Читать книгу Terms of Surrender - Leslie Kelly - Страница 9

MARISSA MARSHALL LOVED clear, sunny spring days, and, so far, this early May one was reminding her why.

Having lived in Baltimore for five years, she was used to gray, smoggy skies during the cold, bleak winter, and hazy ones in the summer. Fall was nice, with changing leaves ranging from pale yellow to deep rust. But in spring, Maryland came alive.

There was so much color. Cherry blossoms and azaleas dotted the landscape with pink and red. Lush farmlands erupted in mixed tones of new, freshly turned earth. With the soft green waters of the Atlantic, and the warm yellow sun drenching the robin’s-egg-blue sky with life, the state was an artist’s palette.

Funny, though. Her favorite part of spring—the color she most enjoyed on a beautiful day like this—was no color at all.

It was white. Just white. A sea of it.

“Dazzling,” Marissa said. Though she’d been speaking to a woman behind the counter of the coffee shop where she’d stopped for a caffeine injection, she was looking out the window.

Students from the U.S. Naval Academy, wearing their immaculate uniforms, filled the streets of Annapolis. Though now coed, the USNA’s student body was primarily male. So on this lovely Saturday afternoon, the town appeared full to the brim of handsome young midshipmen—aka middies—in their dress whites, all celebrating making it through another tough year at the academy.

Women from all over the state flocked here on sunny spring days, just to have a good drool. Marissa among them.

“God, how can you survive this much hotness 24/7?”

The woman grunted. “They’re always broke. I don’t care how hot they are, I just wonder if they have cash in their pockets.”

Marissa would probably wonder less about the contents of their pockets and more about what was in the rest of their pants. Anyone who didn’t have something dangling in their own pants would. As would danglers with same-sex preferences.

The USNA might be renowned for its educational excellence, but a close second would have to be its military beefcake. Even Marissa, who had been single for so long she could call herself a sexual vegetarian, suddenly found herself craving a Manwich.

She knew better than to ever take a bite, though. Uniformed beefcake might taste good, but the thought of that uniform got stuck in her craw, choking her. She might like looking at them, but she had no use for military men. Not after having been sired by one. Her father was about as affectionate as a jellyfish.

Besides, lately, even men without uniforms had been few and far between. That, however, was her own fault. In her real life, she was an overeducated nerd who’d just completed a doctoral program from one of the most prestigious universities in the country—Johns Hopkins. So she intimidated most men.

In her secret life, she was persona non grata with the male half of civilization due to her snarky books: Why Do Men Suck? and Thanks, But I’ll Just Keep My Vibrator.

How strange that her blog, Mad-Mari.com, which she’d launched six years ago after a really bad date, had landed her here. What had started as an internet rant had grown into a website with tons of followers. Then came a book deal.

As Mad-Mari, she was sassy and irreverent while venting about the hell called dating and relationships. She’d railed against cheaters, chauvinists and misogynistic assholes. She’d met lots of those in academia, not to mention in the military world in which she’d been raised. Meanwhile, she’d also been writing her much more proper, respectable dissertation which touched on similar topics, just in a scholarly, scientific way.

In other words, no snark.

Thankfully, she’d published the books under a pseudonym. Very few people realized that the infamous man-bashing internet star, Mad-Mari, was really Marissa Marshall, PhD, whose dissertation had been excerpted in a highly respected psychology journal and in a military magazine. And she intended to keep it that way.

The barista set a cup on the counter. “Honestly, I’ve never been tempted to trade in my granny panties for something with cougar stripes—they’re practically babies.”

They might be babies next to the fiftyish server, but not to Marissa. The oldest cadets were twenty-three or so, not that far from her twenty-nine. But in terms of life experience, they were a different generation. From age fourteen, Marissa had been thrust into adulthood, nearly raising her own younger siblings.

There hadn’t been much choice after their mother left.

While studying to earn her doctorate in psychology, she’d spent a lot of time trying to understand that. If pressed, she’d probably have to admit that trying to understand what drove people like her parents to do the things they did was one reason she’d settled on psychology from the day she’d started college.

