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The Things She Says
Kat Cantrell
One wrong turn and heart-throb director Kristian Demetrious meets beautiful VJ Lewis.She needs his help – and a ride in his Ferrari to Dallas. Kris wants to give her both… Yet his career depends on his not giving in to the passion VJ ignites in him. And denying temptation gets harder with every mile…


She slipped off her sunglasses, and the world skipped a beat.
The unforgiving heat, lack of road signs and the problems waiting for him in Dallas slid away.
Clear blue eyes peered up at him out of a heart-shaped face and a riot of cinnamon-colored hair curled against porcelain cheeks. Not a glimmer of makeup graced her skin, unusual enough in itself to earn a second glance. The sun bathed her in its glow, a perfect key light. She was fresh, innocent and breathtakingly beautiful. Like a living sunflower. He wanted to film her.
She eyed him. “Problema con el coche, señor?”
Kris closed his mouth and cleared his throat. “I’m Greek, not Hispanic.”
“Wow. Yes, you are, with a sexy accent and everything. Say something else,” she commanded, and circled a finger. The blue of her eyes turned sultry. “Tell me your life is meaningless without me, and you’d give a thousand fortunes to make me yours.”
Somehow his mouth was open again. “Seriously?”
She laughed, a pure sound that trilled through his abdomen. A potent addition to the come-hither she radiated like perfume.
“Only if you mean it,” she said.

About the Author
KAT CANTRELL read her first Mills & Boon novel in third grade and has been scribbling in notebooks since she learned to spell. What else would she write but romance? She majored in literature, officially with the intent to teach, but somehow ended up buried in middle management at Corporate America, until she became a stay-at-home mom and full-time writer.
Kat, her husband and their two boys live in north Texas. When she’s not writing about characters on the journey to happily-ever-after, she can be found at a soccer game, watching the TV show Friends or listening to ’80s music.
Kat was the 2011 Mills & Boon So You Think You Can Write winner and a 2012 RWA Golden Heart finalist for best unpublished series contemporary manuscript.

The Things
She Says
Kat Cantrell





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Cynthia Justlin, the sister of my heart.
You wouldn’t let me give up on this book and I’ll never forget it. Thank you for all the years of cheerleading, support, gentle critiques, encouragement and friendship. I’m so happy we’re sharing this journey.

One
The only thing worse than being lost was being lost in Texas.
In August.
Kris Demetrious slumped against the back end of his borrowed, screaming-yellow Ferrari, peeled the shirt from his damp chest and flipped his phone vertical. With the new orientation, the lines on the map still didn’t resemble the concrete stretching out under the tires. Lesson for the day—internet maps only worked if they were accurate.
The Ferrari was no help with its MP3 player docking station but no internal GPS. Italian automotive engineers either never got lost or didn’t care where they were going.
Mountains enclosed the landscape in every direction, but unlike L.A., none of them were marked. No mansions, no Hollywood sign and no clues to use to correct his wrong turn.
He never got lost on the set. Give him a controlled, detached position behind the camera, and if the scene refused to come together, starting over was as simple as yelling, “Cut.”
So what had possessed him to drive to Dallas instead of fly?
A stall tactic, that’s what.
Dying in the desert wasn’t on his to-do list, but avoiding his destination was. If he could find food and water, he’d prefer to stay lost. Because as soon as he got to Dallas, he’d have to announce his engagement to America’s Sweetheart Kyla Monroe. And even though he’d agreed to her scheme, he’d rather trash six weeks’ worth of dailies than go through with it.
He pocketed the phone as bright afternoon sunshine beat down, a thousand times hotter than it might have been if he’d been wearing a color other than black. Heat shimmered across the road, blurring the horizon.
Just then, churning dust billowed up, the only movement he’d seen in at least fifteen minutes. a dull orange pickup truck, coated with rust, drove through the center of the dirt cloud and pulled off the highway, braking on the shoulder behind the Ferrari. Sand whipped against Kris in a gritty whirlwind. He swept his hair out of his face and went to greet his rescuer.
Really, once he ran out of gas, he could have been stuck here for days, fending off the vultures with nothing more than a smartphone and polarized sunglasses. He’d already spun the car around twice to head in the opposite direction and now he’d lost his bearings. The truck driver’s timing was awesome and, with any luck, he would be able to give Kris directions to the main highway.
After a beat, the truck’s door creaked open and light hit the faded logo stenciled on the orange paint. Big Bobby’s Garage Serving You Since 1956. Dusty, cracked boots appeared below the opened door and whoomped to the ground. Out of the settling dust, a small figure emerged. A girl. Barely of driving age and, odds are, not Big Bobby.
“Car problems, chief?” she drawled as she approached. Her Texas accent was as thick as the dust, but her voice rolled out musically. She slipped off her sunglasses, and the world skipped a beat. The unforgiving heat, lack of road signs and the problems waiting for him in Dallas slid away.
Clear blue eyes peered up at him out of a heart-shaped face and a riot of cinnamon-colored hair curled against porcelain cheeks. Not a glimmer of makeup graced her skin, unusual enough in itself to earn a second glance. The sun bathed her in its glow, a perfect key light. He wouldn’t even need a fill light to get the shot. She was fresh, innocent and breathtakingly beautiful. Like a living sunflower. He wanted to film her.
She eyed him. “Problema con el coche, señor?”
Kris closed his mouth and cleared his throat. “I’m Greek, not Hispanic.”
What a snappy response, and not entirely true—he’d renounced his Greek citizenship at sixteen and considered himself American through and through. How had such a small person shut down his brain in less than thirty seconds?
“Wow. Yes, you are, with a sexy accent and everything. Say something else,” she commanded and circled a finger. The blue of her eyes turned sultry. “Tell me your life is meaningless without me, and you’d give a thousand fortunes to make me yours.”
Somehow his mouth was open again. “Seriously?”
She laughed, a pure sound that trilled through his abdomen. A potent addition to the come-hither she radiated like perfume.
“Only if you mean it,” she said.
There was too much confidence in the set of her shoulders for her to be a teenager. Mid-twenties at least. But then, how worldly could a girl from Nowhere, Texas, be? Especially given her obvious fondness for romantic melodrama and her distinct lack of self-preservation. For all she knew, he might be the next Charles Manson instead of the next Scorsese.
With a grin, she jerked her chin. “I’ll cut you a break, Tonto. You can talk about whatever you want. We don’t see many fancy foreigners in these parts, but I’d be happy to check you out. I mean check it out.” She shook her head and shut her eyes for a blink. “The car. I’ll look at it for you. Might be an easy fix.”
The car? She must work as a mechanic at Big Bobby’s. Intriguing. Most women needed help finding the gas tank.
“It’s not broken down. I’m just lost,” he clarified while his imagination galloped back to the idea of her checking him out, doctor-style, with lots of hands-on analysis. Clawing hunger stabbed through him, as unexpected as it was powerful.
Maybe he should remember his own age, which wasn’t seventeen. Women propositioned him all the time, but with the subtlety of a 747 at takeoff, which he’d never liked and never thought twice about refusing. He had little use for any sort of liaison unless it was fictional and part of his vision for bringing a story to the screen.
This woman had managed to pull him out from behind the lens with a couple of sentences. It was unnerving.
“Lost, huh?” Her gaze raked over him from top to toe. “Lucky for me I found you, then. Does that put you in my debt?”
Everything spilled out of her mouth with veiled insinuation. When combined with her guileless demeanor and fresh face, the punch was forceful. “Well, you haven’t done anything for me. Yet.”
Slim eyebrows jerked up in fascination. “What would you like for me to do?”
He leaned in close enough to catch a whiff of her hair. Coconut and grease, a combination he would have sworn wasn’t the least bit arousing before now. Same for the big T-shirt with the cracked Texas Christian University Horned Frogs emblem and cheap jeans. On her, haute couture.
He crooked a finger and she crowded into his space, which felt mysteriously natural, as if they’d often conspired together.
