Читать книгу An Imperfect Match / Next Comes Love: An Imperfect Match / Next Comes Love - Helen Brenna - Страница 15

“SUGAR?” Annabelle exclaimed, staring in dismay at Jonas, the head mechanic at Mountain Motors as he wiped the grease and motor oil from his fingers. “How does sugar get into the gas tank? Is that something that happens naturally?” she asked, knowing she was teetering on the edge of desperate with her questioning. Deep down she knew the answer but she was praying she was wrong.

She wasn’t.

“Uh, no.” Jonas shook the dirty mop he called a head of hair regretfully. “Someone put it there. Screwed up your fuel intake valve, too. Possibly even your fuel pump.”

Annabelle groaned but didn’t have time to cry. Her lunch was only an hour and she had to get back to the office. “Let’s get down to brass tacks. Two questions. What’s this going to cost me and how long will it take to fix it?”

Jonas sucked his front teeth as he mentally counted the beans in his head and answered, “About $800, give or take a few.”

“A few what?”

“Hunnerd.”

It might as well be a million. She didn’t have it. “Right.” She drew a deep breath, her brain whirring fast. If it weren’t for bad luck she wouldn’t have any. “I don’t have that kind of cash right now,” she said, going straight to the point. “But, uh, we could work out a deal, like trade for something?”

Jonas’s eyes widened and he shook his head in alarm. “You’re pretty and all but I’m a married man. I don’t reckon my wife would take too kindly to any sort of arrangement, Miss Annabelle. I’m sorry.”

Annabelle’s cheeks burned as she grasped what Jonas thought she was offering. “God, no, Jonas. I didn’t mean that. I just meant if you had some office work you needed some help with, computer work, or, hell, I don’t know, maybe someone to clean up a bit, then I could help out in that way in exchange for the repair.”

Jonas relaxed but he shook his head again. “Sorry, no computer. We do everything by hand, and, well, we already have a cleaning lady who comes once a month to scrub the toilets and such. We aren’t that picky and she does a good enough job. I’m right sorry, Miss Annabelle.” He paused, then added with a grin that showed off the gap in his front teeth, “I won’t charge you for the diagnostic or the tow. It’s on the house. I’ll even take it back to your place for you. I heard you don’t live too far out of town.”

She swallowed around the lump in her throat even as she fought to keep her voice strong and bright. “Don’t be silly. You performed a service. You should be paid for it. You’re not running a charity, Jonas. It’s a business. How much do I owe you?”

Jonas sighed heavily as if he hated to tell her. “Seventy-five.”

She winced privately but grabbed her checkbook. “Check okay?”

“Of course. I know you’re good for it. Dean Halvorsen wouldn’t have hired you if he didn’t think you were good folk.” She smiled tightly and handed him the check. He gave it a cursory glance before saying, “Listen, when you get the money, you bring the car back and I’ll give you the newcomer ten percent discount off the total repair. It’s the least I can do.”

“Thank you, Jonas. Just leave the keys in the car when you drop it off.”

“Sure thing, Miss Annabelle. Take care.”

DEAN WAS packing up the last of his work tools when Sammy walked over to him, his expression puzzled. “You know anything about what went wrong with Annabelle’s car?”

Dean shook his head. “No. Why?”

“Dana just told me that Annabelle said someone put sugar in her gas tank.”

Dean stopped to stare at his brother. “Sugar?”

“Yeah. That’s pretty deliberate. Who’d want to do that?”

“I don’t know.” But he agreed with Sammy. Whoever did it meant to do something mean.

“Dana already took Annabelle and Honey home for the night so you don’t need to take them,” Sammy said, his expression still worried. “I gotta tell you, brother. This bothers me.”

“Me, too,” Dean admitted, glancing at Sammy. “You said something about Annabelle and Dana coming from troubled backgrounds. Anything I should know about?” Sammy’s silence was telling. Dean sighed. “Sammy, if she’s in some kind of trouble…”

“You gotta ask her, man. Dana swore me to secrecy and it’s nothing that’s Annabelle’s fault, but she should be the one to tell people if she wants them to know. Understand?”

“Yeah. I do.”

Sammy nodded, his relief evident. But as Dean went to climb into his truck, Sammy stopped him, his grave expression distinctly at odds with his usual jocular attitude. “No matter what, she’s a good person. Loyal to a fault I’d say. In some ways, she’s a lot like Beth.”

