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Excerpt...
Juliet Bridger ran from nasty gossip, menacing calls from her jailbird
ex, and a tabloid photographer hot on her heels. She ended up stranded
in a broken down car on the side of a lonely, dusty highway. And then,
much to her dismay, a stranger appeared out of nowhere. A stranger who
looked kind of scary, who sounded kind of gruff, and in no time at all,
he'd chained Juliet's Mustang to the back of his big bad truck and began
towing her to heaven knows where!
Juliet sat ramrod straight
in the Mustang's driver's seat, hands gripped around the steering wheel
and eyes focused on the big blue truck as the stranger towed
her--hopefully--toward the nearest town. It seemed utterly ridiculous to
think he had something other than rescuing her on his mind, but she'd
been the dumb blonde victim in far too many Slash McCall blood-bath
flicks, not to mention the author of a whole lot of mysterious tales
about the unsuspecting prey of murderers and madmen, to sit back, file
her nails and pretend that everything was peachy-keen when she might
very well be at death's door.
She didn't want to worry,
but there was always the possibility that the stranger was taking her to
some despicable hovel in the middle of the woods where he planned to do
lewd, lascivious and diabolical things to her.
One look at the man was
enough for anyone to wonder what he was up to. After all, his hair and
clothing were littered with bits of straw, as if he'd been in a barnyard
brawl, and there were those dark stains on his shirt and jeans that, to
her mystery-writer's eye, looked exactly like blood.
He was definitely a man to
be wary of.
Juliet's foot shot to the
brake pedal when she saw the truck's bright red brake lights flash. Her
heart drummed heavily in her chest, and she hoped against hope that the
stranger wouldn't turn off the highway onto a lonely road. She thought
about bolting from the car and running for her life, but the thumping of
her heart slacked off when the truck followed the signs leading toward
Plentiful, a town described in her Wyoming tour guide as "a bit of the
old west with a touch of class".
Juliet's fingers eased up
on the wheel when the craggy mountains they'd spent the past twenty
minutes winding through flattened into ranchland. Majestic log homes
began to peek through stands of aspen and pine and seemingly endless
white wooden fences stretched around fields of tall, emerald grass where
horses and an occasional goat and cow grazed in the sun.
They crossed a meandering,
rock-strewn stream, passed a small white church with a steeple that
stretched halfway to heaven, and at last drove under an archway built of
thousands of twisting elk horns, with a sign dangling beneath it that
read, "Welcome to Plentiful."
Juliet's neck and shoulder
muscles relaxed as they circled a park where children did cartwheels on
the lawn, dogs chased Frisbees, and a teenaged boy and girl necked in
the shade of a spreading cottonwood.
Duffy's Ice Cream Parlor,
its clapboard panels painted a multitude of pastels, sat on one corner
of Main. Across from that was the Mischievous Moose Emporium, where a
tall, gangly bronze moose with a dubious grin lazed just outside the
entry.
Tourists with cameras
slung around their necks walked up and down the boardwalk. A lean and
lanky cowboy shoved through the swinging doors of the Misty Moon Saloon,
and through her car's open window Juliet caught the heavenly scent of
hamburgers and steaks grilling over mesquite.
Her stomach growled as the
truck towed her past the Plentiful Bank and Trust, Teton Outfitters,
several jewelry and clothing shops, a toy store, and a lovely old salmon
and teal colored Victorian with A Study in Scarlett--Mystery Book and
Tea Shoppe painted blood red on the window.
A mangy black cat raced
across the street, barely beating the truck's wheels, and brushed
against the legs of a tall, dark-haired guy dressed all in black, who
clutched the hand of a petite and pregnant redhead standing just outside
the bookshop's door.
Not far away, three
elderly ladies stood near an old-fashioned wrought-iron street lamp,
shading their eyes to gape at the car being towed through town. Juliet
waved. The women smiled back, then huddled together to gossip about the
sight they'd just witnessed.