“Right now, there’s only one thing I’d like for you to do,” he said.
His gaze slid to her lips and what had started as a flirtatious game veered into dangerous territory as he anticipated kissing this nameless desert mirage, sliding against those pink lips, delving into her hot mouth. Her laugh pulsing against his skin.
Kissing strangers was so not his style, and he was suddenly sad it wasn’t.
“Yeah? What would you like me to do?” She wet her lips with the very tip of her tongue, heating his blood all the way to his toes.
“Tell me where I am.”
Her musical laugh poleaxed him again. “Little Crooked Creek Road. Also known as the middle of nowhere.”
“There’s a creek somewhere in all this sand?” Water—wet, cool and perfect for skinny dipping.
No. No naked strangers. What was wrong with him?
“Nah.” Her nose wrinkled, screwing up her features in a charming way. “It dried up in the 1800s. We lack the imagination to rename the road.”
“So tell me, since you’re local. Is it always this hot?” Truthfully, he’d long stopped caring about his sticky, damp clothes, but the urge to keep her talking wouldn’t go away.
“No, not at all. Usually it’s hotter. That’s why we don’t wear all black when it’s a hundred and ten,” she said, scrutinizing him with a gaze as sizzling as the concrete. “Though I like it on you. What brought you so far off the beaten path, anyway?”
“I wish the story was more interesting than a wrong turn. But it’s not.” He grinned and tried to be sorry he’d veered from the interstate but couldn’t conjure up a shred of regret. Surprisingly, being in the middle of this scene wasn’t so bad. “I left El Paso pretty sure I was headed in the right direction, but I haven’t seen a sign for Dallas in a long time.”
“Yeah. You’re lost. This road winds south to the Rio Grande. It’s really not grand or even much of a rio. Can’t recommend it as a sightseeing venture, so I’d head back to Van Horn and take the 10 east.”
“Van Horn. I vaguely remember passing through it.”
“Not much to remember. I was just in town, and it hasn’t changed since the last time I came in March. Speaking of which, I need to get a move on. The part I picked up isn’t going to magically install itself in Gus’s truck.” She sighed and stuck a thumb over her shoulder. “Van Horn’s that way. Good luck and watch for state troopers. They live to pull over fast cars.
“Or,” she continued brightly, “you can go thataway and take your first right. That’ll put you on the road to the center of Little Crooked Creek and the best fried chicken in the county.”
He wasn’t nearly sated enough on the harmony of her voice. Or the charming way she rambled about nothing but piqued his interest anyway. Real life loomed on the horizon, and even if it took him a month to arrive to Dallas, he’d still be unhappy with the creative financing deal for Visions of Black. Kyla would still be Kyla—unfaithful, selfish and artificial—and he’d have to expend way too much energy not caring.
But, he reminded himself again, it was worth it. If he wanted to make Visions, he had to generate plenty of free publicity with an engagement to his beloved-by-the-masses, Oscar-winning ex-girlfriend. A fake engagement.
“Fried chicken is my favorite.” And he was starving. What could a couple of hours hurt? After all, he’d driven on purpose so it would take as long as possible to reach Dallas. “What’s Little Crooked Creek?”
“The poorest excuse for a small town you’ll ever have the misfortune to visit in your life,” she said with a wry twist of her lips. “It’s where I live.”
The Greek god was following her. VJ sneaked another glance in the rearview mirror. Yup. The muy amarilla Ferrari kept pace with Daddy’s truck. God had dropped off a fantasy on the side of the road in a place where nothing had happened for a millennium and he was following her.
Giddy. That was the word for the jumpy crickets in her stomach. She’d been waiting a long time for a knight in shining armor of her very own and never in a million years would she have expected to find one until she escaped Little Crooked Creek forever, amen. Yet, here he was, six feet of gorgeousness in the flesh and following her to Pearl’s. Shiver and a half.
She pulled into a parking place at the diner and curled her lip at the white flatbed in the next spot. Great. Lenny and Billy were here. Must be later than she thought. Her brothers never crawled out of bed until three o’clock and usually only then because she booted them awake, threatening them with no breakfast if they didn’t move their lazy butts.
Hopefully they weren’t on their second cup of coffee yet and wouldn’t notice the stranger strolling through Pearl’s. The last thing she wanted was to expose her precious knight to the two stupidest good ol’ boys in West Texas.
The Ferrari rolled into the spot on the other side of Daddy’s truck, and the Greek god flowed out of it like warm molasses. He was the most delicious thing in four states, and he was all hers. For now. She wasn’t deluded enough to think such an urbane, sophisticated specimen of a man would stick around, but it was no crime to bask in his gloriousness until he flowed back out of her life. Sigh. She grabbed her backpack and met him on the sidewalk.
Pearl’s was almost empty. Her stranger was as out of place as a June bug in January, and it only took fourteen seconds for all eight pairs of eyes in the place to focus on them as she led him past the scarred tables to the booth in the shadow of the kitchen—the one everyone understood was reserved for couples who wanted privacy. She plopped onto the bench, opting to take the side sloppily repaired with silver duct tape and giving him the mostly okay seat.
He slid onto the opposite bench and folded his pianist’s fingers into a neat crosshatch pattern right over the heart carved into the Formica tabletop, with the initials LT & SR in the center. Laurie and Steve had been married nearly twenty years now, a small-town staple completely in contrast to this man, who doubtlessly frequented chic sushi bars and classy nightclubs.
What had she been thinking when she invited him here?
“Interesting place,” he said.
Dilapidated, dark and smelling of rancid grease maybe, but interesting wasn’t a descriptor of Pearl’s. “Best cooking you’ll find for miles. And the only cooking.”
He laughed and she scoured her memory for something else funny to say so she could hear that deep rumble again. Then she abandoned that idea as he pierced her with those incredible melty-brown eyes. She settled for drinking him in. He was finely sculpted, as if carved from marble and deemed so perfect that his creator had breathed life into his statue and set it free to live amongst mere mortals.
“My name’s Kris.” He held out a hand and raised his eyebrows expectantly. “From Los Angeles.”
Surreptitiously, she wiped the grime and sweat off her palm and clasped his smooth hand. Energy leaped between them, shocking her with a funny little zap.
“Sorry, static electricity. It’s dry this time of year.” She folded her hand into her lap, cradling it with the other. Was it too melodramatic to vow never to wash it again? “I’m VJ. From nowhere. And I’ll keep being from nowhere if I don’t get to work. I’m saving every dime to get out of here.”
She jumped up, hating to desert him, but it was almost four o’clock.
“You’re leaving me?” Kris cocked his head and a silky strand of his shoulder-length hair fell into his face. She knotted her fingers behind her back so she couldn’t indulge the urge to sweep it from his cheekbone. Touching the artwork was a no-no, even when it wasn’t behind glass.
“Not a chance,” she said. “I have to put my uniform on, then I’ll take your order.”
He glanced at the other customers, who weren’t ashamed to be caught in open inspection of the foreigner in their midst. “You work here?”
His accent was amazing. The words were English, a language she’d used her entire life, but every syllable sounded exotic and special. It was the difference between Detroit and Italy—both produced cars, but the end result had little in common other than tires and a steering wheel.
And it was way past time to stop rubbernecking. “Uh, yeah. Five days a week.”
Her brothers lumbered off their stools at the counter. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched them hulk over to the booth.
“Who’s the pansy?” Lenny sneered. VJ butted him in the chest with her shoulder until he glanced down.
“Back off,” she demanded. “He’s just passing through and no threat to you. Let him be.”
Lenny flicked her out of the way as if she weighed no more than a feather.
Before she’d fully regained her balance, Kris exploded from the booth and descended by her side, staring down Lenny and Billy without flinching. Okay, so maybe he didn’t actually need defending. Her heart tumbled to her knees as he angled his body, shielding her, unconcerned about the five hundred pounds of Lewis boys glaring at him. Nobody in Little Crooked Creek stood up to even one of her brothers, let alone two. He really was heroic.
