No Place Like Home. Robin Nicholas

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      A hot, dusty breeze trailed her through the door, tugging wisps of her curly, dark hair from its tidy bun. Slinging her purse strap over the shoulder of her royal blue short suit, she shut the door resolutely, sealing in an onslaught of onions and coffee. Conversation came in bursts laced with adjectives like snaky and hellish, and terms like vortex and dryline, all from an unkempt group who looked more than capable of chasing down tornadoes.

      All eyes turned her way and talk ceased abruptly, save for the husky voice of a tawny-haired man seated at the far end of the counter. His wrinkled field shirt hung loose of his jeans, his back turned to her as he continued to drawl sexily into the cell phone he held to his ear.

      “You know how to reach me, sweetheart. Just be waiting.”

      There came a pause during which he seemed to notice the quiet. Half turning on the creaky stool he slouched on, he zeroed sharp hazel eyes on her as the cause of the sudden silence. His gaze turned cautious yet aware as he spoke succinctly into the phone. “Later, sweetheart.”

      Mariah flushed hotly as he pocketed the phone. The responsive flutter in the pit of her stomach annoyed her. Only one kind of man eyed a woman that way when he was talking to his sweetheart.

      She turned her attention to the group occupying the table in the center of the café, wondering which one was Stormy—the burly old man in coveralls, the dark-haired devil using a laptop or one of two slender young men who looked like they belonged on safari. Realizing she’d have done better to blend with this group clad in khaki and denim, she envisioned herself in her Levi’s and forced a smile.

      “Hello. I’m Mariah Morgan from the Wichita office of Plain View Magazine. I noticed the plates on the white truck outside and wondered if one of you folks might be Stormy Taylor.”

      Eyebrows raised. Skeptical glances were exchanged. No one offered a word.

      Then a husky voice drawled from behind her, “I’m Rafe Taylor.”

      Mariah clenched her jaw. Hanging on to her smile with effort, she faced those assessing eyes once more. “Mr. Taylor.”

      The occupants of the table behind her snickered.

      “Rafe will do.”

      “Rafe, then.” She would remain gracious; she preferred gracious to groveling, which was probably closer to the truth, all things considered. He hadn’t responded to any messages she’d left him at his headquarters in some obscure little map dot in southwest Kansas called Tassel. His secretary had finally deigned to take her call, only to send her on this goose chase to track him down—an obvious ploy to discourage her. The death of his wife during a tornado last spring, leaving him with a daughter to raise, had apparently triggered an animosity for all journalists, not just those who went after his tragic story. With a confidence she didn’t feel, she continued, “Your secretary helped me locate you.”

      Another round of snickers ensued, which Rafe silenced with a wry glance.

      …eight…nine…ten. Mariah exhaled and continued again. “As I told your friends, I’m from Plain View Magazine. We’d like to do a feature regarding your work as a storm photographer.”

      “Why?”

      Why? Most people didn’t care why. They just wanted to be written up in a magazine. Heaven only knew what it would take to tempt this man who obviously despised journalists. Striving for professionalism, she quoted, “Editors at Plain View believe your occupation appeals to human interest, thus enabling us to entertain readers while at the same time raising their awareness of the dangers of—”

      “What do you believe?”

      Feeling suddenly transparent, her jaw aching with tension, she said tightly, “Pardon me?”

      “Why do you want to write this feature?”

      Because if I don’t, my job will vanish, as surely as if one of your tornadoes swept it away. Mariah swallowed, her throat dry as Kansas dust. “Perhaps you’ll let me buy you lunch while I explain what the ed—what I have in mind.”

      She thought he might refuse. She could see it in his eyes, in the stubborn thrust of his unshaven jaw. He was a handsome rogue, with an almost sultry sulky mouth and high cheekbones buffed by wind and sun. His brown hair shone as if in sunlight, some crisply cut strands standing on end—more a reflection of his impatience than the wind, she imagined. But it was her fingers, not his, that she envisioned pushing through the silky looking strands….

      A cup clattered atop the counter, making her jump.

      “Here’s your coffee, Stormy. Now quit harassing my customer and let her sit down.”

      Trixie, Mariah surmised, flashing the small but sturdy woman behind the counter a grateful smile. Rafe shrugged his acquiescence, rising slightly from his stool in a faint show of manners. She’d bet there wasn’t an ounce of fat hidden beneath his rumpled shirt, his body lean and long, his jeans stretched taut over his muscled thighs. Mariah slipped onto the stool beside him, her black pumps tangling with his dusty hiking boots, her gaze locked with his for an electric moment before he sat, too. Hooking her heels on the rungs of the stool, she placed her purse on the counter, battling another irritating round of flutters.

      “What’ll you have, miss?” Their hostess waved her hand dismissively at Rafe. “He’s already eaten.”

      Taking an immediate liking to the denim-clad woman with her firm drawl, coffee-brown eyes and shoe-polish-black cropped hair, Mariah smiled. “I’d like iced tea and a BLT.”

      “White or wheat?”

      “Wheat, please.” She turned to ask politely if Rafe cared for anything, only to find his attention turned to the dark-haired devil at the table, who’d slipped on a headphone. Rafe seemed to wait for some sign as the man listened intently, obviously tuning out the conversation that had picked up around him.

      Mariah took the moment to study Rafe. He didn’t strike her as crazy, as he was purported to be, following some of his risky chases. Despite the unholy gleam she’d seen in his eyes, he seemed intelligent, a deliberate type, diligent in his quest for…storms. Mariah sighed. There was just no getting around the fact that the man chased storms for a living, an absurdity she had to showcase on paper.

      Trixie set a glass of iced tea on the counter and, murmuring a thank you, Mariah turned dismally to it, stirring in extra sugar from small pink packets on the counter. She was tired and hungry and more than a little discouraged. She hadn’t been sleeping well lately. After a restless night, she’d left Wichita, driving a hundred miles in search of “Stormy” Taylor, to write a story she didn’t want to write in order to save a job that her thoughts hadn’t centered around of late.

      The scrape of a chair from a corner of the café drew her attention. A small boy, clad in an oversize T-shirt and baggy, denim shorts, climbed to a standing position on the chair and fed a quarter into an ancient pinball machine, putting a ball in play. He was cute, maybe six, with a mop of black hair that made her suspect he belonged to Trixie. It seemed she was always noticing kids these days. Probably because her sister and brother-in-law, who lived in Kansas City, had a baby on the way. Her brother and his wife in California already had three sons. The twinge of envy that accompanied her thoughts had become familiar. Turning thirty, with no husband in sight, apparently left a woman susceptible to such feelings.

      The game ended abruptly. The boy stood forlornly СКАЧАТЬ