Downtown Plentiful wasn't
classy. It wasn't lined with the fancy boutiques and designer shops
Juliet frequented on Fifth Avenue or Rodeo Drive. It wasn't the same
caliber as Aspen, either. No, Plentiful looked as if it had been inked
and water-colored by Walt Disney, the kind of place where everyone in
town gathered together on the Fourth of July to sing "God Bless America"
with the high school band playing in the background, shot off Red Devil
fireworks in the street, spread picnic blankets on the grass, and kicked
back to eat potato salad and hot dogs.
Plentiful was exactly the
kind of town she'd been searching for as she'd driven north. Small and
unpretentious; quaint and homey. And, with any luck, not an ounce of
Beluga could be found anywhere near.
The Mustang bumped through
a rut in the road and all too soon, the water-colored buildings became
nothing but a blur in her rearview mirror.
Pastels changed to
lackluster browns and grays as they cruised by a motel that could have
been ripped straight out of Psycho and past a gigantic tan and black
concrete cowboy boot that had obviously been a fast food joint before it
was boarded up and left to crumble.
Juliet sighed as her
starry-eyed vision of Plentiful dimmed. The town wasn't perfect after
all; then again, she was awfully tired of everything--including
herself--having to be perfect.
Joe's Gas and Bait, the
service station where the guy in the big blue truck chose to stop, was
anything but perfect. Juliet glared through her open window at the
cinderblock building, which had once been painted white but now was a
dingy, weather-stained gray. The office door was covered in black
fingerprints. Two large freezers marked BAIT stood in front of the
windows, their white paint chipped away to reveal red and blackish-brown
rust.
A pile of tires, hubcaps,
and miscellaneous auto parts spilled across the asphalt on one side of
the garage. Parked on the other side was a mud-encrusted yellow tow
truck, which almost blocked the open door to the restroom marked "Men or
Women--get key from office."
The Walt Disney fantasy
town was fading fast.
And now she had to get out
of her car and face the cantankerous, disheveled, and dangerous-looking
guy who'd come to her rescue.
Juliet opened her car door
and slid her sweaty bottom out of the driver's seat. She pressed her
hands against the small of her back to work the kinks out of her joints,
then peeled her pink lacy stretch top from her hot and sticky skin.
Checking her do in the
passenger door window, she fluffed some life back into her Annette
Funicello beehive. If her hair dresser could see what Rita at the Ritzy
Glitzy Salon in Winnemucca, Nevada, had done to her hair, he'd have a
catatonic fit. Her new coif wasn't chic enough for his tastes. It didn't
reek of rich and famous. Neither did the hot pink polish Rita had
swirled on Juliet's fingernails and toes, the pretty-in-pink duds Juliet
had picked up at Gaudy Galore, or the violet contact lenses Rita told
her were all the rage.
But her disguise was
foolproof, part kitschy, part the girl she'd been before she'd run off
to see the world. Still, the pink Kate Spade sunglasses, pink Jimmy
Choos, and pink flamingo Isabella Fiore tote she'd picked up at Neiman
Marcus in San Francisco as she ran away from Wonderland let her retain a
part of what she'd been for most of her adult life.
She no longer looked like
the dumb blonde sex kitten who continually got sliced and diced on the
big screen, the jungle goddess in a leafy bikini from TV shows and video
games, or the stylish mystery novelist-slash-ex wife of a fabulously
wealthy yet imprisoned conman.
She'd successfully escaped
her former life--at least for awhile. She blew a big pink bubble and
decided that freedom from paparazzi, from Garrett's phone calls, and
from the life that had been crushing her felt awfully good.
Of course, the scorching
blacktop burning through the soles of her stilettos didn't feel quite as
nice. She thought about climbing back into the car so her feet could
cool off--until the hint of a breeze fluttered around the garage. It
carried with it the scent of grease and gasoline, but it blew through
her lacy top and offered much-needed relief from the stifling day.
It whipped around the man
who'd rescued her, too, tossing his sun-streaked dark blonde hair about
as he climbed from his truck. The gust disappeared as quickly as it
came, leaving a sand-colored lock dangling over his brow.