Oh, she got why the marriage had failed—her father was one of those chauvinistic misogynists she wrote about, cold and aloof. Not to mention a cheat, seeming to have a new affair on every base. But she couldn’t grasp how a mother could decide to pay him back by having an affair of her own, then leave her kids, keeping in touch only with an occasional call or card. Some things, she suspected, she would never understand, no matter how many degrees she earned or how many letters came after her name.

“You have a good day. Try not to trip and fall into a pile of hot boys now, ya hear?” said the woman behind the counter.

Not impossible, given her three-inch heels. “Thanks.”

Stepping outside, she instinctively closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath. She lived near the Inner Harbor, but the air didn’t smell nearly as potent. Downtown Baltimore lacked this fragrant mixture of saltwater, sweat and male.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” a deep voice said.

Her eyes flying open, she saw a twentyish guy, dressed all in white. Marissa had stepped right into his path. “My fault.”

Then something sunk in. He’d called her ma’am.

“Ma’am?” she mumbled. The professor under whom Marissa had interned was a ma’am. Her elderly neighbor, whose apartment always smelled like pickled beets, she was a ma’am. But Marissa?

When, by God, did I become a ma’am?

“Today, that’s a good thing,” she told herself. Today, she wanted to convey seriousness, maturity. Ma’am-ness. Today she was not Mad-Mari, she was Dr. Marissa Marshall. Even if she didn’t yet know who that was, other than a name on a résumé.

It was time to find out. Some people said going to school for so long and making a living by writing sassy words in the comfort of her own living room had been her means of escaping the reality of adulthood. Well, her best friend said it. And maybe her favorite college professor had, too. Maybe she had been putting off the inevitable. Maybe the newly degreed shrink in her head was right in suspecting she’d been so sick of being forced to be an adult when she was a teenager that she’d needed to drop all responsibilities and focus only on herself during her twenties.

But that was over. She was ready for whatever came next, ready for part two of her life. Her blog and her books had been fun. They’d been stress relievers during her all-men-suck period (hence the title of her book). But she was a professional now. Time to put away the snark and move forward.

That’s why her hair was pulled back in a severe bun. That’s why she’d dressed in a simple blouse and a borrowed skirt—her own clothes being far too Mad-Mari-ish for Marissa Marshall. That’s why she wore painful black pumps, more appropriate for a funeral in January than an appointment at the USNA in May. That’s why she had actually contorted herself into a pair of pantyhose for the first time in several years.

Because today, she would be meeting with a Deputy to the Commandant of the Midshipmen, to convince him to hire her to give some guest lectures on campus. She needed the work. She needed the professional credit. And frankly, she needed the money.

Her royalties on her first book had been eaten up by tuition—Johns Hopkins was in no way cheap. The advance on her second book had been keeping her fed, but it was almost gone. There should be more coming in, but, in publishing, money flowed with the speed of sap off an elm. Whatever else she earned she would use to hang out her counseling shingle. For now, though, she couldn’t afford insurance, much less office space.

So hearing from her former professor that the USNA was interested in talking to her about doing a few guest lectures for summer students had been a lifeline tossed when she’d been trying to decide between her cell phone and her cable-TV bills. The phone was important. But she wasn’t sure she could give up her Starz Channel dates with the hot gladiators on Spartacus.

“Okay, gotta nail this,” she said as she got into her car.

Reaching for her notebook, she read over the details for the interview. “King George Street to Gate 1,” she mumbled. “First meeting at two, check in with security an hour before.”

Oh, God. How had she forgotten that? She’d been so focused on preparing for the interview, she’d neglected the details!

“You idiot,” she howled, eyeing the clock. Five ’til one.

Thrusting the key in the ignition, she prayed the car—which had been giving her trouble—would start easily. Fortunately, it groaned only once, then fired up.

Using a lead foot on the gas pedal, she got to the academy in a few minutes. Spying the correct building and the Employees Only lot in front, she weighed her options. The lot was almost empty, so she wouldn’t be taking anybody’s spot. Plus, if she had her way, she would be an employee this summer.

Decision made. Parking quickly, she exited the car, pausing to retuck her blouse and smooth her skirt. The pantyhose were beyond annoying, and she took a second to try to twist them into position. Which just tugged her panties into the wrong position.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she whispered, feeling the elastic panty line riding way too high on one cheek. Her too-tight skirt probably magnified the thing like a microscope did an amoeba.

