Beckett's Convenient Bride (12 page)

They were on a narrow straight stretch of highway through wide-open farmland. Carson pulled off onto the shoulder beside a newly planted field. “Listen, before we go any further, I want you to tell me everything you know.”

She swallowed audibly. “Everything?”

“No frills, just the facts, ma'am.” He waited, but she was evidently too young to remember Sergeant Friday on
the old cop show. “You said the guy who was messing around with your car drove off in a pickup.” He'd been a bit feverish at the time, his head threatening implosion, but he did remember that much.

“It was the same one. I was already scared, so I noticed. It was red, with one blue fender, like he'd had to replace it or something. And the sound it made—remember I told you about the truck at the church? Vroom, vroom, and then this funny whine?”

Details began slotting into place. He nodded.

“Well, I knew I'd heard it before when I heard it again, and I'm sure it was the same truck, even if I didn't see the license plate. But of course, I didn't see it the first time, either, so that didn't matter. I can't actually swear on a stack of Bibles that it was the same truck that was in the church parking lot, but Carson—you know what I'm thinking?”

He knew what
he
was thinking. Unfortunately—not to mention inappropriately—it had nothing to do with pickup trucks, with or without blue fenders and muffler packs. He marked it down to a heightened stress level on top of a long, dry spell, sexually speaking. For good measure he threw in that provocative scent she was wearing. Fruity, spicy, with overtones of smoke.

She was shivering again. If he turned the heat up any more, he'd have to shed some clothes. Under the circumstances, that wasn't advisable. Middle of the night—shut up together in close confines, heightened emotions—it was a conflagration waiting to happen.

He was three years shy of forty, for crying out loud, not seventeen! Evidently that concussion he'd sustained five months ago had done more damage than he'd thought.

“Look, we never did eat lunch, and I don't know about
you, but I didn't get anything to eat at your folks' party. You want to find a drive-in and fill up?”

On any other woman, the look she shot him could have been called indignant. On Kit, it was…

Simply Kit. A unique woman with a unique set of problems. Problems he seemed to have taken onto his own shoulders.

They drove for several miles before finding food that didn't come out of a vending machine. By the time he pulled up to the gas tanks, Carson had remembered the napkins full of party food he'd tossed onto the back seat. Whatever that was wrapped in bacon—chicken livers, probably—he figured it wasn't worth the risk. Besides, he needed to fill his gas tank, and they could both use the facilities. Too much had happened since he'd showered, shaved and set out to attend an anniversary celebration at a fancy estate on the Chesapeake Bay.

Kit hurried inside, teetering on those ridiculous shoes. He filled his tank, then went inside. Before heading to the men's room, he placed an order for two Italian subs on whole wheat, with everything, reasoning that any woman who ate weeds would probably go for whole grain bread.

His face, the collar of his shirt and the edges of his hair still damp, he was just putting away his billfold a few minutes later when she emerged from the ladies' room, looking so pale her freckles stood out in relief.

And so damned appealing it was all he could do not to open his arms. How was it possible for a woman to look that good wearing an ugly dress, a man's coat that was about six sizes too large, and hair had evidently been groomed by a hay-rake?

Those shoes would have to go, he thought, watching her make her way past the popcorn and potato chips. Even exhausted and stressed out, she had an in-your-face way
of walking that was sexy as the devil.
Here I come, world, get the hell out of my way.

Only she didn't curse. He'd noticed that about her, along with a few thousand more details.

“Want your coat back?” she asked, eyeing the thick six-inch subs that were just being wrapped.

“Keep it. I'd lend you my boots, but they're probably half a size too big.”

“Ha. Try five sizes too big.”

She was game, all right. Strung out like a thread of molten glass and about as brittle, but she was hanging in there. He said, “Did you know you toe out when you walk?”
Trivial Pursuit
had its purposes.

“It's the shoes. I have to scrunch my toes to keep them on.”

“We're going shopping first chance we get.”

“You forget, I don't have—”

The clerk was eyeing them as if they might be from another planet. Or maybe he was eyeballing Kit, who was definitely worth the effort. “Let's go.” He cut her off before she could remind him that she didn't have any money. Hell, he knew that. She had ten grand, but it wouldn't do her much good until she could get to a bank. Even then she might have trouble. He didn't know how much identification she had in that postcard-sized purse she'd carried with her to Virginia, but he had an idea it might not be sufficient.

All the more reason to take her home with him.