How odd. He no longer
looked like the scary stranger who'd frightened her out on the highway.
Truth be told, except for his grungy clothes, he looked rather good,
kind of like the body-builder pool boy she'd eyeballed once or twice
after she'd kicked Garrett out of the house.
Blowing another Dubble
Bubble bubble, she watched her rescuer plow strong fingers through his
wavy mop, but the unruly lock tumbled back over his brow as he ambled
toward her, lingering traces of a frown dulling what could have been
sparkling blue eyes.
He leaned against the
tailgate of his truck, folded his arms over his chest and glared at her
bubble, at her pink sunglasses, then shook his head, as if she'd caused
him endless amounts of trouble.
"So," he said, an ominous
beginning to a conversation, "are you going to hop back in your car and
lock the door again, or have you come to the conclusion that I'm not Ted
Bundy?"
She sucked the bubble back
between her lips. "I suppose I might have overreacted a bit."
One of his brows rose. "A
bit?"
"Okay, a lot, but in case
you haven't peered in the mirror recently, you look as if you just
escaped from Devil's Island, which would--or should--make any woman
question your motives for stopping on a deserted road to lend a hand.
And then"--she pointed a finger straight at his chest--"there's the fact
that you've got what looks to be blood on your clothes."
He tugged on his shirt and
stared at the stains. "Yeah, I guess I do."
She frowned. Her muscles
tensed again. "Human?"
"Equine," he said gruffly.
"The mare died. Her foal died."
Everything about him was
rough, but she could almost feel the raw, agonizing emotion seething
beneath his hard exterior.
"I'm sorry."
"Yeah, me too." He pushed
away from his truck. "It was one hell of a night, the morning hasn't
been much better, and now that you're safe and sound, I've gotta get
going."
Juliet glanced at the
grimy garage, at its mucky windows, at the freezers that were supposed
to contain bait but could easily hide a body--or would if they'd been
written into one of her mysteries--and decided she'd rather not be
unhitched too soon.
"I hate to ask this, but
do you think you could tow me to a different gas station?"
"Sorry, but like I told
you before, I'm in a hurry. It's Joe's Gas and Bait or nothing."
"But this place looks--"
"Like hell. Yeah, I know."
He dropped down on the sizzling pavement and ducked under the car to
retrieve the chain. "Joe might not have the cleanest place around," he
said, his voice muffled, "but he's the best mechanic in this part of the
state."
"Damn right."
Juliet's head jerked
toward the garage as a grizzled fellow with an immense pot belly walked
out from behind a dusty black van, wiping oily hands on an equally oily
towel. He gave Juliet only a moment's notice before his gaze shot toward
the blue jean-clad legs sticking out from under the Mustang. "What's
goin' on, Cole?"
At least she now knew the
stranger's name.
"The lady's got a busted
radiator hose," Cole hollered from under the car. "Figured you might be
able to replace it."
"Maybe." Joe--his name was
embroidered on his greasy olive green shirt--gave Juliet a quick nod
before scrutinizing the exterior of her car. "Nice Mustang. Sixty five?"
"Sixty-four-and-a-half.
One of the first off the assembly line," Juliet answered, scooting away
from Cole's long, muscular legs when they accidentally brushed against
hers, and away from Joe who smelled like he bathed in axle grease.
Joe scratched the stubble
on his face. "Think I got some Mustang parts around here somewhere.
Can't be a hundred percent positive on that; can't be a hundred percent
positive on anything no more, but I'll take a look."
"What if you don't have
the part?"
"Don't you go worryin'
that pretty head of yours. If I ain't got the part, someone else in town
will."
"So it shouldn't take all
that long to fix?"
"If I don't find any other
problems once I look under the hood, it shouldn't take much more than an
hour at the most." Joe shoved the oily towel into his back pocket. "You
do want me to check everything, don't you? Give it a thorough going
through so you don't break down again?"