Marissa did the wedgie-dance, wishing she wore thongs—it felt like she was wearing one, anyway. Better yet, she should have scraped up the money for new clothes that fit better. But the interview had come up suddenly and a borrowed skirt in her size had sounded fine, until she’d put it on this morning. It seemed the months of writing at home had added to her waistline, not to mention her hips and butt. The long pencil skirt fit like a casing on a sausage. And the sausage was trying to escape.

She tried tugging, keeping her backside toward the interior of the car so nobody would be able to see from the windows fronting the lot. But it didn’t help much. Her inner Dr. Marshall told her to just forget it and hope nobody noticed the obnoxious panty lines. But, damn, she did not want some military man eyeing her tush any more than necessary in the tight skirt.

Then…disaster. She tugged too hard, and felt the whispery sensation of a run sliding down the length of one leg. She looked down to see a thick, ugly line appear at her knee and keep right on going until it disappeared into her shoe. “Shit!”

Panty lines were one thing. A huge freaking run down her shin? Was she just destined to not get this job?

Do something!

There was only one choice. Knowing she might not have a chance to hit a ladies’ room inside, she bent back into the car, perching on the edge of the driver’s seat, her feet out on the blacktop. She cast one more look around, still seeing nobody.

Pulling the door close to her legs, she wriggled the hose off, contorting herself into a ladle shape to tug them out from under the long, slim skirt.

She took the panties, too.

Commando might be more of a Mad-Mari thing, but panty lines would be even more obnoxious without the hose to smooth things out. The skirt was long; she didn’t worry about flashing anyone.

She wadded up the ball of satin and nylon, stuffed it into the glove box, and stepped back out onto the blacktop seconds later. Runless. Wedgieless. Not to mention pantyless.

“That’s probably not a good idea.”

She yelped. Shocked by the intrusion of a deep voice, Marissa swung around, her heart thudding in her chest and her face going up in flames.

Outside the nearest building—a huge one with roll-up doors—stood a man. He watched her, a slight smile on his face. He hadn’t been there a few minutes ago when she’d pulled up, and she had to wonder when he’d appeared, and how much he’d seen.

You were hidden by the door, dummy. No way could he see you, especially below the waist.

Except, of course, her feet had been sticking out. And they’d been encircled by nylon and black satin for a couple of seconds. Oh, and there was the fact that she’d been fiddling with her underwear before clambering back into the car.

He knew. He had to know. She’d been busted like a kindergartener raiding the candy jar. Worse—picking her…seat.

Brazen it out.

Her chin went up and she pretended not to hear him. When she took a step away from the vehicle, he called out, “Uh, miss, seriously, you might want to rethink that.”

Grr. She’d already rethought it, especially with the hint of coolness in the spring air creeping up her thighs. And higher.

“That could get you into some trouble,” the man added.

Gritting her teeth, she said, “Oh, were you talking to me?”

The man, who wore faded mechanic’s coveralls, approached her, wiping his greasy hands on a towel. His expression was impassive, a friendly smile not indicating what he was thinking.

That was okay, Mari had enough thoughts for both of them.

She gawked, making a mental note with every step he took.

Step: Tall.

Step: Strong, with broad shoulders and thick arms straining against the faded fabric of his clothes.

Step: Lean-hipped and slim-waisted.

Step: Long, powerful legs that ate up the pavement.

Step: Great smile, broadening as he drew closer…and oh, a dimple in one cheek!

Step, step, step: Sexy, confident, gorgeous.

How incredibly embarrassing that he could be coming over to tell her he’d seen London and France when she’d done her front-seat striptease. Though, not as bad as it would be if he told her he’d seen the Netherlands.

She told herself to cool it. Maybe he just wanted to say hi. Or he could be coming over to tell her he’d heard the roughness of her car’s engine. Given the way he was dressed, and that he’d come out of a building that was obviously some kind of repair shop, she’d pegged him for a mechanic.

Maybe he needed to know the time. Or to tell her the whole place had been evacuated for a fire drill.

Say anything except I know you’re not wearing any panties.

Not only because it would be embarrassing if he confirmed he’d seen her, but because it was such a sleazy, slimy come-on. And she didn’t want to think this stranger—this very sexy man—had a sleazy bone in his body. That would probably break her long-single, brittle heart completely. Guys this handsome simply shouldn’t be allowed to be scumbags.

