Night Driving. Lori Wilde
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His face relaxed. Just a bit. “Total mystery.”
“What is?” Tara loaded the boxes into the back of the U-Haul, turned and wiped perspiration from her forehead with the back of a hand.
“You.”
She smiled big, pleased.
Boone shook his shaggy head, two months past the point of needing a good haircut. But that was okay. Overgrown hair gave a stylist something to work with. She canted her head and imagined how he’d look in different cuts—slicked-back undercut, Brit-rock indie, men’s quiff. Who was she kidding? He’d probably spoil her fun and insist on a military buzz.
“It’s not a compliment,” he said.
“What are you so prickly about?” She dusted her hands against her back pockets.
“I hate this.” He hissed the last word through clenched teeth.
“What?” She studied him. He was in so much pain—both physical and mental—that it wrenched her heart. But she also knew he had no use for pity. How many times had he rebuffed her when she’d tried to help? Boone was one of those proud protector dudes who thought he was invincible. He hadn’t handled life’s curveball very well. Poor baby.
“Having to stand here and watch you carry boxes when I should be the one doing it.”
“Oh, so you’re responsible for the whole world? Good to know.”
“Not the whole world, just my slice of it.”
“Newsflash, Hercules. I’m not part of your world and I’m perfectly capable of carrying my own boxes.”
“If I were healthy you would not be carrying your own boxes.”
“If you were healthy, I wouldn’t be driving you to Miami. Besides, I’m not some helpless damsel. I know how to take care of myself.”
“You sure know how to wound a man, Duvall.”
“I’m not in the military. You can call me Tara.”
“Okay, then let the men I hired do the heavy lifting…Tara.”
The sarcastic way he muttered her name didn’t get to her. She knew he was a big softy underneath all the gruffness. She’d seen Boone tenderly cradle their neighbor’s new baby when Mrs. Winspree had brought her infant over to show him off. She’d seen him struggle not to shed a tear at his father’s funeral. Had watched him drive his friends away because he was too proud to admit he needed help. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, she was the one person who kept him from disappearing into himself completely, even though he did his best to keep her at arm’s length. What would happen to him once she was gone? Probably turn into a hermit and holler at kids for walking across his lawn.
Tara smiled sweetly and gently bumped Boone with a playful hip as she walked past him on her way to the house for another load of boxes. It was her way of telling him everything was going to be okay, but she wasn’t prepared for the blast of pure heat that shot through her at the contact or the low, throaty masculine sound of alarm that he made in response.
Quickly she sprinted off, her heart bounding erratically. She was in such a rush that she ran headlong into one of the movers. Reflexively, the guy wrapped an arm around her waist.
“Slow down there, sweetcheeks.” The man possessed a chest like a brick wall, a Tom Selleck mustache and a red bandana wrapped around his bald dome. “Is there a fire someone didn’t tell me about?”
“We’re on a tight time schedule,” she said. “Have to get a move on.”
“Let me just check my magic watch.” He pretended to consult an imaginary wristwatch.
“What?”
“It’s telling me that you don’t have any panties on.”
“Yes I do,” she blurted, then belatedly realized it was some stupid pickup line. Duh, how could she be so gullible?
His grin widened and he made a big show of shaking his imaginary wristwatch and holding it up to his ear. “Damn, it must be ten minutes fast.”
Ha-ha. She got it. He was suggesting that in ten minutes he’d have her panties off.
“Dude.” Tara fake chuckled, rolled her eyes and pushed back against his embrace. She was about to tell him he needed a course in how and where to pick up women, but she never got a chance.
Boone was there, clamping a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Let go of her,” he said in a voice as ruthless as the sound of a .45 Magnum round being chambered.
Instantly, Bandana Head released her, stepped back and raised his palms in a gesture of surrender. “Chill, man. Just a little harmless flirting. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Get out!” Boone commanded and pointed toward the door, his expression deadly.
“I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean anything by it. I didn’t know she was your woman. I swear.”
“She’s not my woman, but that still doesn’t give you the right to manhandle her.” Boone’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. Boone was big, but the bald guy was bigger and Boone had a bum knee.
The guy puffed out his chest. “She ran into me.”
“Look, look.” Tara winnowed her way between the two men. To Boone she said, “I did run into him. It was my fault.” Then to the bald guy she said, “Dude, cheesiest pickup line ever and borderline offensive.”
“Borderline!” Boone snorted.
“Okay, it was offensive, but I’m sure…” She waved a hand. “What’s your name?”
“Rodney.”
“That Rodney meant nothing by it.”
“Didn’t mean a thing.” Rodney raked a lascivious glance over her body and Tara regretted her snug-fitting T-shirt. She’d worn it for Boone’s sake, knowing that it clung to her curves. She never thought twice about being too provocative for the moving men.
“Out.” Boone pointed toward the door. He plucked his wallet from his back pocket, peeled off two onehundred-dollar bills and a fifty and thrust them at the man.
“Hey, the deal was for five hundred dollars.”
“That was before you insulted Miss Duvall. You’ve only done half the job, that’s all I’m paying for.”
Rodney looked like he was going to protest, but then he shrugged. “Suit yourself. You’re gonna have fun loading up that van with your gimp leg.” He turned, hollered to his partner who was in the back room packing up Tara’s home office, “C’mon, Joe, we’re outta here.”
“Wow,” Tara said to Boone as the front door slammed behind Rodney and Joe. “That’s one of the best jobs of shooting yourself in the foot that I’ve seen in a long time.”
“What? I was supposed to stand by and just let him grope you?”
“He didn’t grope me.”
“He was inappropriate.”
“He was, but it’s not your place to defend me, Boone. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
He snorted, folding those steely arms over his chest, blocking her out.
“What’s that noise supposed to mean?”
“I’m not going there.” He limped over to the kitchen counter where boxes were stacked, half-filled with the dishes Rodney had been packing up.
Tara wasn’t going to let him get away with that. She scurried after him. “Where aren’t you going?”
He turned to face her. His dark eyes flashed a warning. “You can