“Kristian Demetrious. You are?” His face had gone hard and imperious—warrior-like, about to charge into battle, sword drawn and shield high. As if she needed another push to imagine him as her fantasy knight, come to rescue her from Small Town, USA.
Then his full name registered.
She blinked rapidly, but the image in black didn’t waver. Kristian Demetrious was standing in the middle of Pearl’s. No one would believe it. Pictures. Should she take pictures? He looked totally different in person. Gak, he probably thought she was a complete hick for not recognizing him. She had to call Pamela Sue this very minute.
Right after she made sure Lenny and Billy weren’t about to wipe the floor with Kyla Monroe’s fiancé.
“These are two of my brothers. They like to play rough but they’re mostly harmless,” she said to Kris. “I apologize. They don’t get day passes from the mental institution very often.”
With a hard push to each of her brothers’ chests, she said, “Go sit down and drink another cup of coffee on me. Cool off. Mr. Demetrious isn’t here to pick a fight with you.”
And just by saying his name, Kris turned into someone remote and inaccessible. A stone rolled onto her chest. He was Kyla Monroe’s fiancé. Of course he was. Men like him were always with women like Kyla—gorgeous, elegant and famous, with a shelf full of awards. Well, she’d known her Greek knight was out of her league but she hadn’t known he was that far out. Actually, she’d thought maybe he was flirting with her a little—but he couldn’t have been. She’d misinterpreted his innocent comments, twisting them into something out of a romance novel.
Lenny and Billy skulked away, shooting spiteful glances over their shoulders, and hefted themselves onto their stools, where they eyed Kris over their earthenware mugs. Cretins.
“I’m afraid you’ve discovered my secret superpower. I’m a moron magnet.” She met Kris’s eyes. “Thanks. For standing up for me.”
How inadequate. But what could she say to encapsulate the magic of that defense from someone like Kristian Demetrious? Small to him, huge to her.
He shrugged and flipped hair out of his face, looking uncomfortable. “One of my hot buttons. So, it’s Mr. Demetrious now?” He slid onto the bench. All the hard edges melted and he smiled wryly when she opted to remain standing. She couldn’t sit at the same table like they were even remotely in the same stratosphere. “I’m not a fan of formality. I introduced myself as Kris for a reason. Can’t we go back to being friendly?”
His smile was so infectious, so stunning as it spread over his straight, white teeth, she returned it before catching herself. “No, we can’t. My mama raised me to be respectful.”
“I liked it better when you were being disrespectful.” He sighed. “Obviously you know who I am. I’m going to guess it’s because of Kyla and not because you’ve seen my films.”
“Sorry. I read People magazine, of course, but we’re lucky to get a couple of wide releases at the theater in Van Horn. For this corner of the world, the films you direct are entirely too…what’s the word?” She snapped her fingers. “Cosmopolitan.”
“Obscure,” he said at the same time, and something passed across his features. Determination. Passion. “That’s going to change. Soon.”
“I have to clock in.” And put some distance between them before she asked him how and when. What his work was like, his plans. His dreams. She could listen to him talk all night. Sophisticated conversation, the likes of which she’d never had the opportunity to participate in.
She turned to go. His fingers grazed her arm, and tightened with a luscious pressure, holding her in place. What a thrill it would be to have that golden hand—both hands—wandering all over, undressing, caressing—and enough of that, now.
“Change fast. I’m starving,” he said, his eyes went liquid and a brow quirked up. Before realizing he was taken, that was the kind of comment she would have misread, mistaking his smoldering expression as invitation.
“You’re the boss. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
She edged away, terrified if she shifted her eyes, he’d disappear.
So what if he did? He belonged to Kyla Monroe, the blonde goddess of the screen.
Her stomach flipped. They were from different worlds. He was only here by an accident of navigation, not some divine plan to make all her wildest dreams come true.
Kristian Demetrious was another woman’s man who’d landed in the middle of Little Crooked Creek for a heartbeat and then would be gone.

Two
Kris leaned against the hard booth and watched his desert mirage do a dozen mundane things. Punching her time card in the antiquated machine mounted to the wall of the open kitchen. Making a phone call at the honest-to-God pay phone nestled between the upright video game and the bathrooms.
She moved with vibrancy, like the progression of a blooming flower caught in time-release photographs. Suddenly bursting with color and life. Magnificence where a moment before had been nothing special. Where was his camera when he really needed it? Anything that visceral should be captured through the lens for all posterity.
No. Not for anyone else. Only for his private-viewing pleasure. A selfish secret celebrating artistry instead of capitalism. Maybe that was the key to unlocking the yet-to-be-conceptualized theme for Visions of Black, a frustration he’d carried for weeks.
The light in this dive was sallow and dim. All wrong. He’d position her outside, with the late-afternoon sun in her face and mountains rising behind in an uncultivated backdrop. Maybe an interview, so he could capture that mellifluous drawl and the unapologetic raw honesty. With VJ, everything was on the surface, in her eyes and on her tongue, and he was greedy for transparency after drowning in Hollywood games.
He’d left his condo in L.A. before dawn this morning, intending to drive straight through to Dallas, where he’d meet up with Kyla to start the engagement publicity and get rolling on preproduction work for Visions.
But one more Kyla-free night now felt less like a reprieve and more like a requirement.
He just wanted to make films, not deal with financing and publicity and endless Hollywood bureaucracy. Visions of Black was the right vehicle to propel his career to the next level, with the perfect blend of accessible characters, high-stakes drama and a tension-filled plot. Audiences would love Kyla in the starring role, and her charisma on the screen was unparalleled. She was a necessary part of the package, first and foremost because executive producer Jack Abrams insisted, but Kris couldn’t disagree with the dual benefit of box-office draw and high-profile PR.
The need to commit this story to film flared strongly enough that he was willing to deal with his ex and any other obstacles thrown in his path.
Tomorrow.
VJ skirted the tables and rejoined him, smiling expectantly. “Fried chicken?”
“Absolutely.” Nobody in L.A. ate fried chicken and the hearty smell of it had been teasing him since he walked through the door. “And a beer.”
“Excellent choice. Except you’re in the middle of the Bible Belt. Coke instead?” she offered.
“You don’t serve alcohol?” A glance around the diner answered that question. Every glass was filled with deep brown liquid. Five bucks said it was outrageously sweet tea.
“Sorry. I’m afraid it’s dry as a bone here.” She leaned in close and waggled her eyebrows. “We’re all good Baptists. Except behind closed doors, you know.”
He knew. Where he came from, everyone was Greek Orthodox except behind closed doors. Different label, same hypocrisy. “Coke is fine.”
“I’ll have it right out for you, sir.”
He almost groaned. “You can stop with the sir nonsense. Come right back. Keep me company,” he said.
Keep the locals at bay. A convenient excuse, but a poor one. He liked VJ, and he’d have to leave soon enough. Was it terrible to record as much of her as possible through the camera in his head until then?
“I can’t. I’m working.”
“Doing what?” He waved at the dining room. “This place is practically empty.”
Her probing gaze roamed over his face, as if searching for something, and the pursuit was so affecting, he felt oddly compelled to give it to her, no matter what it was.
“Okay,” she said. “But only for a few minutes.”
She glided through the haphazard maze of tables and bent over her order pad, then handed it to the middle-aged woman in the kitchen. Pearl, if he had to guess.
The brutish brothers, clearly adopted, continued to shoot malevolent grimaces over their shoulders, but hadn’t left their stools again.
Only a couple of things were guaranteed to rile Kris’s temper—challenging his artistic vision and picking on someone weaker. Otherwise, he stayed out of it. Drama belonged on the screen, not in real life.
A slender young woman with a wholesome face whirled into the diner and flew to VJ’s side. Amused, he crossed his arms as they whispered furiously to each other while shooting him fascinated glances under their lashes. Benign gawking, especially by someone who intrigued him as much as VJ did, was sort of flattering. After a couple of minutes, the other woman flounced to the bar, her sidelong gaping at him so exaggerated she almost tripped over her sandals.