Reaching her, the man studied her from behind his sunglasses, which were necessitated by the bright sunshine that painted the tips of his light brown hair gold. She couldn’t help wondering what color his eyes were. Warm chocolate? Jade green? Something dazzling, she imagined. Because only a perfect set of eyes belonged in that face, with its high cheekbones, strong jutting jaw and broad, sensual mouth.

Masculine. That was the only word to describe him.

“Afternoon,” he said pleasantly, as if they’d just been introduced at a social event, as if he wasn’t standing there, thinking about her being pantyless.

Maybe he’s not.

Yeah. Right.

“Hello,” she mumbled.

He pushed the sunglasses up onto the top of his head with the tip of his finger. Oh, my. Not brown, not gold…something in-between. Like fine, clear amber. Absolutely beautiful.

“Wow,” she whispered.

He heard. Because now those eyes were twinkling. Definitely twinkling. She’d heard the expression, but always figured it for an exaggeration. It wasn’t. This guy had you-can-trust-me-I’m-adorable written on his very eyeballs.

“You look a little lost,” he said, that deep voice friendly, matching the twinkle and his small smile.

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“Are you sure? Maybe I can help. I know my way around.”

A quick glance at the stitching on his chest revealed the name of a popular auto-repair chain: Midas. They must make a lot of house calls to the academy if he was so familiar with it.

Funny that he worked for a company with a name that suited him so well, given those gold highlights in his hair. She only wondered if his big, powerful hands had the golden touch. And what lucky woman was on the receiving end of it.

One thing was sure, he was nothing like the men she usually associated with. There wasn’t a professor-ish feature on him. Probably in his early-to-mid-thirties, he was all man, not boyish, despite the twinkle and the dimples. He was rugged, not a smoothly put-together package like a slick high-rise, but a naturally spectacular formation like…the Grand Canyon.

Okay, that was a little overdone, but still, the guy was robbing her of coherent thought. She could only look at him for another long moment, pretending to consider his offer.

His cheeks were slightly stubbled, a faint smear of grease visible beside his strong nose. His skin was bronzed, his hands calloused, his muscles, she would bet, coming from hard work, not from a fitness club. And the mouth. Oh, did the man have a mouth—all soft, sensuous, smiling lips.

A shiver moved throughout her entire body, so delicate she almost didn’t notice. It took her a second to realize that shiver had been a pure, feminine response to him: attraction. Major attraction. She was no longer calculating how good-looking he was, her gears had shifted smoothly from assess to covet.

Stop it. It had been far too long since she’d been in a relationship if a guy who’d peeping-Tom’d her when she’d pulled off her underwear was giving her the shivers.

He didn’t peeping-Tom you…you Sharon Stone’d him!

She tried to pull her thoughts together, determined not to give him an opening to make a sleazy remark. “I’m okay, thanks.”

“Well, you might not need any help, but I gotta say, you’re really tempting fate.”

Curious about why, but afraid of how he’d answer, she instead replied, “Thanks for your concern, but I’m not worried.”

“Rule-breaker, huh?”

“No.”

“Just like to live dangerously?”

Oh, hell. That cemented it, reminding her of why he’d come over here. He’d definitely seen her strip. “Not in the least.”

“Well, I’ll admit you don’t look the type.”

Her spine stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Gesturing toward her hair, then her clothes, he said, “I mean, you look more like a schoolteacher than a rebel.”

That was a good thing. “That’s the plan,” she mumbled.

“You’re not really a teacher, are you?” he asked.

“Not yet.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh, damn it.”

“You’re late.”

“How did you ever guess?” she asked, her tone dry.

There went the twinkle. And the dimple. And a broad, white grin. “’Cause you sped in here like demons were on your tail.”

At least he hadn’t said, Demons were on your naked tail.

“Yes,” she admitted. “I have an interview. It’s fifty minutes from now and they said to check in an hour early.”

He waved a hand, unconcerned. “They tell everyone that. But the place is nearly deserted. It won’t take you ten minutes to get the visitor’s pass, I promise. Don’t worry about it.”

“Still, I don’t want to risk it, so if you’ll excuse me…”

“So you’re worried about making a bad impression?”

