120 Mph (12 page)

His need was so great he put pedal to the
metal and sped down the gravel drive.

Chapter
Thirteen

Christian Mohr came home to find a clean
house and a woman fast asleep on his couch—physically exhausted from scrubbing
the place spotless. He didn’t have the heart to wake her up, though his fingers
itched to do just that. Awake, he could kiss her. Asleep, it would be as if he stealing
something he shouldn’t have.

He carried the packages into his living
room one by one. On the last trip to his car, Sara must have heard the
commotion, because he found her digging inside one of the boxes and the look on
her face when she rose her gaze was quite memorable.

He’d never seen a woman look as though a
pair of thrift store blue jeans and an ugly purple T-shirt were made of gold.

“Oh, Thank God, they’re the right size,”
she told him, pulling the items more fully out of the bag. She stood and put
the jeans up to her hips, trying to decide if they would or not.

Christian could have cared less. He
would’ve rather had her in his pajama top for the next few days—even the rest
of his life—than Sara dressed in second-hand clothing. She had the body for
finery and frills. Thin waist, ample breasts, and hair he wanted to snake his
fingers into.

He watched her drop the jeans onto a
pile on his couch and start searching through the rest of the bags. When her
fingers found the silk, her blue gaze slammed into his. He’d been waiting for her
to discover this particular item.

Somehow, as her hand pulled out the silken
delicacy, Christian’s breath lodged in his lungs.

Sara slowly dragged the nightgown from
the bag, unfolding the rose red silk, detailed with whisper thin lace . . . and
sexy as any gown could ever be made.

“And what, pray tell, is this?” she
asked, her sight moving hurriedly to his face.

He fought over what he should say,
against what he had to say. “You can’t have my pajama top all the time, Sara.
You have to give it back to me eventually.” A hasty grin added more to it to
cause a higher raise of her brow.

“Where did you get this from?” she ruled.
It still had the price tag on it. That tag found her fingers quickly and arched
her brows even higher.

“I didn’t think you wanted a used
nightgown, Sara. Jeans and T-shirts are one thing. But there are certain items
that a woman should be able to call her own and bedroom attire should be one of
those things.”

Sara pulled her gaze from his and looked
as though too afraid to search through the rest of the bags.

Christian not only went to the thrift
store, he hurriedly shopped at Carol’s Boutique on the way back. Carol knew
about the fire and helped an ignorant man pick something nice from off her
racks. She told Christian it would take Sara’s mind off her loss. Unfortunately,
the moment he’d swiped his credit card into Carol’s machine, he’d had a funny
feeling her loss was going to be an extremely huge problem in his life.

He was waiting for Sara to discover the
underwear in another bag. Again Carol’s idea, not his.

Lord help him . . . not his—at all!

His wait wasn’t long.

Sara held up the silk panties in both
hands. Her head turned and her eyes glued to his. “And these?”

“You can’t run around half-naked inside my
house, Sara.” His tone set firm to this fact. “I’m a man, and as a man, I can assure
you, the male species can only take so much before wanting to do something
about it.”

Sara’s slow smile turned contagious.

“Did you have to buy them in leopard
print, however?”

“No.” A pause and returning grin
reconfirmed it. “It’s just that I happen to like leopards and thought you’d be
fine with the choice.”

She gave Christian a sharp, skillfully
made snort. “Well, I happen to like leopards too. In zoos—or, better yet, left free
in the wild. But wouldn’t these particular leopards cause more of a, um,
problem . . . in the ‘
man can take only so much’
department?”

Christian shook his head. “I don’t have
a problem with leopard panties if you don’t.” He was holding his grin in check
out of shear will and determination to make it through this conversation
without taking her in his arms and kissing her until senseless.

Sara dropped the whisper thin silken
panties onto his couch. Even such an innocently made act had him inwardly
groaning as his eyes followed the fall.

She reached inside the bag and pulled
out a sensible package of ladies cotton underwear. Her smile grew in leaps and
bounds at this newest discovery. These, too, she held up for inspection.

“And I suppose these are for the days
when the leopards are being washed?”

Christian could not help but chuckle.
“Washing machine might well be broken when those days come about.”

Sara’s brows arched. “Will it now?” she
ruled.

“Perhaps.” His washing machine had taken
a break a time or two. Perhaps he could convince it to just outright die if
ever she put to depositing silk leopard panties into it.

“And if I say I can fix a washing
machine, as much as I can clean a man’s stove and scrub unrecognizable gunk out
of the corners of his shower?”

“Must you?” he uttered, causing the most
wonderful sound to come out of her mouth. Laughter.

He was quite surprised she could even do
so under the circumstances of losing everything, and Sara stuck with him until
such times as when she the authorities would allow her to go through the burnt
rubble.

She lost a lot by lit flame. He was only
trying to give her back some of those lost items by way of simple generosity to
one’s fellow human being. Well, that, and leopards are indeed his favorite
animal. Something Sara need not know about at this point. Told, she’d probably
never wear them. Yet he couldn’t quite imagine her in ‘granny panties’ every
day.

She hurriedly gathered the bought clothing,
bundling the items in her arms.

