Impulsive Gamble

by Lynn Turner

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Abbie said in a small, timorous voice.

  Mal frowned impatiently. ‘Not you, for pity’s sake.’

  The breath wheezed out of her in relief. ‘Oh. Roxie.’

  ‘Yeah. Oh, Roxie.’ They reached the cafe and he released her to open the door. Abbie hurried through it ahead of him. If she moved fast enough, maybe she could avoid any more physical contact with him for a while. Her entire nervous system could use a few minutes’ rest.

  ‘Is this booth all right?’ She was already sliding on to one of the black-vinyl-upholstered benches as she asked.

  Mal gave her an odd look. ‘Fine.’ Instead of taking a seat on the opposite bench, he slid in beside her. His hip collided gently with hers. Abbie hastily scooted over against the wall.

  ‘Get back over here,’ Mal said in a muted growl. He gave her all of two seconds to comply, then shoved his arm behind her and clamped his hand on her waist to haul her back against him.

  Abbie silently cursed the slick vinyl as her bottom slid across it. She could feel Mal’s puzzled, questioning gaze, but she refused to meet his eyes, and tried to block out the warm fingers that were lightly, almost absently, caressing her waist.

  ‘What’s with you, anyway?’ he muttered. ‘You’re stiff as a board.’

  ‘I’m getting a tension headache.’

  Which, if it fell short of being an explanation, at least wasn’t another bald-faced lie. Tension had been accumulating inside her for the past eighteen hours. The shock of meeting Roxanne Winston alone would have been enough to precipitate a lulu of a headache. Dear lord, if the woman had recognised her …

  She didn’t complete the thought, because Mal’s hand suddenly moved from her waist to her nape.

  ‘Here?’ he murmured. His thumb found the hollow at the base of her skull and his fingers splayed over the muscle connecting her neck to her shoulder. He began a gentle, rhythmic massage that jump-started her libido and had her breathing shallowly through her mouth within seconds.

  ‘Try to relax,’ he coaxed softly. ‘I know you’re not crazy about this situation, but we only have to keep up the act for another hour.’

  Abbie smiled.

  He said soberly, ‘You don’t like lying, do you . .. pretending to be something you’re not?’

  Abbie closed her eyes and wished she could believe that the sudden pain beneath her breastbone was caused by the sausages she’d had for breakfast. ‘No,’ she said huskily. ‘I don’t.’

  The warmth of Mal’s breath against her cheek alerted her to the fact that he was much closer than he had been a moment before. She kept her eyes closed, afraid that if she opened them he would see her guilt and confusion. She wasn’t expecting the feather-light touch of his lips at her temple. Her breath caught audibly. She knew Mal had heard the small sound, because he suddenly went very still. His fingers stopped massaging in mid-stroke. She thought that for a second or two he even stopped breathing.

  ‘I knew you were trouble the second I laid eyes on you,’ he murmured. He sounded resentful. ‘Dammit, Abigail!

  How am I supposed to concentrate on this race, when every time I look at you I want to touch you, and every time I touch you I want to take you to bed?’

  Her weakened resolve was miraculously restored to full strength. ‘Simple,’ she said coolly. ‘Look, but don’t touch.’

  His left eyebrow rose in sardonic amusement. ‘Easier said than done, I’m afraid.’

  He leaned toward her as if he intended to prove his point. Abbie pressed her lips together and twisted her head away.

  ‘Don’t,’ she murmured Her voice was husky, but firm.

  Mal’s hand rested on her neck a moment longer before he removed it. Abbie relaxed a little, but she knew the reprieve was only temporary. The chemistry between them was too potent to be harnessed indefinitely.

  She was thankful that Mal was no longer touching her. If he had been, he’d have felt the shiver that raced down her spine, and she had no doubt at all that he’d have instantly recognised the sexual excitement that triggered it.

  The waitress finally came out from behind the counter to bring them two glasses of iced water. She didn’t bother to conceal her curiosity, giving Abbie a thorough inspection while she removed an order pad from the pocket of her apron and a pencil from the frizzy salt and pepper hair above her ear.

  ‘Mornin’, Mal,’ she drawled ‘What’ll you have?’