“Friend of yours?” he asked as VJ approached his table.
VJ was giving him a wide berth, something he normally appreciated, but not today and not with her. There’d been an easiness between them earlier, as if they’d been friends for a long time, before she got uptight about his connection to Kyla. Friends were hard to come by in Hollywood, especially for someone who cultivated a reputation for being driven and moody. He lost little sleep over it. Different story with VJ, who made the idea of being so disconnected unappealing.
“Yeah, practically since birth. That’s Pamela Sue. She’s only here to ogle you.”
He laughed. “I’m not used to such honesty. I like it. What does VJ stand for?” he asked and propped his chin on a palm, letting his gaze roam over her expressive face. Women were manipulative and scheming where he came from. This one was different.
“Victoria Jane. It’s too fancy for these parts, so folks mostly call me VJ.”
VJ fit her—it was short, sassy and unusual. “Most? But not all?”
“Perceptive, aren’t you? My mom didn’t. But she’s been gone now almost a year.”
Ouch. The pain flickering through her eyes drilled right through him, leaving a gaping hole. Before thinking it through, he reached out and gently enfolded her hand in his.
“I’m sorry,” he said. After the ill-fated exchange of harsh words with his father sixteen years ago, Kris had walked away from a guaranteed position at Demetrious Shipping, the Demetrious fortune and Greece entirely. His relationship with his mom had been one of the casualties, and phone calls weren’t the same. But he couldn’t imagine a world where even a call wasn’t possible. “That must’ve been tough. Must still be.”
“Are you trying to make me cry?” She swallowed hard.
Dishes clinked and clacked from the kitchen and the noise split the air.
“Pearl’s subtle way of telling me to get my butt to work.” VJ rolled wet, shiny eyes. “Honestly, she should pick up your check. This place hasn’t seen such a big crowd since Old Man Smith’s funeral.”
While he’d been distracted, locals had packed the place. Most of the tables were now full of nuclear families, worn-out men in crusty boots or acne-faced teenagers.
“So you’re saying I’m at least as popular as a dead man?” It shouldn’t have been funny, but the corners of his mouth twitched none the less.
Soberly, she pulled her hand from his and stood. Her natural friendliness had returned and then vanished. He missed it.
“Well, I have to work.” She eased away, her expression blank. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Demetrious. I wish you and Ms. Monroe all the happiness in the world with your upcoming marriage.”
He scowled. “Kyla and I aren’t engaged.”
Yet. It didn’t improve his mood to hear rumors of the impending engagement had already surfaced, courtesy of Kyla, no doubt.
Why was this still bothering him? He’d agreed to give Kyla a ring. The deal was done if he wanted to make Visions of Black. He entertained no romantic illusions about love or marriage. Marriage based on a business agreement had a better chance of succeeding than one based on anything else. Of course, he was never going to marry anyone, least of all Kyla, whom he hadn’t even seen in a couple of months, not since she’d called off their relationship in a fit of tears and theatrical moaning. At which point she’d likely jumped right back into bed with Guy Hansen.
“Oh. Well, then, have a nice life instead.” VJ smiled and bounced to the kitchen.
At least he’d been able to improve her mood.
Later that night, VJ grinned as she walked up the listing steps to the house, jumped the broken one and cracked the screen door silently.
Kris and Kyla Monroe weren’t engaged.
Oh, it made no difference in the grand scheme of things, but she couldn’t stop smiling regardless. He was compassionate, sinfully hot and a little more available than she’d assumed.
Was there anything wrong with him? If so, she didn’t want to know. For now, he was her fantasy, with no faults and no bad habits.
It was fun to imagine Kris returning for her someday, top down on the Ferrari and a handful of red roses. And it was slightly depressing since it would never happen in a million years. He was on his way to Dallas and that would be that.
She tiptoed into the hallway and froze when a board creaked. Dang it, she never missed that one.
“Girl, is that you?” Daddy’s slurred voice shot out from the living room.
She winced. Angry drunk tonight. What had happened this time to set him off?
Her stomach plummeted. The part. She’d forgotten all about the part for Gus’s truck, and it was still sitting in the cab of Daddy’s truck. Her head had been full of Kristian Demetrious, with no room for anything else.
She put some starch in her spine and walked into the living room. Her father slumped in the same armchair where he had taken residence earlier in the afternoon. His eyes were bloodshot, swollen.
“Lookee here.” Daddy took a swig of beer and backhanded his mouth with his knuckles. “Finally decided to prance your butt home, didja?”
He looked bad. They’d all dealt with Mama’s death in their own way, but Daddy wasn’t dealing with it at all, falling farther into a downward, drunken spiral every day.
“I’m sorry about the part, Daddy. I got to town late,” she hedged. “I had to go straight to work.”
“Gus needs his truck. You get over there and fix it now,” he commanded, then downed the rest of his beer and belched. He set the empty can on the closest table without looking.
It teetered on the edge, and then fell to the floor with a clank. Beer dribbled onto the hardwood floor, creating another mess to clean up.
“It’s late. Bobby Junior can fix it in the morning.” Along with everything else since he was running the garage in their father’s stead.
Guilt panged her breastbone. Bobby Junior had a wife and three kids he never saw. What else did she have to do? Lie in bed and dream about a Greek god who was speeding away toward a life that did not, and never would, include her?
Daddy bobbled the TV remote into his paw. “I told you to do it. Ungrateful hussy. Bring me another beer, would ya?”
Her head snapped up and anger swept the guilt aside. “Daddy, you’re drunk and you need to go to bed, so I’ll forgive you for calling me that.”
“Don’t you raise your voice to me, missy!” He weaved to his feet and shook the remote. “And don’t you pass judgment down your prissy little nose, either. I ain’t drunk. I’m hungry because you ran off and forgot about cooking me dinner. Your job is here.”
“Sorry, Daddy. I don’t mean to be disrespectful.” She bit her lip and pushed on. “But I’m moving to Dallas soon, like I’ve been telling you for months. You and the boys have to figure out how to do things for yourselves.”
Jenny Porter’s cousin was buying a condo and had offered to rent the extra bedroom to VJ, but it wasn’t built yet and wouldn’t be until September. Fall couldn’t get here fast enough.
Daddy shook his head. “The Good Lord put women on this earth to cook, clean and have a man’s babies. You can do that right here in Little Crooked Creek.”
“I’m not staying here to enable you to drink yourself into the grave.” Her dry eyes burned. “I’m tired. I’m sorry about Gus’s truck and for forgetting your dinner. But I’m done here.” She turned and took a step toward her room.
Daddy’s fingernails bit into her upper arm as he spun her and yanked until her face was inches from his. “Don’t you turn your back on me, girl.” Alcohol-laced breath gushed from his mouth and turned her stomach with its stench. “You’ll quit your job and forget about running off to live in that devil’s den.”
He emphasized each word with a shake that rattled her entire body. Tears sprang up as he squeezed the forming bruises. For the first time since her mother’s death, she was genuinely afraid of her father and what he might do. Mama had always been the referee. Her lone defender and supporter in a household of males. VJ didn’t have her mother’s patience or her saintly ability to overlook Daddy’s faults.
If she could escape to her room, she could grab some clothes and dash over to Pamela Sue’s house.
“Thought you were pretty smart hiding all that money under the bed in your unmentionables box,” he said.
It took her a second. “You were snooping in my room?”
She jerked her arm free as panic flitted up her back. Surely he hadn’t looked inside the tampon box. Her brothers wouldn’t have touched it with a ten-foot pole, and she’d been smugly certain it was the perfect hiding place.
“This is my house and so’s everything in it. Needed me a new truck. Tackle got it in El Paso today.” Her father smirked and nodded toward the rear of the house.
The room tilted as she looked out the back window. In the driveway of the detached garage sat a brand-new truck with paper plates.
“You stole my money? All of it?” Her lungs collapsed and breath whooshed out, strangling her.
“My house, so it’s my money.”
Her money was gone.
