Million-Dollar Maverick. Christine Rimmer
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so close against her.
Her mind was spinning and her body was burning and her heart beat in time to the throb of desire within her.
Bad idea, to have kissed him. She knew that, she did—and yet, somehow, at that moment, she didn’t even care. She was on fire. Worse, she was right on the verge of dragging the man down the hall to her bedroom, where they could do something even more foolish than kissing.
But before she could take his hand, the whole kitchen lit up in a wash of glaring light so bright she saw it even with her eyes closed. She gasped.
Lightning. It was lightning.
And then thunder exploded, so close and loud it felt as if it was right there in the kitchen with them.
Callie cried out, and her eyes popped wide open. Nate opened his eyes, too. They stared at each other.
He muttered, “What the hell?”
She whispered, “That was way too close,” not really sure if she meant the lightning strike—or what had almost happened between the two of them.
He only kept on watching her, his eyes hot and wild.
And right then, the lights went out.
“Terrific,” Callie muttered. “What now?”
It wasn’t dark out yet—but the rain and the cloud cover made it seem so. He was a tall shadow, filling the space in front of her, as her eyes adjusted to the gloom.
That had been some kiss. Callie needed a moment to collect her shattered senses. Judging by the way Nate braced his hand on the counter and hung his head, she guessed he was having a similar problem.
Finally, he said, “I’ll check the breaker box. Got a flashlight?”
She had two, somewhere in the boxes still stacked against the wall. But she knew where another one was. “In my SUV.”
So he followed her out to her garage, where she got him the flashlight and then trailed after him over to the breaker box on the side wall. The breakers were perfectly aligned in two even rows.
He turned to her, shining the flashlight onto the concrete floor, so it gave some light but didn’t blind her. The rain sounded even louder out here, a steady, unremitting roar on the garage roof. He said what she already knew. “None of the breakers have flipped. I had all the wiring in the house replaced. This box is the best there is. I’m thinking it’s not a faulty breaker. A tree must have fallen on a line, or a transformer’s blown.” The eerie light bouncing off the floor exaggerated the strong planes and angles of his face.
She stared up at him, feeling the pull, resisting the really dumb urge to throw herself into his arms again. Suddenly, she was very close to glad that the power had gone out. If it hadn’t, they would probably be in her bedroom by now.
Her throat clutched. She had to cough to clear it. “We can call the power company at least.” They trooped back inside. She picked up the phone—and got dead air. “Phone’s out, too.”
He took a cell from his back pocket and she got hers from her crossbody bag. Neither of them could raise a signal. He tipped his head up toward the ceiling and the incessant drumming of the rain. “I’m not liking this,” he muttered, grabbing his hat and sticking it back on his head. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?” she demanded. But she was talking to an empty kitchen.
He was already halfway down the central hallway to the front door.
“Nate...” She took off after him, slipping out behind him onto the porch.
No light shone from any of the windows up and down the block. It looked like the power was out all around them. And the rain was still coming down in sheets, the wind carrying it at an angle, so it spattered the porch floor, dampened their jeans and ran in rivulets around their feet. Scarier still, Pine Street was now a minicreek, the water three or four inches deep and churning.
He sent her a flat look. “Go inside. I’m having a look around.”
“A look around where?”
But of course, he didn’t answer. He took off down the front steps and across her soggy lawn, making for his pickup.
Go inside? No way. She needed to know what was going on as much as he did.
She took off after him at a run and managed to get to the passenger door and yank it open before he could shift into gear and back into the rushing, shallow creek that used to be their street.
“You don’t need to be out in this.” He glared at her, water dripping from his hat, as she swung herself up to the seat, yanked the door shut and grabbed the seat belt.
She snapped the belt shut and armed water off her forehead. “I’m going. Drive.”
He muttered something low, something disparaging to her gender, she was certain, but at least he did what she’d told him to do, shifting the quad cab into gear and backing it into the street. He had a high clearance with those big wheels cowboys liked so much, so at that point the water running in the street posed no threat to the engine. He shifted into Drive, headed toward Commercial Street, which was also under water. He turned left and then right onto Main.
They approached Rust Creek and the Main Street Bridge. In the year since the big flood, the levee had been raised and the bridge rebuilt to cross the racing creek at a higher level.
He drove up the slope that accommodated the raised levee and onto the bridge. The water level was still a long way below them.
“Looks good to me,” she said.
With a grudging grunt of agreement, he kept going, down the slope on the other side and past the library and the town hall and the new community center with its Fourth of July Grand Opening banner drooping, rain pouring down it in sheets.
“Um, pardon me,” she said gingerly. “But where are we going now?”
He swung the wheel and they went left on Cedar Street. “I’m checking the Commercial Street Bridge, too,” he said grimly, narrowed eyes on the streaming road in front of them. “It’s the one I’m really worried about. Last year, it was completely washed out.”
They went past Strickland’s Boarding House and the house where Emmet lived and kept going, turning finally onto a county road just outside town. It was only a couple of minutes from there to Commercial Street. He turned and headed for the bridge.
It wasn’t far. And there were county trucks there, parked on either side of the street. A worker in a yellow slicker flagged them to a stop and then slogged over to Nate’s side window, which he rolled down, letting in a gust of rain-drenched wind.
Nate knew the man by name. “Angus, what’s going on?”
Angus was maybe forty, with a sun-creased face and thick, sandy eyebrows. Water dripped off his prominent nose. “Just keepin’ an eye on things, Nate.”
“The levee?”
“Holding fine and well above the waterline. It’ll have to rain straight through for more than a week before anybody needs to start worryin’.”
“Power’s out.”
“I know, and landlines. And a couple of cell towers took lightning strikes. But crews are already at work on all of that. We’re hoping to have services restored in the next few hours.” Angus aimed a smile in Callie’s direction. “Ma’am.” She nodded in response. He said, “With all this water in the streets, it’s safer not to go driving around in it. You should go on home and dry out.”
“Will do.” Nate thanked him, sent the window back up and drove across the bridge and back to South Pine, where he pulled into her driveway again and followed her inside.
As she ran across the lawn, her shoes sinking into the waterlogged ground, she knew she should tell him to go, that she would be fine on her own. But for