  Mal grinned and lifted a hand to the bill of his cap, pushing it back on his head ‘Four coffees, three slices of rhubarb pie and some aspirin for the lady, thanks, Irma.’

  Irma wrote the order on her pad, then turned her sharp, inquisitive gaze on Abbie again as she stuck the pencil back in her hair. ‘Headache?’ she asked succinctly.

  Abbie nodded ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not surprisin’,’ Irma observed. ‘I saw you bad? that black monster of Mal’s off the trailer. I guess you’ll be drivin’ it in this race.’

  Abbie had to smile a little at the woman’s directness. ‘That’s right.’

  Irma’s head bobbed in satisfaction. ‘Figured as much. I’d better get you somethin’ for an upset stomach, while I’m at it.’

  When Irma had disappeared through a door that Abbie presumed led to the kitchen, she turned to Mal with a wry smile. ‘She must know you pretty well.’

  ‘Since I was knee-high to a grasshopper,’ he confirmed. ‘Irma and her sister Gladys operate what you might call an information clearing-house. Either of them could give you the address, phone number, birth date and present marital status of anyone born in this county in the last thirty years.’

  Abbie was thinking it was a shame she hadn’t known about the sisters a few days earlier, when the door at the front of the cafe opened and Tony and Roxanne entered. Irma reappeared just as they reached the booth. As soon as the other couple was seated, she placed a cup and a saucer before each of them and began filling the cups with coffee.

  ‘Good to see you, Tony,’ she said as she handed Abbie a small tin of aspirin. ‘Still take it black?’

  Abbie couldn’t help noticing that Irma pointedly ignored Roxanne Winston. Judging by the slight compression of Roxanne’s lips, she had noticed, too.

  ‘Affirmative,’ Tony replied ‘You never forget a thing, do you, Irma?’

  Irma’s gaze momentarily swung to Roxanne, who had picked up her cup for a dainty sip. ‘That’s right.’

  The animosity that had suddenly invaded Irma’s voice surprised Abbie. She was even more surprised by the friendly smile Irma gave her as she placed a dessert plate beside her saucer. Abbie frowned at the wedge-shaped object on the plate as if she wasn’t quite sure what it was or what she was expected to do with it.

  ‘Rhubarb pie,’ Mal said in amusement. ‘The idea is to eat it.’

  Abbie shot him a mildly annoyed look. Since he hadn’t asked if she wanted any pie, she had assumed the third slice he’d ordered was for Roxanne. She shook her head dubiously as she removed two aspirin from the tin. ‘I don’t think …’

  ‘Go ahead, dig in,’ Tony encouraged. ‘It tastes better than it looks, honest.’

  Unconvinced, Abbie turned to Roxanne. ‘Have you ever tried it?’

  ‘Once.’

  The one-word answer and the faint grimace that accompanied it made it clear that once had been enough. Something inside Abbie tightened in response to Roxanne’s bored, supercilious tone. She picked up her fork, determined to polish off every last crumb. Fortunately, Tony had been right—rhubarb pie did taste better than it looked.

  ‘Not bad,’ she admitted when she’d washed down the last bite with a sip of coffee. ‘But I don’t think it’ll ever replace cheesecake as my all-time favourite dessert.’

  Mal’s mouth tilted in one of his sexy-as-sin half-smiles, and he lifted his hand to rub a lazy fingertip over her lower lip. The casual contact sent a jolt of electricity all the way to the soles of Abbie’s feet, as she watched him transfer the finger t
o his own mouth.

  ‘Slob,’ he said softly. His tongue came out to lick an invisible dab of rhubarb pie filling from the end of his finger. Abbie’s toes curled inside her shoes.

  ‘Next time, use a napkin.’ His voice was teasing, affectionately amused. His finger made another trip to her mouth, concentrating on the corners this time. It was still wet from his tongue. Abbie wondered with a touch of hysteria how she was going to get through the next two days with her sanity intact.

  ‘On second thoughts, don’t bother,’ he said in that same teasing murmur. ‘This way’s more fun.’