He ushered her out the door, thinking, okay, Beckett, what are you going to do with her once you get her to Charleston? Show up on your mama's doorstep with a stranger in tow? He'd spoken impulsively at the party, thinking to give her an easy out. It wasn't like him to do
anything impulsively. He was a plodding, by-the-book kind of guy, for the most part.

Even so, it might have worked just fine a year ago, but not now. Things were shaky enough around there without adding someone like Kit Dixon to the equation.

What now? Find a hotel near a shopping mall, pay for a week's rent and lend her his charge card? The only other option he could think of was taking her home with him. To his two-bedroom, semi-furnished house outside Charleston proper.

“My feet hurt. I wish I'd worn my sneakers tonight instead of these things.”

“We'll look for one of those 24/7 places that sells everything from truck tires to lady's lingerie.”

She nodded, unwrapping her sub. “Thank you. I always wear sensible shoes—well, usually. You might not believe me, but I'm actually a very sensible person.”

Surprisingly enough, without a scrap of evidence, he did believe her. Kit's notion of sensible might not agree with his, but she had walked away from security and made a life for herself. A successful life, considering she was a published author.

She took a big bite, closed her eyes and chewed. “Just what I needed,” she said when she could speak again. “I don't have a toothbrush or a hairbrush, either. Or toothpaste or deodorant. Maybe I'd better make a list.”

“Eat first.” He'd pulled over into a space near the back of the lot, away from the brightest lights. Not that he wasn't capable of multitasking, but not driving and eating—when he was already distracted.

What was his family going to make of her? he wondered. “If you don't like hot peppers, take 'em out,” he said.

“Love 'em.” She took a bite of sandwich and reached for the milk he'd bought to put out the fire.

What was she going to make of his family?

And why did it matter?

He didn't know the answer, he only knew it mattered.

K
it took another bite of her sandwich, then carefully wrapped the remainder and placed it on the dashboard just as lightning flickered across the sky. She counted off the seconds, waiting for the sound of thunder, then yawned and said, “Ten miles. Maybe twelve, I count fast. The book I was working on? It's gone, you know. All three drafts and all the sketches I'd done.” Her voice threatened to break, but steadied. “And my other books. There were only two, but I had a full shelf of authors' copies of each one. The first one's not even in print any longer.” She took a deep breath. “Oh, well—I can probably find a few copies in a secondhand bookstore once I get settled again and have time to search.” She flashed him a smile that was too quick, too brittle and faded far too soon.

“Don't you have a backup?”

“You mean like on a computer?” She shook her head. “I don't use a computer, I write in longhand and then hire
the last draft typed. My stories aren't really long enough to require word processing.” The truth was, she'd started out using a computer, but when the hard drive crashed, she couldn't afford to replace it. With only the outlay for legal pads and pencils, she could easily afford to hire the last draft typed. Any excess funds she accumulated could better be spent on art materials.

Carson started to speak, and she shook her head. “I know, everyone uses the things, but just let me touch a keyboard and all sorts of weird things start happening. Messages pop out of nowhere. Stupid icons I don't understand hop all over the screen and this wicked genie flashes a red error message telling me I've committed some criminal offence and the computer police are already on the way to arrest me.”

He chuckled as if he knew exactly what she was talking about. Maybe he did. Men's brains were different from women's. “I'm okay with computers,” he said. “Mechanical stuff, though—not too swift there.”

“Well, as long as we're comparing inadequacies, I can't even program my clock radio without having it go off in the middle of the night. Give me a simple, logical set of instructions and I do just fine.” If she bothered to read the instructions, that was. Usually, she didn't. Not enough plot to waste her good reading time on.

More lightning flashed in the southwest, followed by a long rumble of thunder. Rain, Kit told herself, might put out the rest of the fire but it was far too late to do her poor old house any good.

Carson reached over and covered her hand with his, as if he knew what she was thinking. He couldn't possibly understand, but along with all the other things he was—which she couldn't afford to think about right now—he
was kind and caring. Far more than most men she knew. Even Jeff had his limits.

