Beauty and the Brit (46 page)

A flurry of sailor-approved words charged through her mind, but her frantic heartbeat choked them off before they turned into sound—almost certainly a good thing, since the air stream caused by swearing would probably be enough to roll her. She pressed her lips together and tried to slow her respiration. Her shoulder, jammed against the door, ached slightly, her seat belt effectively throttled her, but as far as she could tell, she hadn’t hit her head.

The Creature, her un-pet name for the vehicle she’d detested since buying it, growled as if angry its spinning back tire wasn’t getting anywhere. “Crap!” Jill shot her arm forward, ignoring the pinch of her seat belt, and turned the key.

The truck rocked again, the Crows quit Counting, and the turn signal halted its irritating pinging. At last time stopped whizzing past like an old Super 8 movie, and her thoughts careened into each other with a little less force.

This was definitely going to wreck an already no-good, very bad day.

Sudden pounding startled her, rocking the SUV again. She swiveled her head to the passenger window and let loose a terrified scream. Pressed to the glass was a smoosh-nosed, flattened-featured face. Jill squeezed her eyes shut.

“Ma’am? Ma’am? Can you hear me?” The windowpane muffled the gargoyle’s voice.

Slowly Jill forced her eyes open, and the face pulled back. Her panic dissipated as the nose unflattened, lengthening into straightness with perfect oval flares at its tip, and divided a strong, masculine face into two flawless halves. Inky, disheveled bangs fell across deep furrows in his forehead. For an instant Jill forgot her straits, and her mouth went dry. A brilliant sculptor somewhere was missing his masterwork.

“Can you get the window down?” he shouted, refocusing her attention on the phone in his hand. “I’m calling 911. Can you tell me where you’re hurt?”

Intense navy-blue eyes pierced her for answers, her pulse accelerated, and embarrassed heat infused her face. “No!” she called. Shaking off her adrenaline-fueled hormones and forcing her brain to function, Jill turned her key once more to activate the accessory system and twisted to punch the window button, jostling The Creature. “No!” she gasped again, as the glass whirred into the door frame. “No calls. I’m fine.”

“You are not fine, honey. Stay still now.” His drawl was comforting and sing-songy—born of the South.

Truly confused, Jill watched him swipe the face of his phone. He might be the best-looking Samaritan between her predicament and the Iowa border, but although she
was
balanced pretty precariously, his intensity was a tick past overreactive.

“Honestly. All I need is to get out of this murderous truck without rolling it on top of me.”

His eyes switched from worry to the kind of sympathy a person used when about to impart bad news. “I’m afraid your face and the front of your shirt tell a different story. You’re in shock.”

She peered down at herself. At first she gasped at the bright red splotches staining her white tank top. She touched her cheek and brought a red fingertip away. Strangled laughter replaced her shock. He reached for her and made the Suburban wobble.

“Don’t lean!” She choked. “Seriously, don’t! I’m not bleeding to death, I swear.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you bleeding not to death?”

“No.” She stuck her red-coated finger into her mouth and, with the other hand, scooped up a half-dozen French fries caught between her hip and the door. She’d picked them up not ten minutes ago from The Loon Feather Café in town, and Effie had put three little paper cups of ketchup in the take-out tray. Eating fries while driving—another of her vices, along with owning too many horses, flightiness in all things, and swerving to avoid dumb dogs in the road. Gingerly she held up the flat, empty, red-checkered box. “It’s only Type A Heinz,” she said. “See? No 911 needed. Besides, this is rural Rice County, and it’d take the rescue guys twenty minutes to find me. Is the dog all right?”

“Dog?”

“The one I swerved to miss. You didn’t see an injured dog?”

His indigo eyes performed a laser scan from her head to her toes. They settled on her face and softened. “It must have disappeared. I wasn’t watching it since I was prayin’ to all the angels while you barreled down this ditch.”

“But it didn’t get hit?”

“I’m pretty sure it didn’t get hit,” he repeated gently. “You really all right? The dog isn’t exactly important at the moment. Nothing hurts? Did you black out?”

Jill let out a breath of relief. This morning, the docs at Southwater Vet Clinic had put down two families’ beloved dogs and a young client’s show horse. Knowing the stray in the road had survived didn’t balance the scales, but it helped a little.

