Impulsive Gamble

by Lynn Turner

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ he growled over her shoulder.

  Abbie gritted her teeth and vowed not to make a scene. ‘What does it look as if I’m doing?’

  Her fingers closed around the handle of her suitcase. A second later Mal’s hand clamped over hers.

  ‘It looks like you’re going back on your word.’

  Abbie cast an anxious glance at the Sable, even though the muttered accusation couldn’t have carried more than a few feet. To her relief, she saw that Roxanne and Tony were still huddled over a road map they’d unfolded on the car’s hood.

  ‘Well?’ Mal prompted impatiently. ‘Say something, dammit!’

  Abbie released the suitcase and yanked her hand from beneath his. He was too close, crowding her, his chest nudging her arm and each exhalation a warm caress against her cheek. She started to back out of the car. Before her shoulders had cleared the opening, Mal’s hands clamped on her waist. The next thing she knew, she was sitting on the floor of the storage area, her legs dangling over the rear bumper. She glared up at him.

  ‘Talk to me, Abigail.’

  The gentle concern in his voice was Abbie’s undoing. If he’d been his usual rude, overbearing self, she might have been able to stick to her impulsive decision to cancel their agreement. It would have been cowardly and unprofessional of her, and heaven knew how she would have explained to Roger, but at least she’d have been off the hook. No more lies, no more deceit. No more guilt. If she didn’t take part in the race, she couldn’t very well write a feature article about it, now could she? It had seemed the perfect solution … for her.

  But what about Mal? How could she back out of their deal, when she knew that to do so would leave him without a competent driver and virtually assure that Roxanne would win their bet?

  When she didn’t say anything, he slipped a hand under her chin and lifted it so that he could look into her troubled eyes. ‘Don’t do it, Abigail,’ he said softly. ‘I knew you’re upset, and probably madder than a wet hen, but don’t get back at me by leaving me in the lurch. I need you.’

  The simple, quietly spoken appeal sealed Abbie’s fate, and she knew it. Still, her instinct for self-preservation compelled her to make a half-hearted attempt to forestall the inevitable.

  ‘You could always get Joey Bender,’ she said peevishly.

  Mal’s head moved in a firm negative. ‘Chat of the question. It’s you or nobody.’

  The corners of her mouth indented wryly. Joey Bender had been her one and only trump card. ‘Since you put it that way, I guess I don’t have much—’

  She abruptly cut herself off, her eyes narrowing to slits. ‘Wait a minute. When we were in the garage this morning, you threatened to leave me in town and get Joey Bender to drive the Shelby to Washington if I didn’t participate in your sleazy little exhibition for Deke and the mechanics.’

  Mal was obviously disconcerted by the reminder. A smear of red appeared on each of his high, slanting cheekbones. He averted his eyes, then cleared his throat.

  ‘I was bluffing.’

  He muttered it half under his breath, so that Abbie wasn’t sure she’d heard right. ‘What?’

  He grimaced. ‘I said I was bluffing.’

  ‘I see,’ she murmured.

  ‘Are you going to pop your cork?’ He looked and sounded as if he folly expected her to pop something … or someone.

  Abbie pretended to give the question serious consideration. She should have been angry; downright furious, in fact. He had just admitted to using extortion to control and manipulate her. But, for some strange reason, seeing him like this—off balance, uncertain, slightly defensive—defused her anger. How could she rant and rave at him, when he looked like a little boy who’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar?

  ‘No, I’m not going to pop my cork.’ She waited until his wary frown cleared, then added, ‘Not now, anyway.’

  The frown instantly reappeared. ‘What does that mean?’

  Abbie didn’t answer until she’d scooted out of the car and dusted off the seat of her jeans. ‘It means not now,’ she said calmly. ‘Here comes Deke. Looks like he bought something.’

  ‘I sent him to get a radar detector,’ Mal said as he closed the hatchback and removed the key from the lock. He was still frowning when he handed the key ring to Abbie. ‘I detect a definite threat, here. Be warned, Abigail Prudence, I don’t take kindly to being threatened. If you’re going to throw a tantrum or something, let’s just get it the hell over with.’