At the mention of his dead wife’s name, Dean tried not to stiffen. He knew Sammy was just trying to draw a parallel, but Dean was like a wounded bear inside when it came to the memory of his wife. Sometimes he couldn’t help but lash out at the people trying to reach out to him. “They’re nothing alike,” he said, pushing away the ache he felt inside. “And never will be.”

KNEES TUCKED into her chest, Annabelle willed the panic away. Someone had deliberately sabotaged her car. No one knew her here, which led her to surmise that someone from Hinkley had done this. And there was only one person she could imagine who hated her so much that they’d do such a thing.

Buddy. Her gaze strayed to the slip of paper lying on her coffee table. He was out on parole after serving eight years of his sixteen-year sentence. The prison system’s reward for good behavior.

And if it had been Buddy, this little stunt was simply a calling card. An ominous reminder that they had a score to settle, and he was ready to collect.

Shivering, she drew her knees tighter and squeezed her eyes shut to block out the fear that when she least expected it, his face would pop into view. Snarling, or worse, grinning with his jackal smile as he stalked her with revenge in his heart.

A knock at the front door nearly sent her hurtling to the floor in one startled movement as her heartbeat thundered in her ears. It was too late for visitors and it wasn’t like her neighbors were the sort to borrow a cube of butter. Her eyes watered and she wiped at them angrily. Get hold of yourself! It was highly unlikely Buddy was on the other side of that door, she told herself as she walked on wobbly legs to answer. “Who is it?” she asked, her voice still a bit high-pitched to sound normal.

“Dean.”

Relief was instant, but it served to make her knees even less stable. “What are you doing here so late?” she asked, opening the door and letting him in.

“We need to talk.”

“About what?” Annabelle asked, sincerely puzzled. “Is this about the new phone directory? I know I didn’t ask but your Rolodex is outdated. It’s a pain to go through and try to update those little cards when everything today is done digitally. The computer program I downloaded can be hot synced with your PDA—”

“I’m not talking about the damn phone directory. I want to know who would want to hurt you and Honey.”

She swallowed, stunned at his blunt question and how easily he managed to zero in on her biggest fear. Her eyes widened and she shook her head. “I don’t know,” she lied. The less Dean knew about her childhood in Hinkley, the better off he’d be. It was her burden to bear. No one else’s.

Crossing into the living room, she curled into a ball on the sofa. “It was probably some dumb kid playing a prank,” she said, trying to throw him off the true reason for her fear. “I admit, it’s a pretty nasty prank.” And an expensive one, she almost added, but didn’t want him to offer to pay for it because she could almost sense that’s where he was going. “And here I thought small towns were full of nothing but nice people. Hmm, guess not.”

Dean exhaled, regarding her with that steady gaze, seeming to pierce right through her flimsy excuse until she fought the urge to squirm. “Are you in trouble?” he asked quietly.

She laughed, but the sound was ragged even to her own ears. “No more than anyone else who just found out someone had tried to mix baking ingredients in her gas tank. This is more of a nuisance than anything else. It really puts a cramp in my travel plans.” She tried joking but, damn the man, he wasn’t laughing. Suddenly tired of her own game, Annabelle dropped the act. “Dean…I don’t know who might’ve done this. All I know is I’m without a vehicle in a town without public transit. That’s what I’m focusing on right now. Okay?”

“I’ll help you.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“Why not?”

She sighed, wishing for a millisecond that her principles weren’t so ironclad, that she could just allow herself to sink into his strong arms, even for a moment, to let someone else shoulder the weight crushing her. But it was a foolish wish because Annabelle could never do that. She’d never allow herself to depend on someone else so completely. “Because I’m not the kind of woman who looks for someone to save her. I will save myself. I’ve been doing it for years and I’ve had plenty of practice.”

“I have a car you can borrow while yours is in the shop,” Dean said as if she hadn’t just spoken. “It’s in good shape and you need a reliable car.”

“What did I just say? Stop trying to save me! I can’t borrow one of your vehicles. What would people think?”

He looked at her incredulously. “Who cares?”

“I do.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that you worry about all the wrong things?”

She drew back. “Excuse me?”

“If you’re so worried about what people think why do you dress like you do?”

