Hot Wheels and High Heels
“Don’t bait me, Darcy,” John said. “You’re playing with fire.”
“So what are you going to do? We’re at Wal-Mart. That’s where you screwed up, John. At least the dressing rooms at Neiman’s are carpeted.”
“So if we were at Neiman’s, we’d be having sex?”
“If we were at Neiman’s, sex would be the last thing on my mind.”
“Then maybe I didn’t screw up after all.”
“In your
dreams
, repo man.”
She tried to shove him aside, only to have him grab her wrist and pull her back.
“You made a big mistake when you forced me to come in here. I’m one of those men you can’t trust to behave himself.”
He pulled her close and smothered her mouth with a burning, reckless, unrelenting kiss . . . Anger bubbled inside her, but she didn’t know if she was mad at him for being a presumptuous, kiss-stealing tyrant, or mad at herself for being so hot for him whether she liked it or not . . .
“A delightful, funny read with a unique twist as a former trophy wife discovers herself, and true love, in the most unexpected place. A total winner!”
— Susan Mallery,
USA Today
bestselling author of
The Marcelli Princess
“Jane Graves never fails to enchant me. HOT WHEELS AND HIGH HEELS draws you in, then blasts off! Fasten your seatbelt for a fun, rollicking ride!”
—Stephanie Bond, author of the Body Movers series
“Graves is a solid storyteller with a confident, convincing voice.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A fresh voice who puts her heart in giving her readers all the best of love in her tender but sizzling stories.”
—Belles and Beaux of Romance
Raves for the novels of Jane Graves
“Jane Graves is an author whose touch is magic when it comes to creating characters that the reader can identify with, characters that stay with you long after the book is finished.”
—Stella MacLean,
Halifax Chronicle Herald
on
Light My Fire
“Jane Graves takes readers on another action-packed ride.”
— Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine
on
Wild at Heart
“[A] fast-paced yet sensuous addition to the ‘on the run’ subgenre.”
—Booklist
on
Wild at Heart
“There’s no question that [Graves] knows how to create suspense . . . [but] what sets this novel apart from its peers . . . [are] the characters and their witty, warmhearted interactions.”
—Publishers Weekly
on
Flirting with Disaster
I’d like to thank Michele Bidelspach, for her enthusiasm about my writing and her editing expertise; Beth de Guzman, who thought readers might like a crazy story about a trophy wife who becomes a repo agent; the Foxes, for being a funny and talented group of women I love to hang out with; my husband, Brian, and my daughter, Charlotte, for their never-ending support; and my sweet kitty, Isabel, who so kindly keeps my lap warm while I write.
O
n July twenty-fifth, Darcy McDaniel lost her house, her husband, and her self-respect. Then things really went downhill.
Looking back, she should have known something was up. After all, her husband, Warren, hoarded money like a survivalist hoards ammo, yet he made reservations at a five-star resort in Cancún, handed her two airline tickets, told her to grab her friend Carolyn, and live it up for a week. As he hustled her out the door, Darcy remembered thinking that even though he was fifty-seven, he was still a little young for senility. Unfortunately, she took his sudden generosity as a
good
thing, and that was about as far as her thought process on the matter went.
She and Carolyn spent a glorious week in Cancún. Scantily clad waiters brought them pitchers of margaritas while they lolled in beach chairs and dragged their toes in the sand. They ate the most superb gourmet food; had spa treatments involving hot rocks, cold compresses, and Alonzo’s magical hands; and soaked up enough sun to give their skin a healthy glow without turning it into lizard hide.
After flying back to Dallas, they air-kissed and promised to make a trip to Mexico an annual tradition. Darcy hopped into her Mercedes Roadster, put down the top, and sped out of long-term parking at DFW. She jacked up the radio and savored the last moments of her vacation before going home to Warren.
At four-thirty in the afternoon, the Texas sun beat down on her shoulders like a blowtorch, but she liked the feel of the wind tossing her hair and the appreciative smiles of the men she zipped past, some of them young enough to be her . . . younger brothers. She smiled back, knowing they figured she was thirty, tops. Actually, she was thirty-nine, with the big four-oh only a few weeks away. She surprised herself by not caring about that. Thanks to her personal trainer, her hair colorist, and the miracle that was Botox, it was a secret no one ever had to know.
She stopped at Doggie Domain to pick up Pepé, who was delighted to see her. The
tap, tap, tap
of his tiny toenails, along with his buggy little eyes staring up at her adoringly, made her heart melt. She scooped him up and rubbed her cheek over his silky hair, inhaling the aroma of vanilla-scented doggie shampoo. Long-haired Chihuahuas weren’t any less neurotic than short-haired ones, but all that hair did help cushion the frantic beating of their little hearts. Still, Pepé’s was thumping even faster than normal, because it always freaked him out a little to be away from home. But since Warren didn’t communicate well with other species, letting Pepé stay with people who spoke dog—particularly dog with a Mexican accent—was better for all concerned.
By the time Darcy reached Plano, it was nearly five o’clock. She drove down Preston Road, which was flanked by immaculate strip malls, restaurants, and movie theaters. Everything in Plano was brand-new and squeaky clean, unless of course you crossed Central Expressway into old east Plano, which was what Plano used to be before it became home base for a substantial segment of corporate America. Over there you’d better have a damned good car alarm and hang on to your wallet with both hands. She’d grown up in east Plano, so she knew for a fact it was a good place to be
from.