She could have opened an account at Sweetwater Bank where Aunt Mary worked after all. Then Daddy might have found out about the money but wouldn’t have been able to touch it. Hindsight.
What was she going to do? Most of the money had been Mama’s, slipped to VJ on the sly when her prognosis had turned bad. It would take at least a week to earn enough at Pearl’s to buy a bus ticket. Never mind eating or any other basic necessities. Like rent.
Numb to the bone, she blurted, “My money, so it’s my truck. Give me the keys.” She held out a palm and tried to remember what Daddy had been like before Mama died, but that man was long gone.
He guffawed. “The keys are hid good, and it’s got anti-theft, so don’t even think about hot-wiring it. Now that you see how things are gonna go, getcher butt in the kitchen and fix me something to eat.”
“No, Daddy. You’ve gone too far. Do it yourself.”
A blow knocked her to the side, almost off her feet. Tiny needles of pain swept the surface of her cheek. She’d never seen the cuff coming.
“I’m tired of your mouth, girl. While you’re in the kitchen, clean up a little, too, why don’t ya? The boys left dishes in the sink.” He fell into the recliner as if nothing had changed.
Her cheekbone began to throb, overshadowing the painful bruising on her arm by quadruple. She had to get away. Now was her chance.
She sprinted to her room, ignoring her father’s bellowing. Her body felt heavy, almost too heavy to move. Once inside her room, she threw her weight against the door. After two tries, she wedged a chair under the knob good enough to stay upright, but not good enough to hold off a drunken rage if her father had a mind to follow her.
Numb, she stumbled around the room throwing things into a bag. Lots of things, as many as it would hold, because she wasn’t coming back. She couldn’t spend a couple of nights at Pamela Sue’s house and wait until Daddy sobered up like usual.
She tore out of her waitress uniform, ripping a sleeve in the process, but it hardly mattered since she’d never wear it again. Her father had been right—she would quit her job, but not because he said so. Because she was leaving. Without glancing at them, she pulled on a T-shirt and jeans, blinking hard so the tears would stay inside.
Abandoning Mama’s collection of romance novels almost killed her, but five hundred paperbacks lined the bookshelf. Maybe someday she could come back for them or ask Bobby Junior to ship them to her, but they’d likely be thrown out before she had the money for something that expensive. She couldn’t leave behind Embrace the Rogue and slipped it into the overstuffed bag. It had been Mama’s favorite.
A crash reverberated from the other side of the door.
Quickly, she yanked the curtain aside and threw up the window. With the heel of her hand, she popped off the screen and flung a leg over the windowsill, careful not to look back at the sanctuary she’d called hers since the day she was born. Her courage was only as strong as the sting across her face and when it faded, she feared reason would return.
She had nowhere to go, no money and a broken heart.
VJ started walking toward Main and got about halfway to Pearl’s before the tears threatened again. Two deep, shuddery breaths, then another two, socked the tears away. She didn’t have the luxury of grief. Other folks made a career out of drama and hardship, but none of that nonsense paid the bills. Only firm resolve got things done.
Twenty-six dollars in tips lay folded in her pocket, a windfall on most days. The crowd had been thick, thanks to lightning-quick word of mouth about the fancy foreign car in Pearl’s parking lot.
Twenty-six dollars would barely cover a day’s worth of meals at the cheapest fast-food restaurant, if by some miracle she could hitch a ride to Van Horn anonymously. Everyone for fifty miles knew her and would tattle to Daddy before breakfast. He’d come after her for sure if that happened.
The school she’d attended for twelve years loomed ahead, ghosts of those years dancing in the weak moonlight illuminating the playground. The next building on the block was the garage, and the sight of it almost changed her mind. Lenny and Billy would only miss her at meal time, but Bobby Junior and Tackle depended on her to pitch in around the shop.
Then again, Tackle had bought the truck for Daddy. Surely he’d asked where the money had come from. Daddy could have lied, but her brother’s probable betrayal hollowed out her insides.
She passed MacIntyre’s Drugstore. No more hanging out there with Pamela Sue at the lunch counter.
The end of things would have come soon enough once the condo in Dallas was built, but that was later. This was now, and it was harder than she’d expected.
Mercifully, there were no buildings on Main past the drugstore for a quarter of a mile. She finally reached the one and only motel in Little Crooked Creek and rehearsed some lines designed to talk her way into a free room.
A flash of yellow drove everything out of her mind.
Moonlight glinted off the muy amarilla Ferrari parked under the lone streetlight. Her pulse hammered in her throat. Kris was still here. Not driving toward Dallas and Kyla, to whom he wasn’t engaged.
It was fate.
Maybe he’d give her a ride in exchange for directions. He’d defended her against her brothers. He would help her, she knew he would.
But then she’d have to explain what happened to her money and why the big hurry to get out of town. She ground her teeth. Kris didn’t need to be burdened with her soap opera. Neither did she want to lie.
What if she made it seem like she was helping him? What if something was mysteriously wrong with the car?
Oh, it won’t start? Let me look at it. Ah, here’s the problem. No, I couldn’t accept anything in return. Except maybe a ride to Dallas.
Stupid plan. It’s a Ferrari, dummy, not a Ford. What if the engine was different than the domestic ones she knew?
There was only one way to find out and what else did she have? Not money. Not choices. Here was a golden opportunity to escape Little Crooked Creek forever and start over in Dallas. Her future roommate would surely take her in a little early, allowing VJ to crash on her couch. Once she got on her feet, she’d pay Beverly back, with interest.
Holy cow, the trip to Dallas was like nine hours. Nine hours in the company of Kristian Demetrious. Five hundred and forty minutes. More, if she could stretch it out.
She peered into the interior of the car, careful not to touch the glass in case the alarm was supersonic. The dash was devoid of blinking red lights, which hopefully meant no alarm at all. She fished a metal nail file from her purse and frowned. Not nearly long enough to pop the lock from the outside. Maybe she could peel the convertible top back a little and stick the file in that way.
On a hunch, she tried the handle. The door swung open easily. Unlocked. Only the rich.
Quickly, she released the deck lid and beelined it to the rear of the car. At least she knew the engine was in the back instead of the front. But it was downright foreign, an engine for a space ship instead of for a car, but one mechanism was the same. She reached in and wiggled the ignition coil wire loose.
Now nothing would start this car without her help. She closed the deck lid with a quiet click and retrieved her bag. Now, where to wait for Kris?
Wrinkling her nose at the space next to the Dumpster, she settled onto the concrete by the ice machine and tried to relax enough to fall asleep. Not likely with the knowledge this was probably the first of many nights sleeping on the street.
This plan had to work. Had to. Heavy, humid air pressed down on her in the dark silence. Crickets chirped in the field beside the motel, but the music did nothing to take her mind off the panic rolling around in her stomach.
What if Kris wasn’t meant to be her knight in shining armor?

Three
Kris examined the engine of Kyla’s car. Nothing seemed out of place, but how would he know if it was? The Ferrari had started fine every time he’d driven it. Why had it picked now, and here, to flake out?
Penance, for the delay. That’s why. Kyla had undoubtedly cursed it, then texted him to bring it to her in Dallas, pretty please. He should have shipped the car instead of driving it. She wouldn’t have cared either way, but no. He’d driven to allow time to obsess over the inflexible Hollywood machine. Muttering slurs on Italian engineers, he yanked his phone out of his back pocket.
“Car problems, chief?” VJ’s honeyed drawl rang out from behind him.
He grinned, strangely elated, and twisted to greet her. Whatever he’d been about to say died in his throat.
With a succinct curse, he ran a thumb over the welt on her upper cheek. “What happened to your face?”
She flinched and turned away, but he hooked a finger under her chin and guided her face into the sunlight. The injury wasn’t bad enough to need medical attention but quick-burning rage flared up behind his rib cage nonetheless.
“Who did that to you?” he demanded. “One of your brothers?”
She better start naming names really fast before he tore this town apart, redneck by redneck, until someone else spilled. VJ was small, so small. How could anyone strike her with force hard enough to bruise?
