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“Okay…” He tapped a grimy hose, wishing he’d rolled up his sleeves or at least taken off his suit jacket.

He didn’t own much clothing free of darkroom stains.

“Let me see.” Wiggling a battery cable, he cut his gaze her way.

The rigid line of her jaw told him she wouldn’t take to fast moves or bullshit.

“Maybe something wrong with this thingamajig.”

She snorted, knocking his hand aside. “Please. Before you burn yourself. Or ruin your pressed shirt. Prescott’s Auto on?—”

“Maple. I know the place.” He jerked his chin toward his car. “I’ll drop you there.”

Quizzical, her eyes met his, then flicked to his car.

Georgia plates. Not a local, he watched her determine as she drew her arms tight over her chest. “I realize you’ll have to backtrack, but could you stop in, have them send the tow truck?

Jake—or Tim, ask for Tim.” She dropped to her haunches and peered beneath a bumper hanging at a skewed angle.

“Not leaking oil. Done that twice in the last month.”

“Isn’t twice a clear warning?”

“Not all of us can afford to drive shiny black bullets.”

“Would you rather I drove a piece of—” A passing pickup cut him off with a blaring horn.

He could swing by the garage, though that would spark a look-who’s-back-in-town discussion.

But he couldn’t leave a woman stranded at sunset on the side of the road, waiting for help that might not come.

He remembered Tim Prescott from way back.

Wrestling team. Detention hall every afternoon. Not the sharpest knife in the rack.

Digging the toe of his Cole Haan in the weeds, Campbell stared at the strip of moist skin bared by her sleek ponytail.

The cheerleader affectation should have been ridiculous on someone her age, when it was only sexy.

Although he wasn’t sure exactly what that age was.

Twenty-five, maybe twenty-six. If she gave him a breath of attention, he’d really piss her off by asking.

Growing impatient, he shoved his hands deep in his pockets and rocked back on his heels.

It had been a long time since a woman had made him feel...since a woman hadn’t looked at him with...

Ah, hell. Kicking brittle leaves from his path, Campbell stalked toward his car. “I’m running late, but I’ll circle back to the garage, okay? Should’ve come last night, but my flight was delayed, and I didn’t get in until two a.m. My brother?—”

Appalled by the near slip of something personal, something real, instead of the inane conversation he normally spewed, he braced his fist on his car’s still-warm hood, his idea of playing the goddamn hero dead in the water.

“Be sensible, ma’am. You don’t know if the tow truck’s available. And it’ll be dark soon.”

Darker than it got in the city, the sky awash with stars and the possibility for trouble.

FONTANA

Blinded by a blazing sunset glow, Fontana Quinn shaded her eyes, struggling to bring the man into view.

Starched cotton draped his shoulders and chest, topped by the loveliest suit coat she’d ever seen.

Horn buttons, she’d bet the sweaty dollar crushed in her pocket.

Hand-worked lapels, felt-lined. Stitched, not a drop of glue.

She'd altered enough of them at Rich’s department store to spot this, right off.

Powerless, her spine stiffened. Might have been petty, but Fontana had never known the joys of wealth and didn’t trust anyone who had.

“Listen, mister, how about you—” The sun shifted, or maybe the stranger did, and his face snapped into focus amidst a golden wash of light.

He’d popped aviator sunglasses on the arch of a slim, fittingly insolent nose.

Fontana’s frown deepened. Unfortunately, the rest was just as appealing.

Prominent cheekbones, hollows beneath streaking into hair as thick and black as the approaching night.

An arrogant, kiss-and-tell mouth.

Of course, the only person who stopped to help her looked like he’d stepped from the pages of GQ .

Seizing her breath back, she dusted her hands on the seat of her overalls. “I’m fine, Ace. Happens all the time.”

He shoved the glasses through his hair, settling them atop his head.

“I’m not leaving you here. Ace .” Flipping his coattails aside, he shoved his hands into his pockets, striking a remarkably gorgeous portrait as he leaned against his expensive car in clothes sewn to fit his lean body.

Unable to look away, she noted the sharp edge that appeared in his eyes.

Due to the distance, a color she couldn’t quite place.

However, the flare of intelligence, of lucid perception , disturbed her more than all his good looks combined.

“Listen,” she said, hoisting to her feet, “I’ve never played a believable damsel-in-distress, and it’s too late to start now.”

Sighing, he scrubbed his hand across his jaw. “I just want to give you a ride. Somewhere safe.”