  The logical, rational part of her brain realised that this erotic little scene was being staged for Roxanne’s benefit, that he was only playing a part. The trouble was, it was damned hard to be logical or rational when the mere brush of his finger against her mouth liquefied her bones and sent her heart into a tailspin. He seemed to hesitate, as if he were considering how much more improvisation was called for. A second later his open mouth covered hers. The kiss was blessedly brief, but devastating all the same. His tongue made a leisurely pass across the tender flesh inside her lower lip just before he abruptly pulled back. Abbie was dimly aware of swaying toward him. His arm instantly slipped around her and tucked her close against his side. So close that she could feel each disturbed thud of his heart through his ribcage.

  ‘If you two have finished …’ Roxanne’s caustic voice brought Abbie plummeting back to earth.

  ‘Finished?’ Mal said in a lazily amused drawl. ‘Not by a long shot. Maybe in forty or fifty years.’

  Abbie reached for her coffee-cup to wet her parched mouth and throat. Forty or fifty years?

  ‘Sounds like you’ve got it bad,’ Tony remarked.

  Mal glanced at Abbie. His tender smile made her extremely nervous. ‘You could say that,’ he murmured. ‘I intend to marry her.’

  Twenty minutes later Abbie leaned against the Shelby’s right front fender while she waited for Mal and Deke to run a couple of last-minute errands. She narrowed her eyes, her attention drawn to the vehicle Tony had parked beside the Shelby.

  Roxanne Winston’s car. The one equipped with the experimental engine Roxanne Winston had designed. A brand new Mercury Sable. The pristine white paint contrasted conspicuously with the Shelby’s midnight black; also with the scarlet upholstery visible through the Sable’s tinted windows. Roxanne’s car was an extension of its owner: sleek, sophisticated, stylishly contemporary. Beside it the Shelby looked like an anachronism … a hulking, lumpish machine that had somehow been transported from a less civilised age, when brute power had been prized above graceful lines and the efficient use of aerodynamics.

  Abbie didn’t like Roxanne’s car. She didn’t like Roxanne either, for that matter. Both the vehicle and the woman were too flawless, too slickly packaged, too …

  Too perfect, damn it. The Shelby didn’t stand a chance against such a superbly designed and engineered car. Mal had told her that he’d kept the original fuel-guzzling four-twenty-eight engine. No matter what modifications he’d made to it, Abbie didn’t see how the Shelby could possibly consume less fuel than the Sable.

  He was going to lose the bet.

  The thought caused a cramping sensation in the general region of her heart. There was no point in lying to herself about the cause of her distress. If Mal lost the bet, he would have to move to New York and become Roxanne’s partner. And Abbie didn’t believe for a second that Roxanne would be content with merely a professional relationship. She wanted him back, and she meant to have him … on her terms.

  That fact had been glaringly obvious when Mal had said he intended to marry Abbie. Tony’s expression had reflected his stunned amazement. Roxanne, on the other hand, had looked positively furious. Abbie vividly remembered the antipathy in the other woman’s cold blue eyes as they’d pinned her to the vinyl bench.

  Resentful anger had surged inside Abbie, filling her chest and pushing up into her throat. It still amazed and annoyed her that Mal had appeared to be blissfully ignorant of the charged atmosphere around the table.

  When he started hashing out the rules with Tony and Roxanne, the trio had quickly established a list of three simple, straightforward rules. Number one: a log was to be kept of each car’s fuel consumption. The log would also include a record of any repairs made during the trip and the reason for each. Number two: each team was free to take whatever route they chose. And number three: observance of posted speed limits was optional. It was the extra condition Mal had insisted on including that had caused a knot of dread to form in Abbie’s stomach.

  Actually, it hadn’t been a condition, so much as an ultimatum. It had also been the last in a series of unsettling surprises. First, Abbie had discovered that the race had been Roxanne’s brainchild, not Mal’s, as she’d assumed. She was still trying to decide how that fact would affect her story when Roxanne informed Mal that she had conceived the idea as a way to promote their individual research—something she had neglected to mention until minutes before the race was to start. To say that Mal had reacted negatively would have been a colossal understatement.

  ‘Forget it,’ he told Roxanne bluntly. ‘If you think I’ll let you turn this into a cheap publicity stunt, you’ve got another think coming. You’ll have to come up with some other gimmick to get your picture on the cover of Newsweek.’

  Roxanne had bristled defensively. ‘There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be recognised for the work I’ve done. Unlike you, I appreciate the value of good publicity.’