She wasn't too sure she
wanted him touching her little pink car, but what choice did she have?
"Well . . . yes, I suppose that might be a good idea."
"Then I'll get to it after
lunch." Joe patted the Mustang's hood. "Right now I'm headin' over to
the Elk Horn Cafe. It's chicken fried steak day. Chocolate cream pie
day, too. Shouldn't be there more than a few hours."
"Couldn't you do it before
lunch?"
"Could . . . but then I'd
miss out on the chicken fried steak, and I'd hate for that to happen."
Joe took off his greasy baseball cap and slicked back his sparse gray
hair. "I'm meetin' Betty Sue Horner for lunch, same as I do every day.
You're welcome to join us if you want something to do while you're
waiting, and like I said, the chicken fried steak's--"
"I don't think she wants
chicken fried steak," Cole interrupted, climbing out from under the
Mustang with one end of the tow chain in his hands. "I've got the
feeling she's in a hurry--kind of like me."
"Too many people in a
gall-darned hurry. Not me. Nosiree." Joe hit Juliet with a false-teeth
smile as he tugged his hat back on his head. "I'll be back around two or
three. There's an old Coke machine out back, only thirty-five cents a
can or free if you kick it in the right place, and the office is
unlocked if you want to go inside, plop your butt in my chair and
twiddle your thumbs."
"What I'd really like--"
"Tell me later," Joe said,
grabbing the key from the Mustang's ignition. "Betty Sue don't like me
bein' late and I'm already runnin' behind."
Joe strolled toward the
road. When he tucked his hands in his pockets and started whistling like
Andy Griffith, Juliet turned narrowed eyes on Cole. "I thought you said
he was the best mechanic around."
Cole shrugged. "I never
said he was fast. But he is the best. Of course, if you're in a hurry--"
"I'm not, but what if I
was?"
"Then you could head over
to Harry's Auto Parts, see if he has a radiator hose, and come back here
and fix the thing yourself."
"I barely know where the
dipstick is."
"Then you have two
choices: take a quick course in auto mechanics or cool your heels until
Joe gets his fill of chicken fried steak, chocolate cream pie, and Betty
Sue Horner."
Cole tossed the chain in
the back of the truck and dismissing her as if she were nothing more
than a spot of grease on the pavement below his feet, walked toward the
cab of his truck.
"You aren't leaving, are
you?" Juliet called out.
Cole stopped next to the
pickup's door. His shoulder muscles tensed beneath his T-shirt and he
turned slowly. "That was my plan."
Juliet's eyes narrowed at
his curt reply. "You were just going to walk off without saying
goodbye?"
He sighed heavily. "As
much as I'd like to be Mister Nice Guy, as much as I'd like to stand
around here all day chit-chatting, I've got a lot on my mind, I'm in a
hurry--"
"So you've said a time or
two. Of course, if you'd just been polite, shook my hand and said
goodbye, you could have been long gone by now."
"And if I hadn't stopped
to help you I'd be home."
"But you did and I'm
extremely thankful, so if you'll give me another moment or two of your
precious time, I'll get my wallet and pay you for your trouble."
"You think I helped you
because I wanted money?"
The man was extremely
pigheaded and she had no idea why she was bothering with him. "Doesn't
everyone expect to be paid for services rendered?"
"Look, lady, I don't know
where you come from--"
"California," she said,
then chomped on her tongue to keep from admitting more.
"Well, in California
people might expect payment for helping someone stranded on the highway,
but here in Wyoming we usually do it out of the goodness of our hearts.
And before you tell me you seriously doubt I have a heart--"
"I would never be that
rude. If you'll remember correctly, I'm the one who thought we should
part company with a friendly handshake, a polite goodbye, and maybe a
token of appreciation, yet you insist on arguing."
He folded his arms over
his chest. "You really want to give me a token of appreciation?"
"Of course I do." She
reached into the Mustang, pulled out her flamingo tote, and extracted
her wallet. "How about twenty dollars?"