“ Safe ? You could be a serial killer. A demented psycho.”

“Christ, how many movies do you watch?”

“Movies?” She crossed her arms with a defiant shift of her weight, preparing for battle. “Ever read the daily newspaper? What Utopian paradise do you live in?”

“Atlanta,” he said, prowling toward her, jaw clenched.

“No serial killer or demented psycho would make this offer. And not likely to own a shiny black bullet either, but hey, no need to stereotype.” Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a leather wallet and flipped it open.

“My license, renewed last month in honor of an approaching birthday. Shiny peach hologram, decent photo—the whole package. Signed, sealed, and delivered by Zell Miller, Georgia’s fine governor. ”

He lifted the Jeep’s windshield wiper, slipped the card underneath, then let rubber slap glass. “Tell you what. Give me your address, and I’ll swing by to pick it up, say...this Friday. We can catch dinner and a movie in Greenville.”

Fontana slumped against the bumper knocked askew while negotiating a landscaping project at the Piggly Wiggly on Route 8.

It was hard to remember it had been so long—or maybe so long since she’d paid attention—but this arrogant ass was coming on to her.

Standing in a clump of knotweed, dirtying his fancy suede shoes, and coming on to her.

Like it was second nature, like it was nothing .

This, and the fact she was standing there in rumpled overalls and a grass-stained Clemson T-shirt, actually listening, made her angrier than hell.

She gave an abrupt shove off the Jeep, shocked to realize that, for one female-in-heat second, she’d actually considered his offer. One he’d released as thoughtlessly as an exhalation.

“Thanks, Atlanta, but no. This is a terrifically romantic setting, and I can see how you got carried away what with the smell of manure from the McCall’s farm drifting by and me decked out in my best. I imagine a desperate recovery operation like this could rouse the beast in a man.

Testosterone-laden fantasies and all that.

I sympathize. I’ve read Ian Fleming’s novels.

” Flapping her hand through the cloud of steam pouring from her engine, she turned away in blunt dismissal.

“Flattering, of course, but I have a boyfriend. A really hunky, pumped-up one. Very intense. The relationship is extremely serious and”—behind her back, she wiggled her ringless fingers at him—“I’m hoping, you know?

Dropped enough hints. I think he’ll pop the question any day now. ”

“What’s his name?”

Glancing over her shoulder, Fontana mumbled a vague reply. She’d never been good at off-the-cuff lies.

“Mr. Hunky. Mr. Pumped-Up. Mr. Intensity. What’s his name?” His voice was wickedly amused, like he was savoring every word.

Henry’s rough-hewn features swam before her eyes. Fontana couldn’t offer up someone who wanted her as much as he did. Not when he’d never get what he wanted.

“Jaime Holworth,” she blurted, then cringed, hoping she hid it well.

Atlanta, who asked for names but didn't offer them, frowned, maddening little dents appearing in both cheeks. “Jaime Holworth? You mean James Holworth? Doesn’t his father own the drugstore on the square?”

Oh, shit , Fontana thought, withering where she stood.

Georgia plates. He was a local.

“Pumped-up? Intense?” Atlanta’s amusement deepened, and she got a good look at eyes the exact shade of fertile soil sure to grow anything planted in it.

“Strange. He was kind of a calm, scrawny kid in high school. Made the costumes for the drama club, played the flute in the marching band. I always figured he was—” His head dropped so fast his sunglasses slid down to his nose.

As they regarded each other warily across the short distance, she thought she saw his cheeks flush.

Trying to decide if he was, truly , the best-looking man she’d ever seen, Fontana stayed silent. Attractiveness of his sort propelled bad decisions and often demanded compliance.

“Sorry,” he finally said. “Forget I mentioned it. Just get in. I’ll give you a ride, then we can part ways.

Jaime’s nice. I mean, I liked him. Though I haven’t seen him since graduation, except once in Atlanta during Gay Pride—” He threw his head back, releasing a raw expletive.

“Get in, will you? I’ll drive you to Prescott’s, kindly wish you and Jaime every happiness, and ride off into the sunset.

I’m sure you’ll have a long and fruitful”—his doubtful gaze slid her way—“union. Loads of marital bliss.”

Dazed and deciding she had few options on an ever darkening country road, waiting on a tow-truck driver who wasn’t the most reliable, Fontana let Atlanta open the door for her, his touch scorching her back as he gently guided her in.

His dogmatic ease vexed her, but men always assumed they knew what worked best for a woman.

Sometimes it was easier to just go with it.