“It's not the clothes I mind so much, or the things I bought for the house,” she said after several minutes passed in silence. “All that can be replaced. But my work—” Breaking off, she took several deep breaths. “I took a course in jewelry making once at the community college. I wanted to make a pair of earrings, only when I got the first one done, I couldn't bring myself to make the other one. Been there, done that—you know what they say. I should've started out with a pin or a ring.” She tried to laugh at her own shortcomings. Pinch-pleating her skirt between thumb and fingers, she said, “What I'm trying to explain is why I can't just pull a full-blown story out of my mind, even one I've already written. It's like my brain has lots of little doors and if I try to open the same door twice, it says, you've already been there, and it won't open and let me in again. Does that make any sense at all? And the drawings…”

For a long time Carson didn't say anything, and she thought, men couldn't understand. Then she changed it to people who aren't writers couldn't understand. Actually, Carson had been surprisingly understanding. Surprisingly supportive. She wasn't used to that—to having someone other than herself to depend on.

“I don't even know where we're going,” she said with the closest thing to a smile she could manage. “If you're planning to take me to my grandparents' home again, I'd just as soon you let me out here. I'll call someone. There's a phone booth right over there.”

“Call who, Matlock?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she said, knowing she wouldn't. Jeff would come for her in a minute, but she didn't want to be beholden to him. Didn't want to be beholden to any
one, including Carson Beckett. Independence was too hard to establish, too tough to maintain, to risk blowing it on account of a single setback.

So then, why was she here?

Because. It was the only answer she could come up with that didn't scare the bejabbers out of her, and she'd been scared enough for one day.

She yawned, and then did it again. “Is that clock right?”

“Two minutes fast.” His voice sounded gruff, but it was a good kind of gruff. Not angry. She couldn't have handled anger, not now. “I'm so sleepy I feel like I could hibernate for a solid year. Could we maybe just stay here and doze for—” she yawned “—half an hour?”

“I've got a better idea.” Carson laid aside his unfinished sub and started the engine. He didn't feel sorry for her, he told himself. Well, he did, but that wasn't what bothered him most. Kit—no, damn it, Kit
Dixon!
Why did he keep thinking of her as Kit Carson? And what was the implication of pairing their two first names? Just because once upon a time there was a cowboy…

The woman easily fit the description of a walking disaster. With a layer of makeup and about a yard whacked off that skirt, she could pass for a streetwalker. Give her a turban and a few more pounds of jewelry and she could pass for a gypsy fortune-teller.

Funny thing, though, in spite of what that guy at Nags Head had said about living with her—in spite of everything—he had a feeling she was pretty inexperienced. Which was one more reason to take her somewhere safe, hand over the money and leave her the hell alone.

Because he was entirely too interested, and for all the wrong reasons.

He cleared his throat and said, “We both need a good
night's sleep. We can figure out the next step tomorrow with clearer heads.”

His next step would be toward Charleston. Hers would be…up to her. He might suggest that she go back to her grandfather and let him help her get copies of whatever papers she'd lost in the fire. Then she could cash the check and head out again. Start a new story—do whatever it was that writers of children's books did.

But jeez, it had to be rough, losing her books like that. Even worse than losing her social security card and whatever records she kept, because records could be duplicated. He knew how he'd felt when some creep had stolen his favorite spinning rod and a lifetime collection of tackle, including at least fifty hand-tied flies his father had made back before his arthritis had gotten too bad.

Carson pulled back out onto the highway, leaving the brightly lit, all-but-deserted station behind. What he needed more than anything was to put a few miles between them so that he could regain his perspective.

Yeah, like that was even a remote possibility.

 

Kit opened her eyes when they stopped again. They were parked outside a neat roadside motel. She couldn't recall ever seeing it before, which meant they weren't anywhere near her grandfather's house.

Carson said, “Wait here, I'll get us a couple of rooms.”

“I don't have any luggage.”

“Neither do I,” he said dryly, reminding her that his overnight bag had been in the house when it had burned.

Oh, great. Just what she needed—one more layer of guilt stacked up on top of everything else. Not only had she knocked him into a ditch and then embroiled him in her messy life, now she'd gone and destroyed his clothes.

“Honey, these people aren't exactly morality police.”

“I didn't mean that,” she said quickly, but of course, she had. Just that morning she had woken up with the comforting feeling of not being alone. For a moment it had felt so good. So right.

“Be back in a minute.”

When he turned to leave, she called him back. Closing her eyes, she blurted, “Carson—could you ask if they have, uh—rooms with two beds?”

After a long silence during which she wanted to tie herself to a railroad track or something equally melodramatic, he said, “That would be called a double room, right? I'll ask.”

She watched him walk away—limp away, actually, although even with a slight limp, he had a macho walk. Not a swagger, they were both far too exhausted to swagger, but more like a jaguar than a bunny rabbit. That was the closest she could come, picturing him in one of her stories as a big, ferocious-looking cat. With a heart of gold, of course.

