clasped her nervous fingers behind her back. “I have things to do,” she said. “Errands. Stuff like that.”
“Mmm,” he said. “That’s what I figured. Am I supposed to make an appointment?”
“If you want something done to your car, yes,” she said.
“And if I want something done to me?” He was laughing at her, amusement bubbling up from the depths of his eyes.
“Depends,” she said. “On what it is.” She could have died once she’d said it, knowing full well that it sounded like a come-on.
“You could check my air filter. Or inflate something.” He grinned at her.
“I, um, “she said, resisting at the same time that she realized it was pointless.
“Or we could,” he murmured as he moved closer still, “do this.” He curved an arm around her waist, and she felt her will dissolve. She had turned completely to a puddle of mush bounded by quivering nerve endings, all of which were yearning toward Luke Mason’s two-day growth of beard. She knew she could tell him to stop and he would. She could panic, even scream, but in her present state, neither occurred to her. All she did was stare, mesmerized as his hand cupped her chin ever so lightly and his lips descended to hers.
She smelled the sweat on his skin, the heat upon the rough cotton of his shirt. He didn’t so much kiss as taste her, inhaling her breath, nibbling for a moment at her bottom lip and finishing up with a long delectable teasing incursion into her mouth. The worst thing was that it wasn’t enough. She wanted more, lots more, but the last thing she would do was admit it to him.
After this swoon-making exercise in provocation, he moved aside. Their surroundings, which seemed to have faded away, sharpened into focus. Her arms and legs came back into being, though her brain was still wandering in the ether somewhere. Luke was smiling, somewhat sadly, she thought.
“Be on your way, Carrie,” he said softly. “If you don’t, you may find out that Yancey Goforth wasn’t the only guy who was dangerous.” He grazed a knuckle against her cheek and stepped backward, abandoning her to her comfort zone, which was much less comfortable than it had been, say, oh, ten minutes ago.
Instead of inventing a bit of repartee as she knew she should, Carrie could not think of one thing to say. Tried unsuccessfully to reconnect with her brain, which was still winding in from outer space. Made an effort to recapture her breath.
Darting one desperate glance back over her shoulder at Luke, she whirled around the corner of the stand, only to run smack into one of those women passing out cards. They bumped heads, and Carrie reeled backward with stars of the uncomfortable kind bouncing off the backs of her eyeballs.
“You’re definitely a possibility,” the woman said chattily. “Here you go, and don’t forget to include your phone number.” She pressed a card into Carrie’s hand.
“Take this back,” Carrie said, fending her off with a flap of her hand. “I don’t want to be in the movie.”
“Nonsense, go talk to Fleur. You’d be perfect for the Miss Liberty 500 scene. Go on,” said the assistant.
“Carrie? Carrie Rose Smith!” Joyanne called over the heads of the milling crowd, and Whip Larson, who happened to be passing by, halted in his tracks. He flicked his gaze over Carrie’s figure.
“You’re Carrie Smith?” he asked. “Of Smitty’s Garage?”
The last thing she expected was for Whip to grab her arm, but that was what he did. “Well, Ms. Smith,” he said heartily, “I’d like to talk to you. Luke Mason tells me that your garage is perfect for some scenes.”
So Luke had been talking up Smitty’s to this guy? Great. That was all she needed.
Carrie wrested her arm away. She’d had about all she could take of this movie business for today, plus she was pitched off balance by Luke Mason’s late but totally great kiss. She fought for composure and eyed Whip warily, pulling around her the shreds of whatever dignity she had left.
“My garage is not for sale. Nor am I,” she said as she lowered her head and began to walk rapidly toward her car, not paying attention to outraged squawks from Dixie and Joyanne, now most vociferously entreating her to stay.
Undeterred, Whip loped after her as she angled a shortcut through a patch of Queen Anne’s lace, which kept catching at the legs of her jeans.
“Baby, listen to me. This is your chance to earn a lot of money.” He was pushing her, as Hollywood types all seemed wont to do. She figured that her only recourse was to come back at him Southern style.
“Fiddle-dee-dee,” she said in a mock Scarlett O’Hara accent, raising one eyebrow for emphasis. “It makes no never mind to me.”
Whip, perspiration dripping down his forehead, tipped his head back and laughed, sending a bunch of sweat droplets flying. “Hey, you’re pretty good,” he said with a new kind of respect. “You sounded just like her.”
“I’m Southern born and bred,” Carrie retorted, not without pride. “But my daddy didn’t raise any fools.”
Whip was quick to barge in front of her and block her way as she clicked the remote to open the door of her SUV. “That’s why I can’t believe you’re throwing away this opportunity,” he said seriously.
“What would convince you—pepper spray?” To be on the safe side, she carried it in her purse.
“Pepper spray?”
“To get you off my case. If you don’t mind, I’d like to access my vehicle.” She dodged around Whip, opened the door of the SUV and climbed in. While she backed out of the parking place, he stared after her in perplexity.
Carrie sped up when she reached the highway. These people were crazy! If she hadn’t been so pure tee aggravated by the whole situation, she’d have laughed all the way back to Smitty’s.
One thing she didn’t want to laugh about, however, was her supercharged response to Luke Mason. What was that about? she wondered. What was really going on, the two of them alone behind that refreshment stand, kissing like a couple of teenagers slipping around behind everyone’s back?
On the other hand, maybe she didn’t really want to know.
AFTER LEAVING the seed farm, Carrie went home, changed into coveralls and reported to the garage. Just before closing time, Dixie and Joyanne showed up.
“We got parts!” Dixie yelled as she ejected from her blue Mustang and she and Joyanne ran inside.
“We’re going to be beauty contestants! Dixie and I get to wear swimsuits like they wore in the fifties—they’re these awful one-piece rubbery rib crushers with zippers up the back—and our job is to ride in convertibles in the parade.” This last line was delivered with considerable glee.
“Congratulations,” Carrie said dryly as they came inside. She opened the spreadsheet program on her laptop computer, planning on trying to figure out why she was low on cash this month.
“Carrie?” Hub said, poking his lean, sharp-chinned face in the door. “Did you order some of them
