dressed for changing a tire. Or walking barefoot down a country road, for that matter. No, she looked more like one of the rich princesses who strolled down Park Avenue shopping for glittery purses with their tiny Chihuahuas.
“Having trouble?” he asked as he approached her, the sun continuing to interfere with his vision. “Do you need help?”
“Do you happen to have a gun handy?” was her shocking reply.
Actually, he did. Not that he was going to reveal that to someone eager to arm herself. “Sorry. Not today.”
He slowed his steps. Though he still didn’t sense she was dangerous to him, she felt bloodlust toward someone else. Maybe the person who’d stranded her out here sans car and shoes.
“Then I don’t need your help,” she said, her words jagged, choppy, as if now that she’d stopped walking she could finally suck in a few breaths of air. The harsh way she punctuated each word underscored his first impression—she was mad as hell.
And, he suspected, even more hot from the front than she’d been from behind. That dress was cut lower than he’d thought, and the filmy fabric outlined some generous hips. “Are you lost?”
She frowned. “Do I look lost?”
“No. You look stranded.”
“Score one for the big guy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another five miles to walk into town.”
As he moved to within two feet of her, the woman’s own form blocked most of the sun until just a few rays spiked out from behind her head, like a huge halo. The effect was dazzling—blinding—but he still pushed his sunglasses up onto his head.
No one had ever accused him of being sentimental or sappy. But the way the light caught her hair, reflecting on individual strands of brown, gold and red and turning it into a veil of color, he couldn’t help staring.
When he forced himself to focus on the stranger’s face, he suddenly had to suck in a quick, surprised breath of his own. Because that face was good. Very good, with the high cheekbones and hollowed-out cheeks that women begged plastic surgeons for.
She also had a small, straight nose and dark eyes that were a swirling mix of blue and stormy gray. They were framed by heavily lashed lids. The strong jaw, and a slight jut to her chin said she was determined. Despite being tightly clenched, her mouth was obviously designed with sin in mind. Her naturally full lips would never need that crap women used to make themselves look like injected-to-death movie stars.
She wasn’t too young—probably right around his age, or maybe even older. There was a maturity in the strength of her profile, in the confident way she carried herself.
He liked what he saw. A lot. This was the first time in ages that he’d liked the looks of a woman so much he’d actually begun to wonder whether he owned any unexpired condoms.
And she was staring at him with pure malice.
“Bad day, huh?”
“You could say that.”
“So, uh, why do you need a gun?”
“To shoot someone,” she snapped, looking at him as if he were stupid. “Two someones, actually.”
He quickly scanned the woman’s features, looking for her true intent. He’d met a lot of criminals in his seven years on the force, and he knew angry, frustrated threats from legitimate ones. This one, judging by the resigned irritation in her tone—rather than rage—was all bark and no bite. At least, he hoped. But he still thought about his service weapon, and wondered if he was going to have to use it to stop her from following through on her threats.
Wouldn’t be the first time he’d stepped between a murderous woman and her intended target. Just the thought of that incident made the scar in his right shoulder ache…and the one around his heart grow a little harder.
“Dumb question.” Glancing at the object in her hand, he tried again. “Why are you carrying a tire iron?”
She frowned, appearing puzzled by the ridiculousness of the query. Tilting her head to the side until her long hair brushed her arm, she explained, “Because I don’t have a gun, of course.”
Well, color him stupid for not knowing that. “Is there someone in particular you plan to kill or would anybody do?”
“Don’t worry. You’re quite safe,” she said, that jaw still tense but some of the stiffness easing out of her shoulders. “However, two little old ladies from hell better have gone into the witness protection program before I get back into town.”
“Killing little old ladies.” He tsked and shook his head, growing even less alarmed. But he didn’t let his guard down completely. “That’s not very polite.”
“You don’t know these particular old ladies.”
Something that felt like a smile began to tug at his mouth. “I know it’s against the law to kill them.”
He quickly squashed the smile. Mike wasn’t used to smiling…. He didn’t have a lot to be happy about on the job, and his personal life was almost nonexistent. Having lived for his work for the past few years, he hadn’t developed more than a nodding relationship with anyone outside the force. With his brothers living busy lives, he seldom got together with them these days. He hadn’t laid eyes on Max or Morgan since Max’s wedding in December. And now that his grandfather, Mortimer, had taken up residence in a shoddy town that looked like the setting of a Stephen King story, he never saw him, either. Other than the drooly dog in his Jeep, he was about as unencumbered, serious and solitary as a twenty-seven-year-old New Yorker could be.
“Believe me, it’d be justifiable homicide.”
“You a lawyer?” He tensed, as any cop did at the thought of a defense attorney…almost always an enemy in the courtroom.
“No. I just play one on TV.”
At first he thought she meant she was an actress—because she could be. Not only because she was so attractive, but because she had definite character. Then she rolled her eyes and huffed out an annoyed breath that he hadn’t immediately caught her sarcasm. “I watch Law and Order, the original and all ninety of its spin-offs, okay? Now, unless you have a spare pair of women’s size eight Nikes in your car, I really need to say goodbye.”
As if assessing the chances, her eyes dropped to his feet, and for the first time, Mike realized, she really looked at him. She was finally seeing him. She’d been too ticked off, too frustrated to even spare him a real glance until now.
Now she glanced. Oh, she definitely glanced.
Her unusual eyes darkened to almost charcoal-gray and her lips parted as she drew in a few more deep breaths. He could see the way her pulse fluttered in her neck as she cast a leisurely stare from his boot-clad feet, up his faded jeans, his Yankees T-shirt, then his face. She stopped there, a flick of her tongue to moisten her lips indicating she’d seen the guy women spent a lot of time coming on to until they realized he was interested in nothing more than the few hours he could kill with them.
“Sorry, no spare footwear,” he finally said. He waited for a flirtatious comment, a come-on, a request for a lift.
He