“Nobody. I tripped.” She shifted her gaze to the ground and pulled her chin from his fingers. “It was dark.”
“Right.”
The maids rearranged the furniture again, my darling, his mother used to say. Regardless of the continent, the excuses were equally as ineffective, as if he was both blind and stupid. This time, he wasn’t a scared kid, hiding in his room, creating stories in his head where he controlled what the characters did and it all turned out happy in the end.
Fury curled his hands into fists. He’d never been able to help his mother, distancing himself further and further from a powerless situation. Distancing himself from the rage, the only defense he had against turning into his father.
His parents had been madly, passionately in love once upon a time and their relationship had degenerated into ugliness Kris refused to duplicate. So now he employed strict compensation mechanisms: avoiding confrontation, avoiding serious relationships and staying detached. Women got sick of it fast, which he accepted. Maybe even encouraged. Kyla had been no exception.
Now, it was too late to disengage and even he wasn’t good enough to pretend indifference. VJ needed his help. Like it or not, his role in this had a second act.
“Really,” she said, refusing to meet his eyes. “It was an accident. Can I help you with the car?”
“An accident.” He crossed his arms and stared down at her. “What did you trip over?”
“Uh, the couch.”
He nodded to the ugly blotch on her arm, which wrapped around her biceps in the shape of a hand, with half-moon cuts at the top of the purple fingers. “Did the couch have hands with fingernails?”
Her face crumpled, and he spit out a curse. Panicked, he enfolded her into his arms, determined to do something, anything to help.
Then he remembered VJ barely knew him. She’d smack him with her bag for being so familiar.
But she didn’t. Instead she snuggled into his chest, sobbing. Her head fit into the hollow of his breastbone as if it had been shaped for her, and VJ’s slight frame kick-started a fiercely possessive, protective instinct. He tightened his arms and inhaled the coconut scent of her warm cinnamon-colored hair.
After a minute, the bawling stopped. She wiggled away and took a deep breath. Her face was mottled and wet. She swiped at it with the hem of her giant T-shirt, this one with a cracked emblem for Tres Hombres Automotive Distributing, and looked up. “I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from.”
“I do,” he said grimly. “You’ve had a rough night, which wasn’t helped by sleeping outside. Let me take you somewhere, as long as it’s not back to whoever hit you.”
“I didn’t sleep outside,” she protested. “I’m on my way to work. That’s the only reason I’m out this early.”
“You have a concrete-patterned print down the side of your face. The other side,” he clarified as she tentatively touched the bruises. She obviously had no clue how much practice he had in seeing through a woman’s lies. Normally, he’d be infuriated with her attempt at deception, but instead, the urge to take action, to fix things for her, unfolded.
“Get in the car.” He swore, colorfully, but mindful enough of the offensive content to do it in Greek. “I forgot. Something’s wrong with the car. Can you give me the number to your garage?”
Out of nowhere, she burst into tears again.
He rubbed her shoulder and said the first thing that came to mind, “I’m sorry. That wasn’t a dig at your mechanical skills. I’d love it if you’d look at my car. Please.”
“Don’t apologize,” she grumbled, sniffling. “That only makes it worse.”
“Um, this seems to be the sole situation where it’s wrong for a guy to apologize. Can you possibly explain what wouldn’t be wrong to say?”
Without a word, she skirted him and leaned into the engine bay. With a couple of skillful twists, she reattached a loose wire he hadn’t noticed and she mumbled, “I disconnected it last night. Try it now.”
Speechless, he slid into the driver’s seat and pushed the start button. With a meaty roar, the engine sprang to life. The RPM needle flicked back and forth with each nudge of the accelerator.
He vaulted out of the seat and rounded the back end before she fled.
“Now get in the car.”
“I can’t.” Misery pulled at her expression. “This is all wrong. I’m sorry. I had a stupid plan to trade fixing your car for a ride, but it wouldn’t have needed fixing if I hadn’t sabotaged it. Then you had to be all nice and wonderful and understanding about my…” She waved a flustered hand at her bruises. “Problems. I’m a terrible person, and I can’t take advantage of you.”
Kris bit his lip so the bubble of laughter wouldn’t burst out. “Let me get this straight. You can’t accept a ride because you don’t want to take advantage of me.”
“Your hospitality,” she amended quickly. “I don’t want to take advantage of your hospitality. Or take advantage in any other way. Not that you’re repulsive or anything. I mean, I would take advantage if I had the opportunity. You’re totally hot.” She hissed out a little moan, and he yearned to hear it again. “That didn’t come out right. Can I crawl in a hole now?”
“No.” He crossed his arms and leaned a hip on the side panel. Was it terrible to be charmed by how negotiating a simple ride tore her up? “It’s too late. You’ve already admitted you can’t be trusted with my virtue. Whatever will I do?”
She glared at him but then her expression wavered. “I do have a reputation in the greater Little Crooked Creek area. Mothers have been known to lock up their sons when they see me coming.”
Her humor and winsome self-deprecation was back, loosening the bands around his lungs. “Well, my mother is six thousand miles away so I guess I’ll have to risk it. Let’s try this. I’ll forgive you for sabotaging the car if you’ll forgive me for not believing you tripped.” Smoothly, he captured her hand and led her to the passenger side. He opened the door. “Shall we?”
She didn’t climb in. Staring at their joined hands, she said, “Yesterday morning you were blissfully unaware I existed. Why do you want to get mixed up in this?”
A fair question, but the wrong one. His involvement had begun the moment she pulled off the highway and ensnared him, forcing him into the action.
A better question was how long he’d stay involved.
“Is someone going to come after me with a shotgun?”
“I doubt it.” She snorted out a laugh. “Bobby Junior and Tackle might consider it, but they’re too busy. The cretins…sorry. My other brothers would have to notice I was gone first.”
“What about your father?”
Shadows sprang into her eyes and her grip tightened. He had his name.
“I honestly can’t say what Daddy would do. That’s the best reason of all for you to forget about me and drive away as fast as you can.”
“You’ve obviously mistaken me for someone without a conscience. I couldn’t sleep at night if I did that. Get in the car, VJ.”
“How can you be real?” She studied his face, the same as she had last night, as if looking for the answers to her deepest questions. “It’s like I dreamed up the perfect man and poof, here you are.”
It should be a crime to be that naive. He dropped her hand. “I’m far from perfect. If you get in the car, you’ll doubtlessly find out I’m not always a fun date. Don’t turn me into some altruistic saint because I’m offering you a ride.”
She hesitated, then nodded once. “Okay. I’ll take the ride, but I’m allowed to worship you in secret or no deal.”
The bruising on her face stood out in sharp relief against her fragile skin yet when the corners of her mouth flipped up in a small smile, he couldn’t help but smile, too. “How could I turn that down?”
He helped her into the passenger seat and slammed the door. She slumped against the leather, and even through the tinted glass, she radiated an aura that pinged around inside him, seeking a place to land.
Dangerous, that’s what she was. When was the last time he’d willingly tossed away his stay-detached rule?
Once settled behind the wheel, he slipped on his sunglasses and said, “I’ve already checked out, so where would you like me to take you? Your girlfriend’s house, the one from last night?”
She stared out the window, pointedly not looking at him. “I’m afraid it’s a little more complicated than that.”
VJ flat-handed sunglasses against her face and debated how to explain she was going to Dallas without coming across as a freeloader, or worse, a stalker.
Her only plan had died the second Kris held her and let her cry on his fifty-dollar T-shirt. How was she going to convince him to let her tag along when she had nothing to give him in return? Well, nothing other than an annoying set of calf eyes, cowardice disguised as automotive expertise and twenty-six dollars, twenty of which Kris had tipped her in the first place.
“Complicated is my specialty,” he commented mildly and drove to the motel lot exit. His graceful fingers draped over the wheel casually, as if he was so in tune with the car, it anticipated his bidding instead of relying on mere mechanical direction. “Right or left?”
She inhaled sharply and the scent of new car and fresh leather hit her like a freight train. A fitting combination for a new start.
