in her rearview mirror and sure enough, a shiny black Cadillac SUV was parked behind her car. “Yes, yes. I’m okay.”
She took a closer look at him. Goodness, they grew them tall in Texas. Her miracle wore a black Western suit, a sterling silver belt buckle and one of those sexy string ties. “I th-think I took a wrong turn somewhere. Now I’m out of gas.”
He nodded and scrubbed at the dark blond facial hair on his jaw. “Not a good thing to do on this road. There isn’t a gas station for at least ten miles or so. I’m Wyatt Brandt, by the way.” He stuck out his hand and she took it. It was a little awkward shaking hands through the car window, but his firm grip, beautiful eyes and rich Texas drawl put her at ease.
He could be a serial killer.
That thought flittered through her mind, but she dismissed it. The butterflies winging around in her stomach as he enveloped her hand, ever so briefly, told a different story. “I’m Brooke. I was heading to a friend’s wedding, and now I’m afraid I’ll never make it.”
“Nice meeting you, Brooke,” he said. “You wouldn’t by any chance be heading to Blake and Heather’s shindig, would you?”
Her eyebrows drew up. How did he know? Serial killer flashed in her mind again. Had he been stalking her? Her brother Dylan had almost lost his life to a stalker out to get revenge. Luckily, he’d survived the murder attempts and decided to get his wife away from the Hollywood scene for a while. Emma, Dylan and Brooke were all in Texas now, while Dylan was shooting a movie. She still had stalker on the brain but immediately dismissed the notion where Wyatt was concerned. How many stalkers drove Cadillacs and dressed like GQ models? No, Wyatt Brandt either was psychic or had been invited to the wedding, too. “Yes, that’s the one. The GPS told me to take this road. I was running late, and this is supposed to be a shortcut to their wedding venue. Do you know them?”
“Sure do. I’m on my way to the nuptials, too. Blake’s a friend of mine.”
She smiled. This miracle was getting better and better. “Heather and I went to college on the West Coast together. I’ve never met Blake.”
“He’s a great guy. Just so you know I’m not anyone you have to worry over. I own the Blue Horizon Ranch, about fifteen miles back that way.” He pointed behind them. “And yes, this is a shortcut, if you know the roads. I’d be happy to give you a lift. I was running a bit late, too, and if we hurry, we’ll make it before the ceremony begins.”
“Gosh, that sounds great.”
He opened the door for her and she got out. Their size difference was immediately evident. Even wearing three-inch heels, the top of her head reached his chin. His very rugged, strong chin.
“What about your car?” he asked.
“It’s a rental.” He closed the car door for her and she went on to explain, “I’ve been a little distracted lately, and forgot to fill the tank when I took off earlier. I’ll lock it up and leave it here for now. I don’t have much choice if I want to make the wedding.”
He nodded. “Sounds good.”
“Just let me get my bag.” She clicked a button and the trunk popped open. He followed behind and before she could reach for her bag, he stretched a long arm around her, grazing her waist, and grabbed her suitcase. Warm shivers cascaded down her body from the contact. It was ridiculous how instantly attracted she was to him. She knew nothing about him other than his left hand was bare of a wedding ring and he had incredible eyes and pretty great manners.
“Anything else?” Her pink Gucci bag looked tiny in his grasp.
She’d heard about Southern charm, but experiencing it firsthand was refreshing. The men in other parts of the country could take a lesson from Wyatt Brandt. “No, that’s it. Thank you.”
“So you’re staying overnight?” he asked as he guided her to his SUV.
“Yes. I figured the reception might go late, and I didn’t think I’d be any good driving these roads at night. I’m not too great on them during the day either, apparently.”
Rich laughter rose from his chest. “Probably a smart move.” He opened the passenger-side door and she climbed into the seat.
Once she had settled in, she caught him gazing at her legs. A wave of heat passed through her as his eyes lingered just long enough not to be creepy.
After he put her suitcase in the back end, he took his seat behind the steering wheel and gave her a smile. “Do you have a last name?” he asked matter-of-factly as he started the engine. “Or are you just Brooke?”
Goodness, she didn’t want to be Brooke McKay, not today, not with Wyatt. As soon as a guy got wind of who she really was, the sister of ultra-famous movie star Dylan McKay, he began treating her differently. She loved Dylan to pieces, but she’d had enough of that role, and it had caused her too much heartache with men who’d played her fast and loose just to get close to her famous brother.
Maybe it would be different in Texas than it had been in Los Angeles, where everyone it seemed, was trying to break into the movie business. But Brooke was too scarred now to test out that theory. “I’m Brooke Johnson.”
The fib fell easily from her lips. For just one day. Was that asking too much?
“Okay, Brooke Johnson. Are you ready?”
“I think I was born ready,” she said.
He laughed and they took off, leaving her little white Ford Escort in the dust.
* * *
Wyatt hadn’t had a one-on-one conversation with a woman since his wife, Madelyn, had died some nine months ago. He wasn’t including Henrietta in that, since his housekeeper was nearing retirement age, and besides, he was never really alone with her. Either Brett or Brianna or both of his eighteen-month-old twins were usually with them when they spoke, or rather when they tried to have a conversation. Raising twins was chaos in motion most of the time.
Yet Wyatt wasn’t one for parties anymore. He preferred staying on the ranch, working long hours while trying to be a good father. But even he recognized his grief needed a swift kick in the ass, and his best friend Johnny Wilde had been the one to deliver it. “Go to that weddin’, man. What you need is to get out and start livin’ again.”
Now he was wearing a monkey suit and heading for Blake’s wedding, making conversation with a dark-haired woman with a sultry voice, great legs, and dark chocolate eyes with lids heavily shadowed and rims outlined in black.
“You’re not from Texas, are you?” he asked.
“What was your first clue?”
He’d gotten a load of clues: the raven hair curling wildly down her back, the red painted lips, the dark made-up eyes and the manner of her dress. Sexy as it was, no woman in Texas would wear a skintight black lace dress to a wedding. At least none of the weddings he’d ever attended. “Oh, I don’t know. Just a hunch.”
“I’m from Los Angeles.”
Her lips puckered as if she expected him to make some comment about her appearance. He wouldn’t disrespect her that way. She was different from Madelyn, who’d been the epitome of Texas style and grace
