1
JACOB THOMAS PRESCOTT squeezed his eyes shut to relieve the strain of staring at the computer screen for ten hours straight. Of course, that was nothing new, he reminded himself as he massaged his temples to ease the headache pounding in rhythm with his pulse. This, after all, was life as he knew it. Work. And more work. It’s what he did six days a week—and sometimes on Sunday.
J.T.—as his three employees at his graphic shop and his sisters knew him—checked his watch. Six o’clock, right on the button. With robotlike precision, J.T. saved the file and transferred it to floppy disk so he could work on his laptop computer over the weekend.
When he shut down the computer, J.T. pushed away from his desk and worked the kinks from his neck and shoulders. He glanced sideways to note that his three younger male employees had already called it quits for the day and that they were smiling at him for no apparent reason.
“Is there a problem?” he asked as he surged to his feet.
“No,” the young men chorused, still smiling enigmatically. “Have a nice weekend, boss.”
J.T. nodded, then waited for the men to precede him out the door. He grabbed the plastic bag of clothes he planned to drop off at the dry cleaners, checked his watch again and then locked the door behind him.
Right on time, as usual, he noted as he stuffed the shop keys in the pocket of his black suit. He would swing by the cleaners at 6:11 p.m., just as he did every Friday, then drive to his apartment to pop in a microwaveable turkey-and-dressing TV dinner.
J.T. skidded to a halt on the sidewalk and his eyes popped when he noticed the two flat tires on the driver’s side of his older-model gray sedan. “Well, damn,” he muttered. This was going to throw off his regular routine by a half hour—maybe more.
Scowling at the inconvenience, J.T. looked up and down the deserted street, then frowned as the fire-engine red Jeep Cherokee—that seemed to come from out of nowhere at lightning speed—ground to a stop beside him. To his surprise, a smiling blue-eyed blonde, wearing a bright blue T-shirt that was plastered with stars and stripes, a pair of screaming red shorts and hiking boots, bounded from the vehicle like a jack-in-the-box.
“Is this your car?” she asked all too cheerfully for J.T.’s sedate tastes.
He appraised the female who looked to be in her mid-twenties. He wasn’t sure if he should salute this personification of the American flag or answer her. He decided on the latter. “Er…yes, it’s my car,” he mumbled, focusing on the flat tires rather than the woman’s flashy appearance and blinding smile. Flamboyantly dressed blondes with one-hundred-watt smiles and more energy than they knew what to do with didn’t appeal to him—and for good reason.
“I’ll give you a lift to the service station,” she offered, then stuck out her hand to introduce herself. “I’m Moriah Randell.”
Again, J.T. felt the ridiculous urge to salute. Instead, he shook her hand, marveling at her decisive grip. But then, he mused, her firm handshake really shouldn’t surprise him. Bubbling spirit, vitality and independence—hence her American flag ensemble—fairly crackled around her. She was about as easy to ignore as a hurricane or earthquake, and she came on so strong that J.T. reflexively withdrew into his own space.
“I’m J. T. Prescott,” he murmured as he resituated the pile of laundry, briefcase and laptop in both arms.
“Here, let me help you with that stuff,” she volunteered.
Before J.T. could accept or reject her offer, Moriah scooped up his precious possessions.
A most peculiar sensation assailed him when Moriah confiscated his laptop and briefcase. It was as if she had suddenly amputated extensions of his hands. She juggled the objects as if they were insignificant pieces of junk and that didn’t set well with J.T. “Hey, be careful with that stuff,” he cautioned as she strode quickly around the side of her SUV. “Those happen to be my stock-in-trade—” His voice fizzled into a groan when she unceremoniously dumped both prized possessions on the back seat.
Moriah flashed him another dazzling smile that made her blue eyes sparkle like polished jewels. The thick ropelike braid of blond hair slithered over her shoulder as she plunked behind the steering wheel.
When she motioned for him to join her, he resigned himself to accepting the young woman’s assistance. With a sigh, J.T. climbed into the brightly colored vehicle. He barely had time to shut the door before Moriah stamped on the accelerator and whizzed off. Jeez, he’d just climbed onboard with the female version of Evel Knievel, he mused as he hurriedly fastened his seat belt.
J.T. glanced over to appraise Moriah’s fire-engine-red fingernails, red hoop earrings and jangling red-white-and-blue bracelets. He also noticed there wasn’t a wedding ring on her finger, not that he cared one way or another, of course.
Who the hell dressed this woman? Conservative and conventional were obviously foreign concepts to her. He decided loud clothes were an essential warning that signaled the arrival of this female cyclone. She appeared to be the kind of individual who walked right in and took over. For sure and certain, she bustled J.T. off in whirlwind fashion!
“Would you mind slowing down?” J.T. requested as they zipped down the street. “I’d like to live to see my thirty-sixth birthday, if you don’t mind.”
“You don’t find speed exhilarating? You don’t like the feel of the wind in your hair?” she asked, still smiling radiantly.
Her perpetual smile was really beginning to bug him. She was beginning to bug him. She was too cheerful, too bouncy, too vibrant, too feminine, too reckless, too…everything! Plus, the alluring scent of her perfume was clogging his senses and the narrow confines of the Jeep didn’t allow enough room for him to avoid breathing her in.
“Hey!” J.T. erupted as he glanced out the side window. “You buzzed right by the service station!”
She turned that high-voltage smile on him again. “I did it on purpose.”
J.T. frowned warily as Moriah increased speed and sailed onto the ramp that merged with the interstate highway. “What the hell is going on here, lady?” he demanded to know that very second.
She grinned impishly. “The name is Moriah, remember?”
“Yeah, whatever.” J.T. gnashed his teeth and braced himself when she switched over to the fast lane of rush hour traffic. “Am I being kidnapped? I should warn you that I’m not carrying much cash. I never carry much cash. Demanding a ransom for my return is a complete waste of time.”
“You aren’t being kidnapped. You’re being escorted to Triple R,” she said, as if that explained everything.
It didn’t. Not to J.T.’s satisfaction. “What the hell is Triple R?” he demanded gruffly.
“Randell’s Resort Ranch.”
“Ranch? You work at a ranch and you dress like that?” he asked, then smirked.
One delicate blond brow arched as she spared him a quick glance. “You don’t like my clothes?”
“Lady, I’m not sure I even like you, especially after you