Might as well go for broke.
“Left and then another right at the Feed and Seed. Go about five hundred miles and then another right. That’ll put me pretty close to where I want to go.”
“Ah.” He nodded sagely and slapped a palm to his chest, Pledge of Allegiance style. “A woman after my own heart. You’re running away. Why didn’t you say so?”
Because running away sounded so juvenile, especially out of his mouth.
“Am I that transparent?”
“Yeah.” That slow, sexy smile spread across his face. “Don’t worry, I like it.”
“Hmmpf. I’d rather be a woman of mystery and secrets.”
“No, you wouldn’t.” His gaze shifted to the highway and stayed there. “You just think you would. Secretive women are irritating.”
He meant someone specific. Her curiosity spiked, but the firm set of his mouth said don’t ask. So she bit her tongue and mirrored his feigned fascination with the road stretched ahead through the windshield. Little Crooked Creek fell away at a rapid pace. Good riddance.
After a while, she might miss someone or something other than Pamela Sue, Bobby Junior and Tackle. Mama’s grave. Pearl probably. The sunset against a mountain backdrop.
For now, the call of adventure and a new life drowned out whispers of the past.
Kris nodded toward the floorboard, where a broken-in black leather bag was wedged under the dash. “Find my MP3 player and pick out some music. It’s a long drive to Dallas.”
“You’re going to take me?” She’d been studiously avoiding the subject, hoping to segue back into it later. Like after it was too late to turn around.
“You’re in the car, and I’m driving to Dallas. Seems like that’s going to be the end result.”
Relief lessened the weight on her shoulders. Nine hours in the company of Kris. Nine hours in an amazing car with her Greek god in shining armor. It wasn’t nearly long enough, but far more than she deserved. “You aren’t mad?”
With a half laugh, he said, “About what? Didn’t we go through this already?”
Sinking low in the seat, she tried to make herself as small as possible. “Because I wasn’t honest with you. I practically forced you into taking on an unwanted passenger.”
After a beat of silence, he tapped the steering wheel in a staccato rhythm. “I drink coffee black, I refuse to screw the lid on the toothpaste when I’ll have to take it back off again, and no one—no one—can force me to do something I don’t want to do.” A wealth of pain and untold history underpinned the sentiments, darkening his tone. She hated being responsible for bringing back bad memories. “Now you know the three most important things about me. Next time, ask instead of making assumptions.”
Her fantasy gained dimensions and layers. And she craved more depth, more knowledge, more understanding of this extraordinary person in the next seat.
“Oh, no. You busted my deal all to pieces. I can’t worship someone who doesn’t screw the lid back on the toothpaste.” She shook her head and tsked. “That’s wrong. What if it gets lost?”
His million-dollar smile burst into place, and she intended to keep it there. It was the one repayment she could give him. Of course, it was a win-win in her book.
“Lost? I throw it away. Waste of plastic.”
“Figures.”
The craving intensified. What kind of music did he listen to? She hooked the bag and pulled it into her lap, then rifled through it, absorbing, touching. These were Kris’s personal belongings. A green toothbrush. A stick of deodorant. A brush with a black stretchy band twisted around the handle. She’d never seen him with his hair tied back and hoped she never did. His loose, shoulder-length style was nothing short of mouthwatering.
“Having trouble finding it?” he asked a touch sarcastically, as if he knew she was a heartbeat from inhaling the citrusy scent of his deodorant.
“I confess. I’m actually a reporter for a celebrity magazine doing an expose on independent film directors. And their luggage.” She was rambling. Spitting out whatever came to her mind because her fingers had closed around a small, square box with a hinged lid that every woman on the planet could identify. Blindfolded. “You caught me.”
She dropped the ring box, but her hand still stung. Why did an engagement ring in the bag of a man she’d just met put a lump in her throat? So he wasn’t engaged to Kyla yet, but obviously it was only a matter of time. Better all the way around to accept that he was completely unavailable. Much, much better. Then she could make a clean break. Wipe him from her mind once he left her in Dallas.
He glanced at her over the top of his sunglasses. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” She yanked the only electronic device from the bottom of the bag and waved it, hoping it wasn’t a newfangled garage-door opener. “Got it. Let’s see what we have here. How do I turn it on?”
“You’ve never used an MP3 player?” Amusement colored his question. “Touch the screen to wake it up.”
“It’s asleep?” Fascinated, she flipped the gizmo over and right-side up again. “Does it snore and hog all the covers, too?”
His rich laughter washed over her and she wallowed in it. He reached over, slid a fingertip across the device and colors illuminated the screen. Colors she barely registered because his arm pressed against her shoulder, sparking like a firecracker in a Coke bottle as he deftly tapped the MP3 player.
The brush of body parts was totally innocent but the pang low in her belly unleashed a flood of longing more akin to original sin.
“There’s the song list,” he offered nonchalantly. “Pick one.”
She glanced down at the screen, contracting her diaphragm until she could speak again. “I don’t know any of these artists.” Was that her voice? She cleared her throat and prayed it eliminated the huskiness. “Any Kenny Chesney or Miranda Lambert?”
Nope, still croaking like a late-night ad for a 1-900 number.
“There’s no country music on this and there’s not going to be.” He took the player from her and stuck it in the holder on the dash. Two taps later, a stringed instrument wailed through the speakers, the melody so instantly heartbreaking, it stole her breath. She’d never imagined such passion could be poured into music.
“The musician is Johannes Linstead,” he said. “Do you like it?”
“It’s so beautiful, it hurts my chest. Is it weird that it makes me feel like weeping?”
With two fingers, he slid off his sunglasses and impaled her with stormy, liquid eyes, searching her face with an immeasurable intensity. “The music makes me feel like that, too.”
She couldn’t break their locked gazes. Didn’t want to. A whole other world lived inside his eyes, a world she wanted to fall into.
“It’ll be our secret,” he whispered and snapped his attention back to the road as he obscured his eyes with the sunglasses again.
Her heart beat so fast, she was shocked it wasn’t audible. She stared at his profile. What had just happened? It had been A Charged Moment. Thrilling—for her, at least. But what did it mean?
She might be from Nowheresville but she could follow instructions. “Instead of assuming again, I’m going to ask. Why does it seem like you’re flirting with me sometimes?”
“I am.”
“Why?” Additional words, phrases, ideas escaped her. In fact, it had been a surprise her tongue worked at all.
“Why not?” He lifted a shoulder. “I like you. You’re fun. Beautiful.”
He thought she was beautiful? The jumpy crickets stampeded through her stomach.
Stuff like this didn’t happen to her. Oh, she’d had her share of boyfriends—small-town, small-minded boys who wouldn’t know romance if it bit them in their unimaginative butts.
The difference between them and this enthralling, charming man beside her was the difference between Ford and Ferrari.
But he wasn’t finished. “What does it hurt? It’s harmless and has zero calories. Besides, you’re flirting back.”
Harmless. Nothing more than sport for the beautiful people. Yes, Kristian Demetrious was exactly like his car. Smooth, exotic and his engine was equally unfathomable.
The crickets died a quick death. “Of course I’m flirting back. You’re driving. I’d hate to be dumped on the side of the road.”
He paused for a beat and didn’t laugh. “Women don’t flirt with me. They slip me room keys and follow me into the bathroom. Flirting with you is the polar opposite of that. I enjoy it. There aren’t any expectations. It’s safe.”
Now she was safe. How appealing.
She needed to throw it in reverse, distance herself, or eventually he’d drive right over her heart, flattening it like an unfortunate armadillo too transfixed by the bright lights of the freeway to see the splat coming. “Tell me about Kyla. Where did you meet her?”
He glowered, tightening the lines of his cheeks and mouth, and the expression looked wrong on him. “I don’t want to talk about Kyla.”
The reference to his glamorous soon-to-be fiancée was like a shock of icy water. The atmosphere in the car cooled and grew icicles. Fantastic. Exactly as she’d intended. Now she wasn’t thinking about that seething, charged moment. Or the sparkling weight of his arm against hers.