Blowing out an impatient breath as he stopped her from turning away with just that amused tone in his voice, she admitted, “Yes, okay? Yes, I am.”

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but you’re not doing very well so far.” He pointed to a nearby building. “Personnel offices have a bird’s-eye view of this parking lot.”

Oh, great. Was he saying that he wasn’t the only one who had seen her doing her impromptu striptease? Catching her bottom lip between her teeth, she looked up at the windows, then down at her car, trying to judge the angle. Geometry wasn’t her strongest suit, but it didn’t seem utterly impossible that somebody looking down might have seen as much as this guy had. Plus, she had a sunroof.

“This is bad,” she whispered.

“It’s okay, you can handle it. If anybody says anything, just tell them you were worried about making it on time.”

Gawking, she snapped, “Most people would be too polite to say anything.”

“What does politeness have to do with it?”

“A gentleman wouldn’t put me on the spot about this.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “You mean I wasn’t being a gentleman? My mom’ll be crushed.”

If there had been any snarkiness in his voice, she might have been annoyed, but something about his charm was getting around her defenses. So far, he had been gentlemanly in trying to let her know he’d seen her stripping off her underclothes in broad daylight in a public parking lot.

“Look, I had a run,” she explained, her tone grudging.

He glanced down. “In those heels?”

“Down one whole leg.”

“I thought both legs were usually required for running.”

She managed not to groan, realizing he thought she’d gone for a run. “I had a run in my pantyhose, okay?”

His gaze remained downward, and his voice was the tiniest bit husky when he said, “No big loss. You definitely don’t need ’em. You have great legs.”

Her cheeks warmed. The way he said that indicated he was a leg man. That in itself was refreshing, as most men she knew professionally were interested only in her academic credentials. And the few she met when at a bar or a party were all focused on the two appendages sticking out the front of her body, not the two at the bottom. Hmm. Are breasts appendages?

“Thanks. But the point is, I’m late, I want to make a good impression and I didn’t have time to stop and buy hose.”

He finally got it. “Ahh. That’s why you did it?”

Wondering how pink her cheeks were, she mumbled, “Yes.”

Smiling, he replied, “Well, luckily, I was here to see.”

She gasped. Had he really just said that? Seriously, had he just admitted he’d been lucky enough to catch a crotch-shot from a complete stranger?

“Because, like I said, you really don’t have to sweat the time. So you can go ahead and take care of this.”

“Take care of it?” she asked. What? Did he think she was going to run back and magically produce new pantyhose from her purse, like a rabbit out of a hat, and put them on?

“Sure. Just get back in your car. I’ll help you out.”

Her jaw dropped open. “Uh…”

“I mean, if you need some directions, I can hop in the passenger seat and show you.”

Directions? She’d bet he knew a lot about women’s underwear and could give directions on how to get in—or out—of them.

The very thought of that reminded her again that she wasn’t wearing anything under her skirt; that cool spring breeze flitting up her legs now felt a bit warmer.

The man did put off some serious heat.

She suddenly acknowledged the second big danger of going commando—aside from possibly getting caught. Getting aroused.

No, not aroused. But aware. Very, very aware.

He gestured down at his clothes. “That is, if you don’t mind getting in close quarters with somebody so dirty.”

She gulped, more confused than ever. Was this guy intentionally playing word games? Was he propositioning her…or teasing her? Being flirtatious, or serious? Was she just being dirty-minded when thinking about how he’d said the word dirty?

“I’m not following,” she said.

Appearing sympathetic, he explained, “You look stressed and nervous. Let’s just get in the car and eliminate some of that tension before you go inside.”

Relieve her stress. Her tension.

There was one surefire way to do that. Hmm. Maybe that explained why she’d been stressed for thirteen months, two weeks and four days. Oh, and seven hours. But who was counting how long it had been since she’d been laid? Though, she supposed writing a dissertation had been pretty stressful, too. At least, that’s what the last guy she’d been involved with had thought. He’d stopped calling around the time she hit page one-twenty and officially lost her mind. Well, unofficially lost it—diagnosing yourself was a no-no in her line of work.

“Come on, let’s just do it. You’re running out of time, and you know you’ll feel better afterward.”