Oh, God, woman, you are so pathetic!

She looked grungy. She smelled like smoke. Everything smelled like smoke, like one of those underground peat fires that burned for years in the Dismal Swamp area. Her beautiful dress that she'd never even worn before tonight smelled like smoke with a hint of vinegar from the sub that had leaked in her lap. She didn't even know if the fabric was washable. Not that it mattered now. After tonight she never wanted to see the thing again.

The fact that he was still limping only added to her burden of guilt. Watching through the plate-glass window as he crossed the lobby, she had to remind herself that he was a stranger. A stranger dressed in western-style boots all mucked up now with wet ashes and mud, his khakis stained with soot and his blue shirt, several shades paler
than his cobalt eyes, rumpled and probably soot-stained, too. His hair needed combing, his jaw needed shaving, and he walked as if it hurt to move.

Darn it, a man like that had no business being so blasted sexy!

And she had no business noticing. Her whole world was falling apart, and all she could think of was what it would be like to lie in the arms of a certain stranger and forget everything that had happened. Forget the argument, the gunshot and that poor man they'd brought in from Martha's Creek.

Forget her grandfather, who was determined to draw her back in the fold, not because he loved her but because he wanted to control her. Or at least to control the money her father had left her in the will he'd never gotten around to changing before he died. Even now the power struggle between the two men continued.

Dear Lord, Grandmother, couldn't you for once in your life stand up for me?

But then, why wish for miracles? Flavia Dixon was as much under that cast-iron thumb as her son and daughter-in-law had ever been. As Randolph Hart, her grandfather's handpicked candidate for the Katherine stakes, was now.

As Kit herself never had been and never would be.

“You're sure about the double room? They've got several singles. I can easily change it.” Carson slid in under the steering wheel, but didn't shut the door.

She was tempted to change her mind, but didn't, because she'd already put him to so much trouble. But for her, he'd already be on his way back to Charleston.

But for her, he would never have left there.

“Do you mind? I don't snore—at least, I don't think I do.”

“Snore away, I'm too bushed to notice anything short of a freight train passing through the room.”

Inside the pleasant, impersonal room, Kit looked at the pair of queen-sized beds, then at the open bathroom door. She'd give her next royalty check for a toothbrush and a clean nightgown, or at least an oversized T-shirt.

As if reading her mind, Carson spoke up. “If you don't mind a T-shirt that that's been worn a few hours, you can have mine. Might be more comfortable than sleeping in your, um—skivvies.

“How about you?”

He shot her one of the quirky grins she'd seen too few of lately. As tired as she was, it was still powerful enough to register in places no smile was supposed to register.

“Boxers,” he said. “D'you mind?”

“I'm the one who asked you to share, remember? Rooms, I mean—not underwear. I always hated being alone in the dark.” Especially the times she'd been confined for some real or imagined offense to a dark closet for hours on end. “I always leave a small light on somewhere in the house. At least I did,” she added, the afterthought bringing a sharp stab of regret.

“We'll leave the bathroom light on with the door partly closed. Go grab the first shower, I'll reach in and hang my T-shirt on the inside doorknob.”

Carson listened for the sound of the shower, then peeled off his shirt, stripped off his undershirt and hung it where she could reach it, just inside the bathroom. Then he shrugged on his blue Brooks Brothers shirt again, leaving it unbuttoned, and stretched out across one of the two beds.

No way was he going to undress until she was sawing logs. The thought of spending the next few hours only a few feet apart, sharing a set of his underwear between
them, was enough to short-circuit any common sense he had ever possessed.

His thoughts moved restlessly between Gilbert's Point and Charleston. First thing in the morning he needed to check in and see how things stood at home. Then he might call in a favor and see what he could find out about the local sheriff's office. And Margaret. Dammit, he needed her to be home, not gallivanting off to New York. He might even be able to park Kit with her for a few days, just until she got her life back on track.

Kit's life, not Margaret's. Margaret's life had been on track ever since she'd decorated his tree house with curtains made from dust rags, pictures torn out of
Good Housekeeping,
and replaced his Keep Out sign with a worn-out welcome mat.

 

Carson was dozing when Kit tiptoed into the room. Standing over him, a towel wrapped around her wet hair, she studied the man who had become such an important part of her life in less than a week. Less than half a week.

Good Lord, had it been only two-and-a-half-going-on-three days?