“So? I have one day’s clothing, four
pairs of undies—silk, and
otherwise
—a nightgown made for a romantic
honeymoon, and a dress far too short for propriety other than a night out
clubbing or leaving restaurants before any food can be ordered. Sounds about
enough, doesn’t it?” She made it come out as sarcastic laced with dire humor.

What she had in her arms wasn’t near
enough for a woman who’d lost everything.

“There is more,” Christian said, hoping to
put her out of her misery.

Her eyes widened. “More?”

He moved to the front door, opened it,
and from the front stoop gathered up the huge box filled with an array of
women’s clothing. Christian carried the box into the living room and set it right
at her feet. The words, “Ladies Guild,” then spoke to confirm from where the
box had come from.

Sara looked at his face. He could see
the tears starting to well in the corners of her eyes. Therefore, he stepped
forward, gathered her in his arms, and held on until she could compose her
being and hold them back.

That composer broke before it could be
stopped.

“Why is anyone even being nice to me?”
she blubbered, pressing her face against his shirtfront.

“Why wouldn’t we be?” he ascertained,
his hand set to the back of her head.

Sara’s eyes rose, trapped firmly to his.
“No one has ever been nice to me before.”

“Perhaps it was time niceness came your
way.”

“I don’t deserve any of this,” she
admitted, turning her face to hide her thoughts.

He reached in front of her with his
other hand, then set his fingers to her chin to force her eyes back to his.
“You didn't deserve to have your apartment torched. And you sure as hell did not
deserve to be threatened over a lousy closing of a place that needed to be shut
down a long time ago.”

Sara tried to slip out of his arms, but Christian
held firm.

“The items in the box are from other
women’s closets, Sara. You may not like these articles, and probably
won’t—considering the ages of the women who gave them to you . . . but I
couldn’t tell anyone in particular ‘no’, now could I?”

Sara tipped her head up, stood on her
toes, and kissed him on the mouth.

The kiss was far too quick and far too
dangerous; to Christian’s slated opinion, not dangerous enough.

“You’re a good man, Christian Mohr.”

“How good?” he asked, resealing his lips
to hers before she dared change her mind and thought him bad.

****

As the kiss deepened, and ended much too
quickly, Sara nearly said the words “
good enough to eat”
. Thankfully,
she was able to stop these words in time before they’d slipped off her tongue.

She slid out of his embrace, gave him a
hasty smile, and went to gather up her new—and only—possessions.

“By chance, did you find or buy me
socks?” she questioned.

“They’re in the other bag.”

A nod of her head, Sara dug into the
last bag. She found socks, two bras in the correct size—thankfully, not in
leopard print—a small purse, new makeup, deodorant, and a pink toothbrush. Christian—more
likely, Carol—had thought of everything a temporary houseguest/fire victim
would need in the foreseeable future. He was supplying the house, and the items
while she in that house; as well, the comfort and reassurance that all would
turn out well in the end.

In her opinion, this meant he was a good
guy. She would never call such kind generosity bad. Yet she would never be able
to repay him for his kindness.

“And don’t you dare even think about
it,” he warned.

This raised her sight—and her curiosity.
Don’t think about him as being good?

“I can see exactly what you have running
inside that stubborn little brain of yours, Ms. Ruby,” he informed.

“And this is?” she wondered, aloud,
foregoing the fact he’d called her brain little.

“You put thought to how you are going to
repay me.”

Christ! Was she truly so transparent?

“And the answer to it is . . . you damn
well better not try!”

“But  . . .”

Christian moved forward and set his
finger to her lips. “No buts Sara. If I ask too many questions, you, my dear, try
to argue your point far too much.”

She turned her head, ignoring this sad
fact of unfortunate characterization. “But  . . .”

“Damnit, Sara! Just accept that people
can be kind.”

Folks never had been kind to her before.
So why would they start now?

Chapter
Fourteen

Christian found Sara inside his spare
bedroom, seated on the bed. He sent her a quick smile from the open doorway, then
realized she hadn’t even noticed his presence.

Her thoughts looked to be a million
miles away.

“Something wrong?” he asked, moving
inside the bedroom without invitation.

Sara was staring hard at the open
closet. As her eyes pulled to his he saw she’d been crying—again.

He sat down on the bed next to her and
picked up her hand. He loved the feel of Sara’s hand. Soft, warm, just the
right fit in his hand. A guy could get pretty damn used to holding her hand.

Christian challenged himself not to let
go.

“It looks empty,” she told him, sliding
her fingers out of his grasp. Her sight had drifted back to the open closet.

The loss of her touch was felt tenfold,
more so in the heart, than he expected.

What they both looked up at was a closet
that had a skimpy cocktail dress, used jeans, a few T-shirts in assorted
colors, and a silk nightgown delicately hung on a hanger. Not much, considering
the closet was a nearly the width of the room, measuring a good ten feet long.

He reached over and picked up her hand
again, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Have you looked through the box the
Ladies Guild put together?”

She made a strange face, saying, “I
have.”

“And?”