There. He’d stopped beating around the bush and suggested they do it. It, it. There had been no suggestive wag of the eyebrows, but what else could he mean? They’d moved beyond flirting and pantyhose. This complete stranger was proposing he help her relieve her tension by having sex in her car.

“It’ll just take a couple of minutes.”

If he did mean it it, she couldn’t help wondering why he’d brag about it being over so fast. But she didn’t wonder long; mainly she just felt disappointed. Yeah, she’d been distracted by his sexy wickedness for a moment or two. But now she could only feel punched in the gut by disappointment. He hadn’t gone for the cheap line right away, but he’d still managed to come up with a sleazy suggestion eventually.

He might look like a blue-collar Prince Charming, but he was just another guy playing a game of follow-the-leader with his own dick.

“I don’t think so. Heaven forbid it take longer than you think,” she said, keeping her chin up and her eyes narrowed.

Marissa turned to walk away, already wondering how long she’d be thinking about those twinkling amber eyes and that incredibly sexy smile. Would she stop wondering what it might be like to kiss those perfect lips with the words that had emerged from them ringing in her ear?

“Okay, it’s your wallet.”

She paused midstep, glancing back at him. “My wallet?”

“Sure. The towing charge is $250.00.”

Utterly confused, she turned around completely. “What on earth are you talking about?”

He pointed to a nearby sign. The one that said, “Employee Parking Only.” In the small print beneath were a few more words: “Violaters Will Be Towed At Owner’s Expense.”

“They’re real Nazis about it, even when the lot’s practically empty.”

Oh. My. God.

“Like I said, getting your car towed out of here during your interview wouldn’t make the best first impression. And I promise, you do have time to move it. This place is pretty dead. I really don’t mind escorting you to the closest public lot.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she whispered. “You were talking about my car? About where I was parked?”

“Of course.” Then, suddenly realizing the same thing she had—that they’d been having two different conversations—the sexy guy quirked a brow and tilted his head.

“What, exactly, were you talking about?”

THE BLONDE WITH THE scraped-back hair, the uplifted chin and the irritated expression was looking at him like he’d sprouted a set of wings out of his back. And while Lieutenant Commander Danny Wilkes did love to fly, he really couldn’t manage it without the aid of an F/A-18 Hornet. Even the most experienced Naval Aviators couldn’t, as far as he knew.

She didn’t answer, merely staring at him with those huge blue eyes, framed with the thickest lashes he’d ever seen. They fluttered as she blinked rapidly, like she was confused, trying to think of what to say. Considering he suspected the two of them had been engaging in totally different conversations, he figured he’d give her a little time to get herself together.

Not physically, of course. Oh, she was already together in that regard.

Funny, ever since he’d caught sight of her a few minutes ago, he’d had the refrain from Van Halen’s Hot For Teacher going through his head. Even before she’d confirmed she was here to interview for a teaching position, she’d just come across as that cross of übersmart and supersexy. Like the fantasy ninth grade science teacher he’d never had.

He didn’t know about the übersmart yet—so far their brief interaction had been a little odd, and she hadn’t been at her conversational best.

But supersexy? Hell, yeah.

Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t imagine what the thick, ash-blond strands would look like falling in a curtain over her shoulders. He’d already noticed the deep blue eyes, but had put away any blue-eyed-blonde-bimbo associations the minute she’d lifted her chin and frowned at him.

There was something sharp about her—a little edgy. He hadn’t seen a single pouty look on her pretty face, nor one heavy-lidded, come-hither stare. And she hadn’t walked or stood in a way that emphasized her curves, sending silent signals every guy learned to recognize by the age of fourteen.

Those curves. Oh, he’d definitely noticed those. He couldn’t help but notice. He’d been openly admiring her slim calves while wondering about the long length of thigh he couldn’t see beneath her skirt.

The clothes might be perfectly respectable—demure, in fact, at least if you looked up the definition of skirt and blouse in the dictionary. But not the way she wore them. The way the skirt hugged every inch of curvy hip and perfect backside, and the afternoon breeze molded her silky blouse against her slim shoulders and full, pert-tipped breasts, made her outfit rank right up there with anything out of Frederick’s of Hollywood.

Sexy and prim, forward and flustered, unsure and determined. All in all, she was a contradictory puzzle—the most interesting one to cross his path in a very long time.