“Well, I don’t want to talk about Kyla, either. Tell me about your next movie.” That should be an innocuous enough subject, and she’d been dying to revisit it after seeing his entire demeanor transform upon mentioning it at Pearl’s.
“I’d rather not talk for a while.”
She flinched at the bite in his tone. “Sure. No problem.”
The less they talked, the better, because then his beyond-sexy accent wouldn’t skim down her spine and take up residence inside, heating every pore of her skin as if she’d crawled into the sun.
They barely knew each other. They were strangers soon to part ways and only thrown together because she lacked the fortitude to leave Little Crooked Creek on her own. What else could they possibly be to each other?
Road signs for Van Horn flashed by twice before Kris sighed. “Sorry. I can be a jerk.”
She waved dismissively. “Don’t apologize for not wanting me to pry into your life. I’m sure people do that all the time, and you’d like to keep some things private.”
“That’s true, but it’s not the reason I’m a jerk. It’s complicated.”
“Complicated is my specialty.”
He grinned and shot her another of those enigmatic glances over the top of his sunglasses. “Have I mentioned how much I like you?”
“Yes, but you should definitely tell me again.” Maybe she was getting better at the sport of flirting. The trick was not to let on how that kind of statement thrummed straight to the place between her thighs.
He bit his lip, contemplating. She had to avert her eyes from the sight of his white teeth sinking into flesh.
“The problem is,” he said, “Kyla’s starring in my next film, Visions of Black. I guess I’m kind of touchy about it because of the unconventional demands around the financing. Without the right backing, the project’s dead. The downside of not being affiliated with a studio.”
“Contract negotiations are shaky. I get it. Is it worth whatever your investor is demanding?”
He froze, and her hand flew to his arm before she’d realized it. She wanted to comfort him but had no idea why.
She did know one thing—Kris wasn’t and never would be a stranger. There was something between them. A recognition. A mystical draw she couldn’t ignore or pretend to have imagined.
“Is it worth it?” He exhaled and nodded slowly. “To have a chance to direct this film, which will solidify my career and put me on the A-list? Yes, it is. I’ve been busting my back for years to get this shot.”
The raw longing and aspiration carved into his expression hit her in a wave way hotter than the music. She swallowed, hard. Her fantasy imploded and shrank down to one crystalline shard of desire—that he’d look at her like that. She tucked it away before it grew too sharp.
“That’s a lot of mileage for one film.” No doubt he’d be successful, as soon as his investor was happy. “Out of curiosity, what is he asking you to do?”
A tiny muscle in his forehead jumped. “Announce that Kyla and I are engaged.”

Four
Kris could have gone at least another hundred miles without mentioning that. Next he’d be telling VJ it was all a publicity stunt, one he strongly suspected Kyla had talked Abrams into as a method to either push her way into Kris’s bed again or drive him insane. Maybe both. Kris assumed she’d split with Guy Hansen and was on the hunt for another warm, male body, but, knowing Kyla, she could have other ulterior motives. Until he figured out her agenda, it was better to stay off the subject.
Regardless of who had devised the fake engagement, he recognized the value of Kyla’s attachment to Visions and had to suck it up. Without her in the starring role and without the publicity, Abrams would pull out. Without Abrams’s experience making blockbusters, Kris’s career couldn’t move to the next level. Period.
“Oh.” As if fascinated, VJ stared out the window at the landscape dotted with lumpy cactus and heat shimmers, which she’d doubtlessly seen a million times.
VJ was at a loss for words. That was unfortunate, but the less said about Kyla and engagements, the better.
“Hungry?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No. Thanks.”
“Is that your wallet talking or your stomach?” He glanced at her, certain it was the former. He’d never met someone so determined not to accept nice gestures.
Her forehead scrunched. “Are you practicing your ESP?”
“Yeah.” He turned back to the road. “For my next trick, I’m going to levitate.”
The joke went over like his last film, with zero reaction and a lot of white knuckles. Where had all the fun and flirting gone? From the moment VJ appeared out of a swirl of dust, the awful temper he’d been in since leaving L.A. had fled and he didn’t want it to come back.
After a few minutes of silence so loud his eardrums hurt, she said, “So. Kyla’s a lucky woman. I’m sure you’ll be really happy together. How are you going to propose to her? Put the ring in a champagne glass?” Her tone was bright and saccharine-fake.
Kyla had her spooked. Inexplicably, he opened his mouth to tell her that he and Kyla had split up a while ago. But, he closed it. He valued his relationship with Jack Abrams and hoped to partner on many more films with the man. VJ probably wouldn’t tell but accidents happened and his job was to drive positive press. Not put the smile back on the face of his desert mirage. “I haven’t thought about it. I’ll probably give her the ring and ask.”
VJ gaped. “You can’t do that. It’s a proposal, not asking her to dinner at a dress-up place. She’s dreamed of it her entire life. It has to be perfect. Something she can tell your kids and grandkids over and over because it’s so outrageously romantic. You have to do better.”
“Are you kidding? You’ve never met Kyla, I realize. But come on.” He downshifted to go around a slow-moving cattle truck.
She flipped a spiral of cinnamon hair over her shoulder. “You don’t think she’s dreamed about her one and only proposal her whole life?”
One and only? Huge disparity in world views there. Kyla had already been married once to an Australian actor, a fact VJ’s celebrity magazines had clearly omitted. Before he could mention it, he suddenly envisioned stepping on puppies. Treading lightly might be a better idea than squashing her idealism. “Have you?”
“Of course! Like a million times.”
Her face took on the glow he’d been missing and his gut clenched. His reaction to her was so pure and elemental, with no expectations. Which was why he enjoyed it—no danger of it going anywhere. So she was the romantic sort, envisioning her new last name and assigning genders to her unborn children. Delusions which led to heartbreak when the passion faded. Figured.
While nothing about relationships made for his favorite topic of discussion, if he got to bask in VJ’s fresh smile, he could buck up. “Tell me.”
“About my dream proposal?”
“You’ve imagined it a million times. Should be easy.”
Leather squealed as she sank down into the seat. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was trying to disappear into it. “You’ll think it’s stupid.”
“No, I won’t.” His curiosity flared. Ever since he’d mentioned the engagement stunt, she’d withdrawn. He wanted her in-your-face honesty back. “I want to know. Everything about you interests me.”
She shot him a sidelong glance behind her sunglasses. “You’re not allowed to laugh, okay?”
“No chance.”
She took a deep breath. “I want to get my engagement ring as a present in a huge box, so I don’t guess what’s in it. When I open it, the little box will be inside. Then I’d realize.”
That was the proposal she’d imagined a million times? “Sounds very nice.”
And boring. A hundred scenarios sprang to mind, all of which eclipsed that in terms of romantic proposals. In seconds, the entire scene unfolded in his head and he started dropping in thematic elements like roses and soft lighting. Maybe that was the key to the theme for Visions of Black—lighting.
“Beats the one I got.”
She’d done it again. Pulled him out from behind the lens with an intriguing statement. “Someone proposed to you?”
“Walt Phillips.” Her lip curled. “It wasn’t really a proposal. More of a statement. Like it was foregone we’d get married because we’d been dating since high school. How long have you and Kyla been together?”
Back to that again. “I don’t know.” He tapped the steering wheel with restless fingers. “I don’t pay attention to stuff like that.”
“You don’t celebrate anniversaries?”
“There’s more than one?”
“Anniversary of your first date, anniversary of your first kiss. The first time you made love, the first time you…” She trailed off as he raised an eyebrow. “What?”
Nobody kept track of those milestones. “Nothing. Are you sure you don’t want breakfast?”
“Are you sure you want to marry someone you aren’t in love with?”
The car veered toward the center line and he overcorrected, shooting the passenger-side tires past the white line of the shoulder, jouncing them both until he got the wheel under control. Precisely the reason he stayed behind the camera—so he couldn’t be caught off guard. “Seems like you’re the one practicing ESP. What makes you think I’m not in love with Kyla?”

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