  ‘There’s ho such thing,’ Mal retorted.

  Roxanne flicked one elegant hand in an exasperated gesture. ‘The Press isn’t your enemy, Malachi. You may not want to admit it, but you need diem as much as they need you.’

  Mal shook his head, his expression obstinate. ‘Nobody needs reporters.’ Abbie controlled an urge to cringe. ‘Hell, they’re no better than scavengers. No, on second thoughts, they’re worse than scavengers. They’re parasites.’

  Roxanne’s expression had hardened noticeably. ‘I want Press coverage of the race, Malachi.’

  ‘And I don’t.’

  The silence following Mal’s soft rejoinder could have been cut with a knife. He had deliberately let it stretch out until Roxanne began to look a little uneasy. Not worried, exactly, just slightly less confident than she had been.

  ‘So where does that leave us?’ she asked.

  Mal had made her wait a few more seconds before he answered. ‘It depends,’ he said in a deceptively mild tone. ‘If you’ve already made arrangements for one of your reporter friends to cover the race, all deals are off.’

  The flush that had tinted Roxanne’s creamy cheeks verified that she had done exactly that. Abbie had to give her points for perseverance and ingenuity, though. After only a second’s hesitation, Roxanne had offered to call the editor she’d promised the story to and tell him the race had been cancelled… if, in return, Mal would agree to a joint Press conference when they reached Washington. He hadn’t liked the idea, but Roxanne had eventually persuaded him that the deal she was offering was a fair trade-off.

  ‘But get this straight,’ he’d warned, and the hard glint in his eyes had served notice that he meant what he said. ‘If I spot anybody dogging us who even looks like a reporter, I’ll turn the Shelby around and head for home. End of race. And no race, no story.’

  Abbie dug her hand inside her shoulder bag and fished around until she located the bottle of antacid tablets Irma had handed her as she left the cafe. It hadn’t even occurred to Abbie to tell Irma she didn’t need them. She had accepted the bottle gratefully.

  ‘No charge,’ Irma had said when she’d taken out her wallet. ‘Consider it my contribution to helpin’ you win the race.’ After a quick glance to make sure Mal wasn’t within earshot, she added under her breath, ‘Take my advice, honey, don’t let him bully you or boss you around. He’ll prob’ly try, but you just keep in mind that his bark’s worse than his bite, and give as good as you get.�
�

  His bark’s worse than his bite.

  First Deke, and now Irma, had used that phrase to describe Mal. Abbie thought that, under normal circumstances, they were probably right. Unfortunately for her, these weren’t normal circumstances. Try as she might, she couldn’t forget his contemptuous denunciation of reporters. Scavengers, he’d labelled them. Parasites. Parasites, for God’s sake! When he found out who she was and why she’d bamboozled him into letting her drive the Shelby …

  She tipped the bottle and shook two antacid tablets into her palm. It irritated her that her hands trembled slightly. It annoyed her even more to acknowledge that Mal’s derogatory remarks had stung, more than they should have. She tried to dismiss her reaction as a simple case of offended pride, but in her heart she knew it went deeper than that. The miserable, obnoxious truth was that his opinion had the power to hurt her. It wasn’t enough that he’d given her his trust. Fool that she was, she had wanted his respect, too.

  ‘Fat chance,’ she muttered around the chalky tablets as she stuffed the bottle back in her bag. Considering how she’d deceived him, she would consider herself lucky if he didn’t toss her from the top of the Washington Monument.

  ‘Talking to yourself, Abigail?’

  Abbie almost choked on the tablets. She spun around and levelled an accusing scowl at him. ‘It would’ve served you right if I’d dropped dead of a heart attack. Then you’d have been stuck without a driver.’

  Mal’s stance was relaxed, his hands tucked into the back pockets of his jeans. His crooked grin had a predictable effect on her heart-rate. ‘I could always get Joey Bender.’

  The lazy taunt was the last straw. Abbie felt her self-control begin to slip away and didn’t give a damn. ‘Good idea,’ she said curtly.

  She dug the keys to the Shelby out of her purse and started around the car, intending to collect her suitcase. Mal didn’t react until the hatchback popped open and the top half of her body disappeared into the storage compartment. Then he moved, covering the distance between them in three long strides.