“I just didn’t want the dog to be dead. Nothing hurts. I didn’t black out. All I want is to get out of my homicidal truck.”

“Homicidal?” He laughed and took a step back. “Are you blaming your poor stuck truck for this?”

“Poor truck?” Jill glanced around her seat to see how she dared start extricating herself. The first thing she did was unlatch the seat belt, and the pressure on her arm eased. “This is The Creature. She’s a diva. Any other vehicle would
not
have kept going left after I cranked the wheel back to the right.” She looked at the man. “She’d kill me outright, but who else would pour college loan money into her like I do?”

The right side of his upper lip, as perfectly sculpted as the rest of his features, lifted in an Elvis-y half grin—a cute-on-handsome action that made Jill’s mouth go parched again.

“Sounds like we’d best get you out before Lizzie Borden the truck here changes her mind.” His warm, humor-filled voice calmed with its hypnotic Southern cadence.

“I’d be very, very good with that,” she replied.

“Let’s try the door.” He reached for the handle.

“No! Wait. Don’t! Whenever I move the whole thing rocks. I—”

“Okay, it’s okay.” He held up his hands. “I’ll look first and see how solid she’s sitting.”

He stepped away and walked slowly around the front of the Suburban. Jill took the time to regroup. She wasn’t a wimp, dang it. This was stupid. The man already believed she was half-baked. She needed to stop whining and simply crawl out. And she had to get the stupid truck out of this stupid ditch or she’d miss the most important riding lesson of her life. Maybe if she could see how to straighten her wheels she could just drive—

“She isn’t hanging on by a lot, you’re right.” He returned to the window. “But you should be able to ease out this way. I’ll open the door very carefully. Trust me.”

Trust him? For all she knew he had a handgun in his pocket, a twelve-page rap sheet, and a mug shot at the post office. “Fine.” She grimaced. “Just don’t mug me until I’m fully out. One crisis at a time.”

His slightly nasal laugh flowed between them, as musical as his voice. “Gotta love a woman who’s funny in the face of adversity.”

Funny? This merely kept her from weeping. In addition to causing expense for which there was no money, this accident was messing up two appointments she couldn’t afford to miss.

“I’m not being funny.” She wriggled out from behind the steering wheel. “On the other hand, if you murder me right here I’ll have a great excuse for being late.” She edged to the passenger side and glanced at her watch. “Make that very late.”

“Lizzie here didn’t murder you, and I’m not going to either.”

He tugged on the door and it hit the slope, barely opening ten inches. Jill was small, but not that small.

“Great. Just awesome.” She eyed the stranger dubiously.

“I’m afraid it’s out the window for you.” He shrugged.

“Well, this gets better and better.” She simply wanted out, and she reached for the oversized tote she used as purse, clothing bag, and carry-all. “Would you toss this on the ground? I hope that stupid dog appreciates its life.”

“It’s on its knees thanking—”

“All the angels?” she teased.

“Yes, ma’am.” The return of his Elvis grin sent a flutter through her belly. He hefted her striped, leather-handled bag and grunted. “Lord love a monkey, what have you got in here? Car parts?”

“Riding boots.” She reached for the top of the window opening and suddenly heard what he’d said. “
What?
”

“Sorry, my granddaddy’s saying. Gotta admit”—he grunted—“didn’t expect you to say boots.”

“Only because you don’t know me,” she muttered.

“Let’s go then. We can do getting-to-know-you once you’re free.”

The easiest way out was headfirst, since it caused the least amount of wiggling. But halfway out, with her torso flopped over the door frame and her knees hovering above the passenger seat, The Creature slowly swung its nose downward. She shrieked.

“Got you!” Strong hands caught her beneath the armpits.

The Creature spun left and spit her from the window.

The momentum squirted her out and propelled the stranger backward. One second Jill’s shoe toes skimmed the window frame, the next she sprawled atop a very long, very hard male body. He grabbed her and held the back of her head expertly, as if people fell on him all the time and he knew precisely what to do.

“Sorry. Sorry. I’m okay. Are you okay?” Her words were muffled in his shoulder.

She should move.

He
should move.

Instead, his chest rose and fell beneath her, and his breath warmed the top of her head. His fingers formed a firm brace at the base of her neck, and he lay like a stone beneath her. When she finally made the tiniest effort to roll away, his free hand planted itself on her hip.

