Hell on Wheels: A Loveswept Classic Romance (3 page)

“So, how’s it look?” he asked.

They both turned, and he found he liked the way Victoria stared and her cheeks pinkened.

“Roan, for heaven’s sake, put some clothes on,” Amos blustered. “There’s a lady present.”

Yes, Victoria was a lady all right, a class act down to her indigo jeans, obviously new, and cotton blouse with little rosebuds embroidered on the collar. Only a true lady would blush at a man wrapped fairly decently in a towel. “What kind of clothes should I put on?” he asked innocently. “I wasn’t sure what was appropriate for storm chasing.”

“Anything comfortable,” Victoria answered, quickly recovering her poise. “We’ll spend most of our time in the car. And bring a jacket.” She turned her attention back to her maps.

He had a long way to go before winning over Ms. Victoria Driscoll, he realized, looking forward to the challenge. At least she hadn’t decided to cancel the trip. If she were willing to spend two weeks in a car alone with him, she must not despise him too thoroughly.

He retreated to the guest room and plucked a pair of tiger-striped briefs from a pile of freshly washed laundry. “For you, Vicky,” he murmured, grinning.

He wasn’t planning to make a play for her; Amos
would knock him silly for even thinking about it. But she was an intriguing package, so solemn and scientific. He couldn’t imagine what she was hiding behind those changeable hazel eyes. Trying to guess would give him something to think about during the long hours in the car to come.

After climbing into his oldest, most faded pair of jeans and another T-shirt from his almost endless supply, he quickly folded several changes of clothes and stuck them in his duffel, along with his travel kit. If there was one thing he could do quickly and efficiently, it was pack. His camera equipment would take up more room than his clothing.

He stopped long enough to run a comb through his wet hair, ruthlessly pulling out several tangles. How long had it been since he’d really examined himself in the mirror? he wondered. He was leaning a bit toward the caveman look, but he supposed there wouldn’t be time for a haircut today. It was past nine o’clock. He was surprised they weren’t already on the road, but Victoria hadn’t behaved as if she were in any particular hurry.

He carried his things out and set them by the front door, ready to roll at a moment’s notice, then checked in again with Tornado Central. Amos and Victoria were now staring at a radar display on a television set, discussing something about a slow-moving front and a dry line and where the “triple point” was likely to be by midafternoon. Another weather map was displayed on Amos’s computer.

“So, how does it look?” Roan asked for the second time. He never really got an answer the first go-round.

“Pretty marginal,” Amos said.

“Dismal,” Victoria added.

“Does that mean we’re not going?” Roan was surprised at the pang of disappointment he felt. Only yesterday he’d been wishing for a couple of days off to recharge his batteries. But today he found himself eager to be on the road again.

“Oh, we’ll go,” Victoria said resignedly. “We might be taking pictures of cactuses and lizards instead of tornadoes, but there’s always a chance.”

“Yeah, there’s always a chance,” Roan repeated, holding eye contact with her.

Her eyes widened slightly, as if she couldn’t quite believe her ears or the cocky, flirtatious grin he gave her. She stared at him so long, in fact, his grin faded and he was the one who looked away first.

“Your chin is bleeding,” she said.

“Mmm.” He grabbed a tissue from the box Amos carried everywhere with him, and dabbed unconcernedly at the shaving nick. “Is there time for breakfast?”

“More time than we need,” Victoria said. “I made some bran muffins this morning. They’re in the kitchen. There’s orange juice too.”

“Bran muffins?” Roan repeated with just a touch of skepticism as he stood aside to let the other two exit the office.

Amos surreptitiously punched him in the arm with more force than a sick old man ought to be capable of. But it caught Roan’s attention and prevented him from adding,
Blech
. What he wanted for breakfast were some
eggs and bacon, pancakes, maybe French toast, but that didn’t mean he ought to insult Victoria’s offering. Given her underwhelming enthusiasm for his company, she might be looking for any reason to call off the whole trip.

