The Things She Says. Kat Cantrell

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СКАЧАТЬ What if the engine was different than the domestic ones she knew?

      There was only one way to find out and what else did she have? Not money. Not choices. Here was a golden opportunity to escape Little Crooked Creek forever and start over in Dallas. Her future roommate would surely take her in a little early, allowing VJ to crash on her couch. Once she got on her feet, she’d pay Beverly back, with interest.

      Holy cow, the trip to Dallas was like nine hours. Nine hours in the company of Kristian Demetrious. Five hundred and forty minutes. More, if she could stretch it out.

      She peered into the interior of the car, careful not to touch the glass in case the alarm was supersonic. The dash was devoid of blinking red lights, which hopefully meant no alarm at all. She fished a metal nail file from her purse and frowned. Not nearly long enough to pop the lock from the outside. Maybe she could peel the convertible top back a little and stick the file in that way.

      On a hunch, she tried the handle. The door swung open easily. Unlocked. Only the rich.

      Quickly, she released the deck lid and beelined it to the rear of the car. At least she knew the engine was in the back instead of the front. But it was downright foreign, an engine for a space ship instead of for a car, but one mechanism was the same. She reached in and wiggled the ignition coil wire loose.

      Now nothing would start this car without her help. She closed the deck lid with a quiet click and retrieved her bag. Now, where to wait for Kris?

      Wrinkling her nose at the space next to the Dumpster, she settled onto the concrete by the ice machine and tried to relax enough to fall asleep. Not likely with the knowledge this was probably the first of many nights sleeping on the street.

      This plan had to work. Had to. Heavy, humid air pressed down on her in the dark silence. Crickets chirped in the field beside the motel, but the music did nothing to take her mind off the panic rolling around in her stomach.

      What if Kris wasn’t meant to be her knight in shining armor?

      Three

      Kris examined the engine of Kyla’s car. Nothing seemed out of place, but how would he know if it was? The Ferrari had started fine every time he’d driven it. Why had it picked now, and here, to flake out?

      Penance, for the delay. That’s why. Kyla had undoubtedly cursed it, then texted him to bring it to her in Dallas, pretty please. He should have shipped the car instead of driving it. She wouldn’t have cared either way, but no. He’d driven to allow time to obsess over the inflexible Hollywood machine. Muttering slurs on Italian engineers, he yanked his phone out of his back pocket.

      “Car problems, chief?” VJ’s honeyed drawl rang out from behind him.

      He grinned, strangely elated, and twisted to greet her. Whatever he’d been about to say died in his throat.

      With a succinct curse, he ran a thumb over the welt on her upper cheek. “What happened to your face?”

      She flinched and turned away, but he hooked a finger under her chin and guided her face into the sunlight. The injury wasn’t bad enough to need medical attention but quick-burning rage flared up behind his rib cage nonetheless.

      “Who did that to you?” he demanded. “One of your brothers?”

      She better start naming names really fast before he tore this town apart, redneck by redneck, until someone else spilled. VJ was small, so small. How could anyone strike her with force hard enough to bruise?

      “Nobody. I tripped.” She shifted her gaze to the ground and pulled her chin from his fingers. “It was dark.”

      “Right.”

      The maids rearranged the furniture again, my darling, his mother used to say. Regardless of the continent, the excuses were equally as ineffective, as if he was both blind and stupid. This time, he wasn’t a scared kid, hiding in his room, creating stories in his head where he controlled what the characters did and it all turned out happy in the end.

      Fury curled his hands into fists. He’d never been able to help his mother, distancing himself further and further from a powerless situation. Distancing himself from the rage, the only defense he had against turning into his father.

      His parents had been madly, passionately in love once upon a time and their relationship had degenerated into ugliness Kris refused to duplicate. So now he employed strict compensation mechanisms: avoiding confrontation, avoiding serious relationships and staying detached. Women got sick of it fast, which he accepted. Maybe even encouraged. Kyla had been no exception.

      Now, it was too late to disengage and even he wasn’t good enough to pretend indifference. VJ needed his help. Like it or not, his role in this had a second act.

      “Really,” she said, refusing to meet his eyes. “It was an accident. Can I help you with the car?”

      “An accident.” He crossed his arms and stared down at her. “What did you trip over?”

      “Uh, the couch.”

      He nodded to the ugly blotch on her arm, which wrapped around her biceps in the shape of a hand, with half-moon cuts at the top of the purple fingers. “Did the couch have hands with fingernails?”

      Her face crumpled, and he spit out a curse. Panicked, he enfolded her into his arms, determined to do something, anything to help.

      Then he remembered VJ barely knew him. She’d smack him with her bag for being so familiar.

      But she didn’t. Instead she snuggled into his chest, sobbing. Her head fit into the hollow of his breastbone as if it had been shaped for her, and VJ’s slight frame kick-started a fiercely possessive, protective instinct. He tightened his arms and inhaled the coconut scent of her warm cinnamon-colored hair.

      After a minute, the bawling stopped. She wiggled away and took a deep breath. Her face was mottled and wet. She swiped at it with the hem of her giant T-shirt, this one with a cracked emblem for Tres Hombres Automotive Distributing, and looked up. “I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from.”

      “I do,” he said grimly. “You’ve had a rough night, which wasn’t helped by sleeping outside. Let me take you somewhere, as long as it’s not back to whoever hit you.”

      “I didn’t sleep outside,” she protested. “I’m on my way to work. That’s the only reason I’m out this early.”

      “You have a concrete-patterned print down the side of your face. The other side,” he clarified as she tentatively touched the bruises. She obviously had no clue how much practice he had in seeing through a woman’s lies. Normally, he’d be infuriated with her attempt at deception, but instead, the urge to take action, to fix things for her, unfolded.

      “Get in the car.” He swore, colorfully, but mindful enough of the offensive content to do it in Greek. “I forgot. Something’s wrong with the car. Can you give me the number to your garage?”

      Out of nowhere, she burst into tears again.

      He rubbed her shoulder and said the first thing that came to mind, “I’m sorry. That wasn’t a dig at your mechanical skills. I’d love it if you’d look at my car. Please.”

      “Don’t СКАЧАТЬ