“I beg your pardon?” She could feel her cheeks pinking as a wave of mortification rolled over her. Suddenly, she was back in high school and the popular girls were criticizing her wardrobe. It was stupid to draw the parallel—she was not in high school any longer—but the feeling his statement evoked was pretty much the same. “Who are you to criticize my clothes?”

“Your boss,” he answered bluntly and she could only stare. Her momentary silence prompted him to continue though Annabelle was quite certain she didn’t want to hear any more of what Dean Halvorsen had to say.

“If you don’t want men to stare at your breasts don’t put them on a platter. If you don’t want people to think that you’re less than who you are, don’t give them an opportunity. You come to work decked out in hooker heels and tight tanks that leave nothing to the imagination and then act all indignant when men like Aaron Eagle come sniffing around.”

“I never encouraged that man’s attention. If you recall I was quite clear on how I stood in regards to his advances.” Stung, she blinked back angry tears. “And, excuse me, but I didn’t realize my wardrobe was so offensive. I thought I was dressed nicely,” she added, the starch in her tone disintegrating with a watery hiccup that made her cheeks burn that much more hotly for the pitiful sound. Grinding the moisture from her eyes, she pulled the afghan her mother had knitted from the top of the sofa and tucked it around herself as if the soft yarn could protect her from further insult, hoping the gesture was enough to communicate that he was no longer welcome.

But he didn’t leave. Damn the man. She sent a nasty look his way. “Anything else you have a problem with? My hair perhaps? Or my eyes? Maybe those aren’t to your liking, either.” Too bad. There was nothing she could do about those. Not that she could change her wardrobe, either. It wasn’t as if she had room in her budget for new clothes.

A long enough moment passed between them that Annabelle started to feel the silence as if it were a living, breathing thing and she wasn’t happy with its presence. She risked another glance his way, this time not as angry but still hurt, and she caught the open chagrin in his expression. She softened, knowing without having to hear the words that he felt bad, but she wasn’t ready to make the first move. Luckily, she didn’t have to.

Dean drew a deep breath. “You were dressed nicely. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it like that. Hell, I suck when it comes to saying things the right way.”

“You got that right,” Annabelle agreed softly, not quite ready to let him off the hook. She eyed him curiously. “So, what did you mean? Do you really hate the way I dress?”

“That answer is complicated.”

“Try simplifying.”

“It’s like this…” He drifted toward her, but she remained rooted where she stood. Soon, she was staring into a pair of eyes that were far too extraordinary to be called brown as they flared with brilliant flecks of hazel. She forgot herself and why she needed to keep her distance as he spoke again. “Annabelle, you have to know that you’re a beautiful woman with a stunning figure, but that’s just what’s on the surface and I know that’s probably all a lot of people see. I strive to keep things professional between us, but some days when you’re dressed like that…hell, woman, I’m just a man and all I can think of is you and it kills me. I shouldn’t be thinking of you in that way. I’m your boss.”

His eyes had the look of a man tortured by his admission, ashamed even by his perceived weakness, and Annabelle had a startling revelation. He was fighting as hard as she was to keep the lines drawn, but there seemed a current flowing between them that kept pulling them near to one another.

Annabelle was falling even though she was standing still, which was patently ridiculous. She realized with a breathy start that her gaze feasted on the promise of his lips, aching to know what it felt like to have them pressed against her own. Valid points. He made valid points, a voice in her head reminded her even as her feet seemed to move in the same direction, pulled on an invisible current toward one inevitable course.

“I like my clothes,” she said in a soft voice, looking up into Dean’s gorgeous eyes and wondering how she had never noticed their unusual color before this moment. “And I’m not going to change.”

“Yes, you will,” he murmured with a low growl that excited her in a way that defied explanation. His arms closed around her in a perfect fit, their bodies molding against one another until Annabelle struggled to remember why this was a bad idea. This was safety, a different voice whispered. This was home. No, this was a man who was off-limits and dangerous.

But it was too late. She was a goner. Probably hadn’t even had a chance from the moment he came toward her. Her fate had been sealed. But as far as fates go, she thought weakly, as his lips touched hers in a firm exploration that sparked little tingles up and down her body, this isn’t half-bad.

Shoot, if she was going to send her life to hell in a handbag, having Dean ride shotgun wasn’t a terrible idea.

What did she have to lose?