The muffins, laced with cranberries, weren’t half bad, especially with a heavy coating of butter and three cups of coffee to wash them down. But Roan still craved a healthy dose of cholesterol. After camping with those bear-watching people, who acted as if they’d never heard of refined sugar, caffeine, or white flour, much less alcohol or tobacco, he’d had it up to the gills with healthy living.

“Well, I guess we ought to get on the road,” Victoria said with a baleful face. She looked like she was headed for a jail sentence instead of her vacation.

Amos ceremoniously handed her the keys to his van. “Take good care of her.”

“I’ll be careful. And if there’s any damage, I’ll pay for it.”

“Oh, now, missy, that’s not necessary. It’s about time Chasemobile II got christened with a few hail dents. Just”—his gaze darted toward Roan and back—“just remember what I said.”

Roan knew Amos’s veiled reference had something to do with him, but he chose to let it pass. Amos had probably warned Victoria not to let Roan take advantage of her, or some such nonsense. Amos was awfully protective of his protégé, even if they weren’t romantically involved.

“This is some fancy equipment you have here,” Victoria commented as they loaded Roan’s things into the back of the van. He certainly hadn’t scrimped when it came to his video camera, which was an even more recent model than Amos’s.

“It’s my living. I try to stay up-to-date, except for that old Nikon. It was made back before everything went electronic. No bells or whistles, but it’s the best camera for a flood or rainstorm. It won’t short out if it gets wet.”

“Like in a hurricane?” She pointedly eyed his
HURRICANE ANDREW BLEW ME AWAY
T-shirt, noticing the way the thin red cotton stretched across his chest and the sleeves rode up high on his biceps. The thing had obviously shrunk in the wash. Surely he hadn’t bought it that snug on purpose.

Or maybe he had. She had to drag her gaze away.

“Most of my pictures of Andrew were taken from inside a car,” he replied, seemingly oblivious of her appraisal. “You ever seen a hurricane?”

“No, and I don’t plan to. There’s no challenge chasing a hurricane. You always know where it is. Anyone who can’t get out of the way of one is just asking for trouble, in my opinion.” She knew she was being too critical of him, and she vowed to watch herself more closely in the future. Her job was to gently prod Roan to see things her way—not antagonize him.

He didn’t seem to take offense. “Maybe so, but nothing compares to a firsthand encounter with those
one-hundred-sixty-mile-per-hour winds. As a meteorologist, wouldn’t you like to experience that?”

She actually shivered, despite the fact that the heat of a West Texas day was already building. She’d watched Roan’s hurricane videos—roofs and billboards flying through the air, palm trees bent almost to the ground, people fleeing for their lives.

Watching the video, she’d felt for a minute that she was actually in the middle of all that violence, bringing back painful, frightening memories.

“I wouldn’t,” she finally answered. “The study of storms is strictly a spectator sport for me. I don’t like getting in the middle of one, and I never will.”

“Oh.” He actually looked disappointed. Maybe the man did have a death wish, as Amos feared.

Of course, Roan had no idea how ferocious a tornado could be. Although much smaller than hurricanes, tornadoes could pack more punch, driving metal through wood, picking up cars—and tractors—and carrying them hundreds of feet into the air. At least with a hurricane, people knew it was coming and could get out of harm’s way.

Not always so with a tornado.

Shaking off her grim thoughts, Victoria slammed shut the back doors of the van. “Ready?”

“Ready, but can we make one stop before leaving town? I need to return my rental car. Is there a Pennywise office around here?”

Victoria stared openmouthed at his gray midsized four-door sitting in the driveway. “That’s a rental car?”

“Yeah. You don’t think I’d own something that ugly, do you?”

Victoria owned a similar model, which was tucked away in Amos’s garage, but she decided not to tell Roan that. “Did they rent it to you in that condition?”

“What condition? It runs great.”