  Abbie gave him a disdainful look. ‘I assure you, Garrett, I don’t throw tantrums. The radar detector was a good idea. I understand the newer models can pick up a radar signal from around a curve or over a hill.’

  Mal planted his hands on his hips and squinted at her fiercely from beneath the bill of his cap. ‘Let’s stick to one subject, all right? Are you keeping score, is that it—mentally recording a little blade mark next to my name every time I do or say something you don’t like?’

  Abbie smiled serenely. ‘Something like that.’

  His scowl deepened, but Deke arrived before he could voice whatever dark thoughts were lurking behind his hooded, brooding eyes. Sheriff Collier was only a couple of seconds behind Deke. Abbie returned the sheriffs greeting with a nervous smile and then used a quick trip to the ladies’ room of Gladys’s Cafe as an excuse to escape the amused gleam in the lawman’s eyes. By the time she returned, the radar detector had been installed and it was time for the race to start.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘Speed?’

  Abbie checked the speedometer. ‘Ninety-seven.’ Mal’s head snapped around, his eyebrows jammed together over his nose. ‘Just kidding,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m still holding it at seventy, like you said.’

  ‘Very funny,’ he grumbled. He leaned over to check the odometer reading himself, then went back to his calculations. Abbie sighed softly, resigning herself to another stretch of tedious silence. Except for an occasional tense question such as the one he’d just asked, he’d hardly spoken during the hour they had been on the road.

  She darted a curious look at the blue nylon sports bag resting between his feet. She’d first noticed the bag when Mal retrieved it from the back seat, just before Sheriff Collier started the race. She’d wanted to ask about it then, but there hadn’t been time; the Sable’s engine was already idling and both sides of the street were lined with excited spectators, most of them waving and yelling encouragement to Mal.

  Abbie had felt the crowd’s outpouring of support, their collective pride in one of their own, and her palms had suddenly gone cold and clammy. For the first time the enormity of the commitment she’d made, the responsibility she had thoughtlessly accepted, came home to her. These people were counting on her. They expected her to drive the Shelby to victory. To win the race. Not just for Mal, but for all of them. What in heaven’s name had she got herself into? What business did she have pitting her puny skills against those of Tony Ferris, a world-class racing driver? She must be crazy.

  Before her anxiety could escalate into a full-blown panic, Mal had signalled to Sheriff Collier that they were ready. Abbie watched, dry-mouthed and slightly nauseated, as the sheriffs right arm slowly rose from his side: For one crazy second she had considered switching off the engine and tendering her resignation. But, before thought could be translated to action, the green flag in Collier’s hand had flashed down and her last chance to cut and run was gone.

  As soon as they reached the open highway, the Sable had passed them in an impressive burst of speed. Abbie’s right foot automatically applied more pressure to the accelerator. The Shelby leapt forward in response.

  ‘Don’t,’ Mal said sharply. ‘Let him go.’

  ‘They must be doing eighty-five or ninety,’ she had protested. ‘If we don’t at least keep up with them—’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said calmly. ‘They won’t risk maintaining that speed for long. Tony’s just showing off, trying to psych us out. Ease back
to seventy and hold it there until I tell you to speed up. I want to make a few calculations between here and Joplin.’

  Abbie had followed his instructions against her better judgement. Joplin, Missouri was a little over one hundred miles away, just across the state line. If she held their speed to seventy for the next hundred miles, they wouldn’t have a prayer of catching the Sable. From the corner of her eye she saw Mal remove two items from the blue nylon bag. One of the objects was a pocket calculator; it took her a moment to identify the other as a slide rule.

  ‘What are you doing … estimating our fuel consumption?’

  She’d taken his soft grunt as an affirmative. He was already absorbed in his calculations, and she prudently decided not to distract him with any more questions.

  In a way, she had been glad that his attention was occupied. She’d been afraid he might follow up on that last exchange they’d had back in town, maybe demand to know how many black marks he had accumulated and for what. Abbie knew her own limits, and she’d just about reached them. She was wound as tight as the mainspring of a watch. She needed some time to calm down and recharge her emotional batteries before she engaged in another verbal sparring match.