Sara pulled her hand out of his grasp,
stood, then moved toward the box. She dug out one of the items from inside and
to say her facial expression wasn’t clear enough . . .?

In her hand was a flashy neon green housecoat
covered in gaudy pink roses. It hurt the eyes just to look at it. Sara dropped
it on the floor. She pulled out another item. This was a sweater, rust brown in
coloring, and nearly four sizes too big—would have reached her ankles . . . and
the ugliest damn sweater he’d ever seen in all his life.

The sweater succumbed to the same fate
as the housecoat.

The third item was an undergarment that
looked to have been made back in the stone ages. Perhaps something his
grandmother would have worn. Again, at least four sizes too big, but could have
made a rather perfect flag for an SOS aboard a sinking ship.

Christian stood then strode to Sara and
the box. His jaw clenched. “I should have checked through the items before
giving them to you. I’m so sorry.”

He was actually surprised at what she’d
pulled out of the box. So much so, he found himself grinding his jaw until a
flinch of pain ran up his cheek, darting into his temple.

It seemed as though his rather generous
and more than Christian-minded church members had purposefully donated all the
crap out of their closets to make a statement to the one those items were being
given to. Regrettably, this pissed him off. He hated to have ill thoughts
toward another’s intentions. It was bad enough the men of this town hated Sara
. . . but the women, as well?

This, he did not understand.

This . . . he needed to do something
about—soon.

There weren’t many in Preacher’s Bend,
and those unwelcome to their folds could easily leave, taking with them earned
wages otherwise well spent and spread among the few. If the old bittys of
Preacher’s Bend wanted to keep running the younger generation out of town,
Reverend Mohr was going to put his foot in that slamming door—posthaste.

He bent down and was about to pick up
the box to remove it from the room when she told him “No. Leave it here. If
perhaps ever able to get my hands on a sewing machine, I could always cut most
of them into scraps for a quilt. Put such fine generosity into better use.”

She gave him a look that said unless it
snowed in Haiti this wasn’t about to happen.

He stood, squared his shoulders, and reaffirmed,
“I really am sorry, Sara. I had no idea what was inside the box. They told me
they put it together as soon as they found out about the fire.”

She placed her hand onto his forearm. “I
know. It’s okay. I’ve had the time to get use to treatment of this sort. In
fact, I’ve been getting used to it for quite some time.”

This made Christian see red. He grabbed
her hand and pulled Sara directly into a tight embrace. His hand found the back
of her head, and he cradled her scalp while looking into her incredible blue
eyes. “You should not have to get used to treatment like this from others. It
is so wrong—on so many levels. I can’t even begin to describe how wrong this
is.”

She shook her head, denying it. “No. This
was only what I deserved, I suppose.”

What she deserves?

What the—?

“Damnit, Sara! No one deserves to be
shunned by an entire community, simply because she pissed the men within it far
beyond redemption. I’m beginning to wonder if any of Preacher’s Bend deserves
redemption.”

Sara shook her head again, pushing from
his grasp by setting her hands flat on his chest. She wouldn’t look at his
face, her bottom lip trembling.

“I think you had better leave the room,
Reverend.”

“Why?”

Her body turned swiftly. Tear-brimmed
eyes glued quickly with his. Her mouth pinched tight, he could see the
hurricane headed his way. “Because there is an empty bed inside this room and
right now I feel as though doing something terrible just to spite all those who
think so ill of me. I might as well prove them right.”

A crocked brow caused the question “Such
as?” to roll off his tongue.

“Such as . . . ,” she started, taking a
firm step forward. “Proving they’re right about what might happen with us,
given the opportunity.”

To finish this thought and to add
content to her point, Sara slowly dragged her tongue over his closed mouth, across
his left cheek, down the length of his neck, and back up, ending at his earlobe.
She then stepped back.

“I’m not a whore and I am not a bad
girl, but others believe that I am, so I might as well prove them right.”

Christian wouldn’t have been able to
describe what the slide of her tongue had done to the rest of him had gun been
held to his head. However, it was definitely good—and definitely unsettling.
And there was not one single part of him that hadn’t been turned on by the
caress of a woman’s most dangerous weapon over his heated skin.

No. That was a lie.
All
of Sara
Ruby was dangerous.

What she’d done to him just now was so
much better than good. For a few brief seconds, reasoning and morality had left
his body in a violent rush; clawed and fought its way back for entrance, hoping
to grasp onto sanity and forgiveness.

From the moment Sara’s mouth moved to
the other side of his head to do the same torture, he, as a man, felt cold and
hot all at once. That never happened before. No woman, not even Beale—Good
Lord, not even his wife!—had ever made him want her so badly the teeth ached.

She drew back and whispered against his
lips. “Time to run away, Reverend . . . or something might happen in this room
that I will not be forced to regret.” She meant he had better do so quickly,
else he could be in deep shit in another few seconds if he dared stay as close
as he was to her.

Christian gave Sara a sin-filled smile.
The words, “Do I look like I want to run?” sealed the deal, far more than
pulling her into his arms and finding her waiting mouth.

He’d been dying over the better part of
ten long minutes to see exactly how much it would take for him to become
senseless.