Jon Tucker had Emily smiling. Giggling. Laughing. Emily who never tittered with a grown man. Duane had seen to that. “Can’t you read yet, Emily Rose? Can’t you add? Come on, get with the program.”
Rianne shuddered. Why hadn’t she left years ago? Because you were afraid. Afraid you’d lose custody of the kids.
No matter. She should have found the fortitude, the courage. For Em and Sam she should have—
Jon cupped her elbow with a work-roughened palm. “Rianne?”
“I can manage the step, thank you.”
“Hurry, Mom. I’m starving.”
“Hang on, short stuff. Your mom doesn’t want to rip her stockings getting in.”
“I can manage,” Rianne repeated and held his gaze until he stepped back.
Another quick, silent trip home. Jon pulled in behind her Toyota. Rianne and Emily climbed from the truck.
“’Bye, Mr. Tucker.” Her daughter ambled toward the backyard, book pack swinging from her skinny little arm.
“See you, Bo Peep.” Shoving the sunglasses onto his head, he slammed the truck’s door, then came around to Rianne, scowling.
Now what? His moods changed quick as the weather.
She said, “Bill Martins at the Garage Center said you were responsible for fixing my battery. Thank you. And for the rides.”
“That why you were ticked at the school? Because I fixed your car?”
“No.” She wasn’t about to explain Duane. “It’s been a long day, that’s all.” She dug into her purse, began writing out a check on the hood of the truck.
“What’re you doing?”
“Paying you what I would’ve paid Bill.”
Her heart fluttered when he snatched the pen out of her hand. “Forget the damned money. I didn’t do it for a reward. The battery was one I had lying around.”
Slowly, carefully, Rianne turned. “If you won’t take payment for the battery I still owe you the cost of installing it.”
“I don’t want your money, Rianne.”
For a long moment his eyes pinned her. Her heart thumped like a drum. She took back the pen. “How much?”
“Two hundred dollars.”
She choked. “Two hundred—”
Not a muscle moved in his hard face. “Take it or leave it.”
She studied her car. A used base model, bought the year she married Duane, the year she’d had Sam. Dented, decrepit, dying.
Jon remained motionless, thumbs hooked in his front pockets, feet planted. Let your eyes warm a little. Just a tad, like they did with Emily. They continued their cool scrutiny.
“Fine,” she snapped. “Two hundred.”
Where she’d get the money, she didn’t know. But she would. As sure as God made apples and pears, she would prove to Jon Tucker and every man like him that she could navigate life’s bites with the best of them.
Finished, she held out the check.
Without a glance, he stashed it in a pocket. Tilting up her chin with a knuckle, he said, “There’s nothing wrong with being a woman, Rianne. Remember that next time a man wants to help you into a vehicle.”
They’d never been this close, inches close. Black rings surrounded his irises, pools of wishes and dreams and fantasies into which she could dip her heart.
Her mouth moved, as if to speak, as if to—
He strode to the driver’s door and leapt into the cab. Full-throttle, the truck backed out of the lane. He didn’t go home. Instead, he gunned it all the way down the street.
She didn’t move. Couldn’t.
Around her silence dropped like a shackle.
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