“No,” he commanded in a hoarse whisper.

No?

“Relax. Make sure you’re all in one piece.”

She certainly didn’t know this guy well enough to relax in a reverse missionary position with him . . . but the pleasant musk of masculine perspiration prickled her nose and mingled with the redolent scent of his leather jacket. Her eyelids floated closed in spite of herself, and she went all but limp with relief. When he relaxed, too, however, she couldn’t ignore his long, lean form beneath her or the intense pressure gathering low in her body. She tried to concentrate on the fact that nothing bad was happening while he held her—no accidents, no animals dying, no worry she was late for—

“Oh my gosh!” She jerked hard against his hold.

Immediately he released her, gave her shoulder a squeeze, and a mini-explosion of sparks raced for every nerve ending in her body. She pushed onto her hands and stared into eyes as calm as a waveless lake.

“Hi,” he said, his mouth only inches from hers. “I’m Chase Preston. Nice to meet you.”

She rolled off him laughing and sat up on the incline. “Hi, back. I’m Jill Carpenter. How can I thank you for rescuing me?”

He waved dismissively. “You’d have figured out how to escape, Jill Carpenter, but glad I could help.”

He sat up, too, and stuck out his hand, but Jill was almost afraid to take it. Her stomach dipped in anticipation at the sight of his long, clever-looking e knHeHisHiTheThefingers and knuckles flanked by prominent tendons. At last, she let his grip engulf hers, as warm and comforting as his full-body hold had been. When he rocked to a stand he pulled her along, and her body rose with no more effort than surfacing from buoyant water.

She tried to smile—to thank him by holding their clasped hands a second longer, but after a final, slow squeeze, he let his fingers slide free.

“Now that you’re safe, it’s time to find you a way out of this ditch. Is there anyone you can call way out here in rural whatever county?”

Jill took her first good look at The Creature, and her heart sank. She’d harbored the ghostly hope that, once free, she’d see how to drive it from the ditch. It hadn’t been a very strong hope, but now it was dashed beyond any stretch of imagination. The Creature’s grille touched the bottom of the ditch, one rear tire had spun a bald patch into the grass, and the passenger side corner hovered six inches off the ground. It wasn’t going anywhere under its own power. Anger at her predicament started a slow burn.

Jill grabbed the bag Chase had set on the hillside, the anger heating up as reality smacked her in the face. How was this fair? For once it had seemed her dream would have a fighting chance, but oh no. With short, angry stomps she marched up the steep slope, and when she reached the road after working up to full-fledged fury, she nearly crashed into a gleaming, silver-and-red motorcycle. She glimpsed the intricate Triumph logo on the gas tank and jumped back. Motorcycles were not her thing.

“So, who can you call?”

She stopped short of snapping at him, dropped her bag, and pressed her fingertips against her eyes to hide her frustration. “Dewey’s Garage and Gas in town.” She sighed.

“Can I take you there? Or call for you?”

“No. I have my phone, and you’ve helped too much already. Believe me, Dewey knows this truck. He won’t be at all surprised he has to tow her out of a ditch.”

“Then give him a call. I’ll wait with you.”

She started to object. Being rescued was far out of her realm of experience, but the man’s presence had a calming, spell-like effect on her worry and her anger. She found Dewey’s number and punched the call button. A familiar voice came answered. “Dewey Mitchell.”

She explained her problem and waited for Dewey to calculate his ETA.

“I’m out delivering some fuel, and it’ll take forty-five minutes or so to get back to the tow truck. Sorry I’m not closer.”

Disappointment spread through her like chills. “I’ll take you as soon as I can get you, Dewey. Thanks.” She described where she was and hung up.

“He could be an hour.” She tried desperately to hide her rekindled anger. Of all the days for disaster to hit . . . “All he said was he’ll hurry.”

She plopped to her seat in the grass beside the road. Her consultation with a brand-new riding student was supposed to start in five minutes, but the bigger issue was Colin Pitts-Matherson. The visiting coach of the U.S. Equestrian Eventing Team was not known for magnanimity. As a talent scout would for any sport, he’d asked for one chance to see her perform. He’d expect to see her ride. In forty-five minutes. With no sob-story excuse about a dog in the road. Her shot at an Olympic dream could well be resting in the ditch along with The Creature’s hood ornament.