  The first long stretch of interstate highway was fairly straight and flat, which meant that driving didn’t require a great deal of concentration. All she had to do was keep the tyres on the road and maintain a cruising speed of seventy miles per hour. It hadn’t taken long for boredom to set in.

  Some race, she thought glumly. The Sable had quickly become a distant white speck and eventually disappeared over the horizon. Tony and Roxanne were probably halfway to St Louis by now, and Mal just kept playing with his slide rule and his calculator.

  ‘How are we doing?’ she ventured to ask when they reached the toll booth on the Oklahoma side of the state line.

  Mal spared her a brief, impatient glance. ‘What?’

  ‘I asked how we’re doing. Fuel-wise, I mean. Are we OK, or should I keep my eye out for a service station?’

  He heaved a put-upon sigh, then leaned over and tapped the fuel gauge directly in front of her. Abbie pressed her lips together and resisted the urge to leave behind five feet of rubber as she pulled away from the toll booth.

  ‘I know what it says,’ she told him. ‘But the needle must be stuck. It hasn’t budged since we started.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with the gauge,’ he muttered as he went back to fiddling with his slide rule.

  ‘There must be. I just told you, the needle hasn’t moved since we—’

  Mal gave up trying to concentrate on his figures and lifted his head to frown at her darkly. ‘I checked all the instruments and the electrical system last night. Trust me, Abigail, the gauge is working perfectly. Now, will you kindly shut up so I can finish these calculations?’

  Abbie mulled over what he’d said for the next eight miles. Either he was dead wrong and the gauge really was broken—which, she had to admit, didn’t seem likely—or he had built an engine that practically ran on air. Every few seconds her eyes darted back to the needle, as if she thought she might catch it in the act of moving. Eventually she realised that it had in fact crept about a sixteenth of an inch to the right since they left the courthouse square. OK, so it wasn’t stuck. Still, how many gallons of gasoline did sixteenth of an inch represent? One? Surely no more than that.

  A growing excitement soon replaced her boredom. Mal had said that the winner would be the car that consumed the least amount of fuel and had the fewest mechanical problems during the trip. If the engine Roxanne had designed was as fuel-efficient as this one appeared to be…

  By the time they reached the first Joplin exit, her always lively curiosity had become an intolerable itch. She could barely restrain the urge to start bombarding Mal with questions. Somehow she managed to wait until the second exit was behind them.

  ‘We’re passing Joplin now,’ she announced, loudly enough to make sure she got his attention.

  Mal looked up in surprise. ‘Already?’

  ‘We’ve been on the road more than an hour and a half. Have you finished your calculations?’

  ‘For now.’ He replaced the calculator and slide rule in the sports bag, then linked his fingers behind his head and arched his back to stretch out the kinks. Abbie allowed herself one quick peek at the way his shirt was pulled taut across his chest, then decided that, for safety’s sake, she’d better keep her eyes on the road.

  ‘Does that mean I can speed up?’ she asked hopefully.

  ‘I’d like to get there in one piece,’ Mal drawled in reply.

  ‘So would I. Preferably before noon Monday.’

  ‘All right, you can take it up to eighty. But if the radar detector goes off—’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Abbie interrupted. ‘I’ll hit the brakes before the cops can lock on to us.’ She waited until the speedometer registered eighty, then remarked casually, ‘I figure we’re getting between sixty and seventy miles to the gallon.’

  Mal folded his arms over his chest and swivelled slightly to look at her. ‘Oh, you figure that, do you?’

  ‘I admit it’s only a guesstimate. How close am I?’

  ‘Close enough.’ He shifted again, hooking his left arm over the seat back so that he was facing her. ‘I won’t have a precise figure until I can take a measurement of how much fuel we’ve used, but we should be averaging about sixty-seven miles per gallon.’

  ‘Impressive,’ Abbie said, and meant it. ‘Those modifications you made must have been pretty radical.’

