As he crested the hill, he caught sight of Tammi’s Hair Extraordinaire. Tapping his fingers on the wheel, the first genuine smile in days crossed his face. Could it be the same Tammi who had led him on a two-month chase in 1981 that ended with them messing around on top of a rusted cotton press? He’d picked slivers of metal from his ass and stored them in a cigar box beneath his bed—his loss-of-virginity trophy.
Campbell grimaced as his car shuddered across the tracks, and he fired a terse glance at the mill, wondering if that press was still in there. Decaying smokestacks rose above spiked pines like points on a crown. Crumbling brick, foot-high weeds, rotting wood. What had his mother meant by leaving it to him? Telling him he would understand the significance of owning her daddy’s mill someday.
When he grew up.
Grew up,hell. A thousand choices stood between him and his boyhood, with little of the wisdom his mother hadexpected him to gain as the payoff. Memories hitting hard, Campbell drew a fast breath, the scent of cut grass and burning leaves, of Promise and everything he’d left behind, a curt, crisp slap.
Excessive speed, personal demons, and a wall of snarled kudzu nearly kept him from seeing her.
At the flash of movement on the side of the road, Campbell checked his rear-view. A stalled army surplus Jeep hauling a trailer piled high with gardening equipment. A second glance revealed miles of willowy denim flowing from beneath the shade of a raised hood. Debating, he glanced at the brooding sky and miles of deserted asphalt snaking into the distance.
With a sigh, he spanked the brakes and popped into reverse.
The young woman turned when he climbed from the car. Heat flared in his gut as sunlight chased shadow from her face. Eyes the color of the Mediterranean Sea swept over him as lips—lovely, rosy, full—tightened. Her shoulders rose and fell with a tense breath.
Feistyandskittish, the kind of challenge no man could ignore. Not when the woman in question embodied the Beach Boys’California Girlso perfectly, she could have graced the album cover.
She was standing in accidental short light, the shadowed side of her face closest to him. It perfectly captured her edge, the sexy tilt of her mouth, all smoothed out by the cornfields flowing like a gentle river behind her. Without thinking, Campbell brushed his chest, a blind reach for his Leica, then checked himself with a muttered oath.
It sat, along with his equipment, in the back seat.
Raising her chin as he approached, her frown deepened, the end of her ponytail rolling forward to flick the rounded edge of her breast. Intrigued beyond measure, Campbell’s gazetraveled from the toes of her muddy Doc Martens to the collar of a bright orange T-shirt peeking from a pair of slim-fitting overalls. He categorized as if he were preparing for a shoot. Damp cotton and faded denim, forearms showing a tantalizing hint of muscle, dirt marring her nose…
He actually felt his reaction—a whisper, imaginary yet tangible, tickling his ear, a light stroke across his abdomen. For one second, time stopped. His heart tripped, his breath caught, until he was forced to release it in a ragged puff.
Fuck. She was luscious enough to swallow in one bite.
Would it be difficult to get a woman out of those things, with the metal straps and side buttons? Ridiculous thought, but he was a man.
And his brainwent...right...there.
The luscious package shaded her eyes, pressed her tongue between her teeth, and offered the same clicking sound she’d toss to a dog. “Can I help you with something besides taking inventory?”
Man, oh man, this kept getting better. “Looks to me like I’m the one who’s going to help.”
Flustered, she glanced at her steaming engine. “Yes, well, I do have a problem.”
“It certainly seems that way.” He wanted to smile but knew it would appear overconfident, perhaps even wolfish. Or so he’d been told.
“I don’t suppose”—her gaze swung back, trailed down, the hopeful light in her eyes dying before she hit his belt—“you know much about engines.”
He hitched a shoulder. “Afraid I don’t.”
She shook her head, sending the gathered hair swinging. “Your kind never does.”
Properly stung, Campbell stepped forward, dry grass cracking beneath his suede loafers. Granted, not shoes suited to engine repair, but ones perfect for funerals. Intent on,hell, doing something masculine, he leaned in, a cloud of oily steam peppering his brow. He’d never dabbled much with cars, but he could put together a camera and take it apart inminutes.
“Okay…” He tapped a grimy hose, wishing he’d rolled up his sleeves or at least taken off his suit jacket. He didn’t own much clothing free of darkroom stains. “Let me see.” Wiggling a battery cable, he cut his gaze her way. The rigid line of her jaw told him she wouldn’t take to fast moves or bullshit. “Maybe something wrong with this thingamajig.”
She snorted, knocking his hand aside. “Please. Before you burn yourself. Or ruin your pressed shirt. Prescott’s Auto on?—”
“Maple. I know the place.” He jerked his chin toward his car. “I’ll drop you there.”
Quizzical, her eyes met his, then flicked to his car. Georgia plates. Not a local, he watched her determine as she drew her arms tight over her chest. “I realize you’ll have to backtrack, but could you stop in, have them send the tow truck? Jake—or Tim, ask for Tim.” She dropped to her haunches and peered beneath a bumper hanging at a skewed angle. “Not leaking oil. Done that twice in the last month.”
“Isn’t twice a clear warning?”
“Not all of us can afford to drive shiny black bullets.”