He shook his head far too
slowly for comfort. "That's not nearly enough."
She rubbed two bills
between her fingers. "Forty?"
A slight grin tilted his
mouth. "Obviously you've got no idea how much trouble you've been."
Her jaw tightened. "Fifty,
but not a penny more."
"Still not enough." He
moved toward her, his blue-eyed gaze burning over her Jimmy Choos, her
black spandex capris, her pink lacy stretch top, and right through her
sunglasses.
A lump caught in her
throat. "Obviously you overestimate how much your services are worth."
"I haven't overestimated a
thing."
His big, strong hand swept
around the curve of her back. He tugged her hard against his chest and
held her there tightly.
Juliet sucked in a deep
breath as her breasts flattened against his dirty white T-shirt. He
smelled like oil and asphalt. Like fresh hay and sweat. And was that a
lingering whiff of Obsession wafting around him that was making her
awfully dizzy?
Not that it mattered, of
course. She didn't want to be in his arms, didn't want to be so close
she could almost count the number of dark blond whiskers on his cheeks.
She struggled against him, slapping both hands against his very broad
shoulders and attempting to push, desperately trying to get away from
all the testosterone oozing from his pores.
When that didn't work, she
stared fiercely into his eyes. "Look, Cole, I don't know what you've got
in mind, but all I wanted was a simple handshake and goodbye, not . . .
"
Firm lips slanted over her
mouth and cut off her protest. She would have fought back, but, heaven
forbid, his unyielding embrace made her feel incredibly weak. Helpless.
Vulnerable. A surprisingly delicious warmth rippled through her insides.
My, oh my, she'd never been kissed by a real live brute. Never been
manhandled except on the big and small screens, and she'd giggled
through take after take because the guys doing the manhandling were
totally inept.
But Cole's kiss was
masterful. Sheer perfection. Absolutely, amazingly wicked.
And since she was never
going to see the gorgeous beast again, she decided to enjoy his kiss for
as long as it lasted.
Her arms stretched up and
around his neck. Her fingers wove into unbelievably soft blonde hair
that was thick, wavy, a tad too long, and felt like millions of strands
of fine silk thread. Her toes tingled as if they'd been asleep for a
billion years and were just now waking up. Her heart thudded out of
control.
And he pushed her away.
Damn!
Juliet wobbled on her
Jimmy Choos. When she had enough control to pop open her eyes, Cole had
a silly ass grin on his face. Then, the bully had the audacity to wink.
"Thanks for the payment. It doesn't come anywhere close to calling us
even, but"--he shrugged--"I haven't got time for more."
"You're going to force
your kiss on me and then just walk away?"
"Damn right."
Fire flared in Juliet's
cheeks as he marched toward his truck. "Of all the smug, overconfident,
pigheaded bores."
"Yeah, that fits me to a
tee." He climbed into the cab, slammed the door behind him and turned
the key in the ignition. The engine rumbled, and without a wave or even
a quick peek at her through the rearview mirror, the truck tore away
from the gas station and up the highway, leaving a trail of dust in its
wake.
How dare he kiss her and
dump her in the space of thirty seconds? She wasn't used to being
treated that way.
And if she ever saw the
devilishly handsome lout again, she'd give him a piece of her mind.
But she wouldn't be seeing
him again. So what if he'd kissed her? So what if he'd nearly knocked
her off her hot pink stilettos? He was much too bold and the mere fact
that he was nothing like any of the men she'd ever known made him much
too tempting, an irrepressible distraction she didn't want coming
between her and her newfound freedom.
No way. No how.
Never.
She spun around on her
Jimmy Choos, ready to hit the road for parts unknown, far, far away from
Cole with the steely blue eyes and the lusty kiss, but a dusty and
disabled vehicle stared her right in the face.
Damn it all. Her pretty
pink Mustang wasn't going anywhere for awhile--and neither was she.
Copyright
©July 2003 by Patti Berg
Find out what happens when you read
AND THEN HE KISSED ME
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