  ‘Not really. Basically it amounted to replacing a few standard parts with components I designed to do the same jobs, only more efficiently. Any decent mechanic could have done it.’

  Abbie heard the slight emphasis on ‘any’. ‘Hey, it was an honest mistake. You looked like you’d just finished the day shift at the corner Texaco station.’

  ‘And you looked like you were just starting the night shift.’

  A startled laugh escaped her. ‘I beg your pardon!’

  ‘Well, you were sashaying around a public bar in a see-through blouse and glow-in-the-dark eyelids.’

  ‘You can’t see through this House!’ Abbie asserted, then cast a quick glance downwards to be sure. ‘And I wasn’t sashaying. I was just sitting there having a drink, minding my own business—’

  ‘Eavesdropping,’ Mal put in drily.

  A sheepish smile tugged at her mouth. ‘Well…’

  ‘And when you heard me talking about the race, you came right over to solicit a job as my driver, bold as brass.’

  ‘But I didn’t do any sashaying,’ she repeated firmly.

  ‘You surely did,’ he insisted.

  ‘I wasn’t coming on to you.’ It seemed important that she make that clear, but she couldn’t have said why.

  ‘Did I say you were?’

  ‘Well, it sounds like you thought I was.’

  ‘Maybe not consciously,’ he allowed in a hazily amused drawl.

  Abbie opened her mouth, then abruptly closed it Without making the retort that was on the tip of her tongue. It suddenly dawned on her that he was doing it again—changing the subject, deliberately distracting her so she wouldn’t ask questions he didn’t want to answer.

  ‘I get the message, Garrett,’ she said coolly.

  ‘You do?’ A note of puzzlement had joined the amusement in his voice.

  ‘Loud and clear,’ she assured him.

  Mal cocked his head to one side, lips pursed, eyes narrowed. He studied her profile for several seconds, taking in her heightened colour and the contrary set of her jaw. ‘Something tells me the message you got wasn’t the one I thought I was sending,’ he murmured. ‘I wasn’t putting you down.’

  Abbie feigned enlightened surprise. ‘Oh, I see. Ridiculing the way I dress and how much make-up I wear is your way of complimenting me. How typically perverse of you.’

  ‘Dammit, I was only teasing.’

  She shot him a withering look. ‘Spar
e me, please. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘The hell it doesn’t!’ Mal snapped. His vehemence surprised Abbie, but she didn’t let it show.

  ‘It doesn’t,’ she reiterated. ‘We both know you were only trying to sidetrack me .. . again. As I said, I got the message. I promise not to grill you about your precious top secret engine.’

  She could feel him watching her in the pregnant silence that followed. ‘And you call me perverse,’ he muttered sourly. ‘For your information, Abigail Prudence, you’ve jumped headfirst to the wrong conclusion … again.’

  He sounded so perturbed that, if Abbie hadn’t known better, she’d have thought she had said something to offend him. She favoured him with a sceptical glance.

  ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ he demanded.

  She didn’t, but she wasn’t about to call him a liar to his face. She opted for a diplomatic retreat instead. ‘Let’s just forget it. I can understand why you’re reluctant to tell me about the engine. You don’t know much about me, after all. If I were the unscrupulous sort, I could probably—’

  ‘What do you want to know?’ he asked curtly.

  ‘—sell whatever you told me to—What?’

  ‘Never mind, it would be simpler to just describe the modifications I made and the reasons for each of them.’

  Which he proceeded to do. In detail. Abbie desperately tried to digest the avalanche of technical information, now and then interrupting with a succinct question or a request for clarification, and prayed that she would be able to remember one tenth of it when she sat down at the keyboard to write her story. Fortunately traffic was sparse, so she was able to devote most of her attention to what he was saying. Most of the other people traversing Missouri on I44 that afternoon were driving tractor-trailer rigs or moving vans, and most of them were travelling at least as fast as the Shelby.

  By the time Mal finished answering the last of her questions, they had covered more than half the distance between Joplin and St Louis. He took out his calculator, checked the various gauges and announced that they were now averaging close to seventy miles per gallon.