Right now, the only word to describe her was confused. The woman was staring at him, her eyes only slightly rounder than her mouth. It was as if he’d said something incomprehensible.

“Towed?”

He nodded, wondering if he should rethink that smart idea. She seemed to have trouble following a simple conversation. “Yeah. Towed. And then they ransom your car back to you for a ridiculous amount of money. They do it all the time. I think that’s how they’re going to fund the next generation of battleships.”

Her mouth snapped shut, her bottom lip disappearing between her teeth for a second. She raised her hand to her face, covering her mouth. Then a sound emerged. A chuckle. Followed by another one. Her eyes sparkled with amusement and she slowly shook her head back and forth.

Danny’s own smile widened. They’d apparently been crossing signals and he trusted she’d soon let him in on the joke. He felt even more sure of that when she dropped her hand and her chuckles turned into snorts of laughter.

“I’m such an idiot.”

“You gonna tell me what we were really talking about?”

“Not on your life.”

Ooh. Interesting. Very interesting. He quickly ran over their conversation in his mind, trying to find anything outrageous, but for the life of him, he just couldn’t do it. He’d asked if she wanted to make a good impression and pointed out the window, she’d admitted she was in a hurry, he’d suggested she take a minute to move her car. What could be more innocent?

Except, the dirty part. But, she couldn’t have thought he meant…no. This teacher-type wouldn’t mentally go there.

Her eyes were now damp with what looked like tears of laughter. Her expression had gone from amused to embarrassed.

Okay. Maybe she had gone there.

“Did you think I was propositioning you? That I wanted to get you in your car to…”

Looking almost sheepish, she slowly nodded.

“Wow,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve been told I sometimes move a little fast. But believe me, I do not usually meet a woman, and, five minutes later, tell her she oughta do me in the backseat of her car.”

Another grin. “Your mom definitely wouldn’t think you were gentlemanly if you did that.”

“My dad would be the one who’d whack me one if I ever did such a thing. And my baby sister would kick my ass.”

Her chuckles finally died, though her smile remained. That smile made her look younger, softer. Made her blue eyes gleam in the bright sunlight. Her tension had eased somewhat, so that she didn’t appear as rigid, and a few years had fallen off her face without that frown and pointy chin-lift thing.

“I’d love to stay and apologize for casting aspersions on your character. But I do need to get to my interview.”

He nodded. “I understand. Just move your car. Fast.”

“Done.” She turned to walk back to her car, pausing once to glance back at him. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Then, a spontaneous urge made him add, “Maybe I’ll see you when you’re finished.”

She stopped and turned around, looking…interested.

Interesting.

“You’ll be working all afternoon?”

He gestured toward the shop. “Lately it seems like I never get out of here. Some of these officers can man a billion-dollar nuclear submarine but don’t know how to drain the transmission fluid out of a Chevy.”

She nodded once, slowly. “Okay then. Maybe I’ll see you.”

If he had his way, she most definitely would. In fact, he might just have to make sure of it. Though it didn’t need it, maybe he’d pop the hood on his much-babied ’67 Impala and give her another oil change. A lengthy one.

He wanted to see this woman again. He didn’t know her name—God, how could he not have gotten her name?—but he definitely wanted to learn it.

As she got in the car, he almost yelled to ask what he should call her if they happened to bump into each other again. But it seemed a little too pushy. If he was meant to know it, he’d know it. If he was meant to see her again, he’d see her again…oil change or no oil change.

Danny was a big believer in fate. That John Cusack movie, Serendipity, was a major chick flick and he’d pretended to gag his way through it when his sister had made him watch it once. But deep down, he kind of liked the idea.

He wasn’t a very spiritual guy, but he did believe in things like karma and putting out good thoughts and getting them back in return. What goes around, comes around, that kind of stuff. Call it fate, or destiny, whatever.

Things happened for a reason. People came in and out of your life because they were meant to. And if the beautiful blonde was meant to come back into his, she would.

He stood by the motor pool, watching as she got into her little sedan, prepared to wave as she drove by. But a minute went by, and then another, and she didn’t move.

It appeared she wasn’t leaving his life quite as quickly as he’d thought.

Her door opened. One beautiful leg appeared, then she stepped out and turned to face him.

“My car won’t start.”

Danny lifted his eyes toward the sky and smiled.

Serendipity.