“I mean the broken headlight, cracked windshield, crumpled fender, missing hubcaps …”

“Oh, that. I did some pretty hard driving the last couple of weeks.”

Couple of weeks? Amos wasn’t kidding when he’d warned her not to let Roan drive. “There’s a Pennywise office on the way out of town.”

Amos was standing on the front porch, watching their preparations. Victoria went over to give him a farewell hug. “Take care of yourself, now,” she said. “I’ll really miss you.”

“Somehow, I kind of doubt that,” he replied with a wink. “A couple of young people with two weeks and endless stretches of highway ahead of them don’t need an old man around.”

Victoria started to object to his assessment, but he shushed her.

“Roan really means no harm,” he said in a low voice. “Give him a chance. He’ll settle down, and I bet the two of you will have a good time.”

“Don’t most men settle down after they leave their teenage years?” she whispered back. But she softened the question with a smile. She didn’t want Amos worrying too much about her.

Even Roan gave Amos a quick hug and a blithe
promise that they would be careful. With one last wave and a honk of the van’s horn, they were off—toward what, Victoria wasn’t sure.

Roan followed her in his car to the Pennywise office. Well, followed wasn’t exactly accurate. He apparently didn’t like lagging behind anyone, so he alternated between tailgating her and pulling up into the lane next to her. He shot through one yellow light while she was able to stop in plenty of time, and he had to pull over and wait.

“Serves you right,” she murmured. When the light turned green, she accelerated with deliberate slowness.

He spent an undue amount of time in the rental car office—probably trying to explain away the damage. When he came out, he held up one finger, indicating she should wait one minute, and then he sprinted across the parking lot to the convenience store next door. When he joined her a couple of minutes later, he had a big white bag.

“Fuel,” he explained as he extracted a large coffee and two paper-wrapped sandwiches that appeared to be sausage and cheese. “The bran muffins were great, but I need something a little more substantial. I have a fast metabolism—burn up food as quickly as I can put it away.”

Victoria didn’t doubt it. He wasn’t a small man, and there wasn’t an ounce of fat evident on his body. All that muscle probably did burn up a lot of calories. That was another reason to dislike him. He could eat all he wanted and never get fat. Not that she had much of a problem in that area, but only because she worked hard
at maintaining a healthful diet and getting plenty of exercise.

He extended one of the sandwiches in her direction. “You can have one if you want.”

“No, thanks,” she said with a delicate shudder. She appreciated his generosity, but from the looks of them, those sausages would supply a body with a year’s worth of grease. She put the van into gear. “Fasten your seat belt, please.”

For a moment she thought he was going to argue with her, but then he relented and slid the harness over his shoulder, fastening it with a resounding click. He looked about as comfortable as a lion wearing a leash.

“You don’t like seat belts?” she asked, amazed that anyone in this day and age would object to wearing one.

“I don’t like restraints. I’m sort of claustrophobic. Besides, I figure, when my number’s up, it’s up.”

“That’s one way to look at it,” she agreed. “I’m not so worried about dying though. It’s the living that scares me—sustaining a serious head injury and then living. In a nursing home.”

“I’m wearing the seat belt, okay?” he said a trifle impatiently.

She actually managed to smile at him. “Sorry. I tend to get a little preachy sometimes. One of my most annoying habits. I’ll try to control myself—oh, please don’t spill any crumbs! The professor is very particular about his van.”

Roan caught a crumb on the end of his finger before it could hit the upholstery. “I guess that means smoking is out of the question.”

She bit her tongue to keep from gasping. “You smoke?”

“Sometimes. I’ll keep it to a minimum if it annoys you.”

“It annoys me only because I hate to see anyone—” she cut herself off midlecture. Roan Cullen was no child. Unless he lived under a rock, which apparently he didn’t, he knew the dangers of smoking. “Just not in the van, please. Elsewhere you can do as you like.”

He nodded. “No problem. And your control is admirable. I can tell you’re dying to lecture.”