A few minutes later, Darcy was motoring down Briarwood Lane, heading for her house at the end of the block. On either side of the street, huge two-story brick houses stood as monuments to upward mobility, with massive front doors inset with etched glass, arched windows, pristine landscaping, and a swimming pool in every backyard. Coming home to a place she loved after a week of being pampered put her in such a fabulous mood that when Warren got home, she was going to hand him a glass of water and a little blue pill and show him her appreciation. She swung into the alley, then pulled into her driveway, hit the garage door opener, and got a shock.
Two unfamiliar cars sat in the garage.
Her first thought was that since Warren had a thing for cars, he’d done a little buying or trading while she was out of town. That theory might have held water, except one of the cars was a Buick sedan and the other a Ford Explorer, and Warren would never have bought any vehicles so painfully ordinary.
Houseguests? While she was away?
She grabbed Pepé and got out of the car. On her way through the garage to the back door, she noticed a car seat in the back of the SUV.
Houseguests with
kids?
She went inside and set Pepé down. He trotted off with a jingle of dog tags. When she rounded the corner into the kitchen, she got another surprise. Four strangers sat at her breakfast-room table.
And Warren was nowhere in sight.
Odd little chills snaked up her spine. She put her handbag on the kitchen counter. Several boxes sat along one wall, a few of them standing open. She had no idea what that was all about.
She feigned a friendly smile. “Uh . . . hello?”
A thirtysomething man in a rumpled polo shirt was holding up a forkful of pasta, as if he’d stopped midbite when he heard her come in. The nondescript woman beside him looked equally dumbstruck, an expression that exaggerated the frown lines around her mouth. The ponytailed preschool girl kicked her feet back and forth and blinked curiously. The baby sitting in a high chair smashed a graham cracker in his fist, then deposited the crumbs all over Darcy’s marble tile floor.
The man stood up, his brows drawing together like dueling caterpillars. “Who are you?”
Darcy eased back, feeling a little defensive. Wasn’t she the one who should be asking that question?
“You must be friends of Warren’s,” she said.
“Warren?” the man said. “Warren McDaniel?”
“Yes. I’m his wife, Darcy.”
“His
wife?
”
At first Darcy took his surprise to mean that he thought a woman her age—you know, thirty—couldn’t possibly be married to a man as old as Warren. Most people thought that. Even
she
thought that. But something else lurked behind this man’s confusion.
“Yes,” she said carefully. “His wife. Didn’t he tell you he was married?”
After the man and his wife exchanged a few more of those stunned looks, he cleared his throat. “Actually, he . . .”
“He what?”
The man swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing wildly. “He told us you were . . . uh . . .”
“Uh,
what?
”
“Dead.”
Darcy went totally still. It took a full ten seconds for her to even comprehend the word, then another five or so to find her voice. “Warren told you I was
dead?
”
“Yes. He said there was a car accident in Cancún. Those Mexican cabdrivers, you know. It was very, uh . . . tragic.”
Tragic?
Tragic?
The only
tragedy
here was just how delusional these people were. Or maybe it was Warren who was delusional.
Or . . .
Or maybe she really was dead.
For a moment Darcy actually considered that
The Sixth Sense
might be more than just escapist entertainment. Still, she was quite certain she hadn’t gone to heaven in the backseat of a Mexican cab. Now, she had taken a spill off a jet ski and sucked in a little surf, but she’d made it back to the beach still breathing. And she’d driven home from the airport, hadn’t she? Everyone knew if a dead person tried to drive, his hands passed right through the steering wheel. She’d seen
Ghost.
That mind-over-matter thing was way harder than it looked.
No, the problem here wasn’t her death, or lack of it, but the fact that she didn’t know who the hell these people were—and that her husband was missing in action.
“Where’s Warren?” she asked.
When they shrugged, she felt her confusion melt into frustration, which oozed into annoyance. Finally she just let it loose.
“Excuse me, but . . . who
are
you people?”
She spoke a little louder than she’d intended, and they recoiled as if she’d physically shoved them. The baby stopped littering her breakfast-room floor, screwing up his face as if he was going to cry. Pepé’s buggy little eyes grew even buggier. The woman fiddled with the silver bracelet she wore and deferred to her husband. When he shot her a helpless look, she turned back to Darcy, shrugging weakly.
“I guess with you being, you know, dead and all, your husband didn’t tell you he . . .”
“He
what?
”
“Sold the house.”
Wooziness overcame her.
Warren sold the house.
The words whacked the outside of her skull, trying desperately to get through. Entry was denied.
“We had to make a decision quickly,” the man said, “but we had cash and were ready to buy, and it was such a steal, especially with all the contents thrown in. This big house at the price he was asking . . . well, you understand. We couldn’t say no.”
Darcy started to shake a little, sure she was going to be sick. But she managed to hold up her palms, laughing a little in that way people do when they know there has to be some mistake. “There has to be some mistake,” she said, in case they missed the laugh.
“No,” the man said. “No mistake. I can show you the closing papers.”
The guy dug through a kitchen drawer and produced a stack of legal-sized paper and shoved it at her. She saw only one thing clearly before her vision went all blurry. Warren’s signature.
Good God, he’d actually done it.
She was about to shout,
This is my house, too! How could he sell it without my signature?
Then she remembered the papers
she’d
signed fourteen years ago before they got married, the ones that short-circuited Texas’s community property laws. Warren had the right to do anything he wanted to with this house, and she couldn’t do a thing about it.
Consciousness seemed to fade a little, leaving her dazed and confused. Then a horrendous thought jerked her back to reality.
“Where are my things?” she said, her voice rising with panic. “My clothes? My shoes? My jewelry?”
