy she can always trust. A guy she can take a leap of faith with. A guy who will always be there to catch her, even when she has to face her biggest fears.
And isn’t love all about taking a leap of faith?
I had such fun writing WELCOME TO LAST CHANCE, because it afforded me the opportunity to go back in time and remember what it was like spending my summers in a little town in South Carolina with folks who were like Uncle Ernest—people who made up a village where a child could grow up safe and sound and learn what makes a life meaningful.
I hope you enjoy meeting the characters in Last Chance, South Carolina, as much as I enjoyed writing them.
Y’all take care now,
www.hoperamsay.com
From the desk of Cynthia Eden
Dear Reader,
Have you ever wondered how far you would go to protect someone you loved? What would you do if the person you loved was in danger?
Love can make people do wild, desperate things… and love can certainly push people to cross the thin line between good and evil.
When I wrote DEADLY LIES, I created characters who would be forced to blur the lines between good and evil. Desperate times can call for desperate measures.
The heroine of this book is a familiar face if you’ve read the other DEADLY books. Samantha “Sam” Kennedy was first introduced in DEADLY FEAR. Sam lived through hell, and she’s now fighting to put her life back on track. She knows what evil looks like, and she knows that evil can hide behind the most innocent of faces. So when Sam is assigned to work on a serial kidnapping case, she understands that she has to be on her guard at all times.
