No Place Like Home. Robin Nicholas

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      Chapter Two

      Time hung suspended on the hot, dusty air between them, Rafe weighing the consequences of physically moving Mariah from his path so he could climb into his truck to chase a storm he instinctively knew would be less threatening.

      A light, sweet scent lifted from her skin, wafting through the heat and the grit. With his next breath, he knew the consequences would be high. He kept his hands to himself, determined to turn down her request for his time—and his story.

      But the refusal wouldn’t come. He kept picturing her inside the café, giving Jess a dollar, tipping Trixie a twenty for her trouble, all the while aware she’d just lost the interview that would save her job. Even knowing the threat posed by the desperation in her eyes, he couldn’t bring himself to turn her away.

      “All right, get in. But I’m not promising anything.”

      She turned in the small space between them, tossing her purse on the truck seat. Rafe sucked in a breath, leaning back in a halfhearted effort to give her more room. Then she was pressing her hand to his chest, her bright crimson nails seeming to burn through his drab field shirt.

      “I’ll be right back—I have to get my things.”

      She edged by with a brush of curls and silk and curves. Rafe exhaled, bracing his free hand atop the truck.

      A chase required precision forecasting and an eye to the elements. Only the merging of specific atmospheric elements and events at the same time could form the kind of storms that produced tornadoes. And only perfect timing on his part would put him in the right location for a photograph.

      Mariah promised to thoroughly distract him.

      Even now, she leaned inside her rental coupe, her flirty shorts hiked up her silk covered thighs. Rafe grimaced. Who would have thought a journalist would be the one to stir his hormones back to life?

      She straightened, her arms filled with electronic gear—a laptop, a tape recorder, a cell phone. The lady meant business, he realized grimly. He hauled himself into the truck, her little black purse occupying the passenger seat. He ought to toss it out and drive off. As she started over, Mariah’s wary gaze met his, as if she suspected he might do just that.

      Then it was too late. She deposited her gear atop her purse, scrambling in with a flash of leg. Rafe thrust her things in back with his equipment. Buckling her seat belt, she said breathlessly, “Ready.”

      Gravel sprayed from beneath the truck’s wheels as he shot out of the parking lot.

      Mariah clutched at the dash, disturbing neatly rolled maps, earning a frown from Rafe. She straightened them, sinking into the bucket seat.

      At least he drove reasonably near the speed limit. Panning the endless blue sky for clouds, her focus suddenly narrowed. On the passenger side, tape had been placed in a “X” over a star cracked into the bug-splattered windshield. Dents riddled the hood. Hail? she wondered. What kind of storm produced hail large enough to cause that much damage? An image of the truck’s mud-crusted wheel wells registered in her mind. Considering Rafe’s reputation for risk taking, joining him on a chase seemed foolish in retrospect.

      But she had a job at stake.

      Putting herself at ease the best way she knew how, she perused the truck’s interior. Video camera mounted on the dash, radios, scanners, even a TV monitor. She peered between the seats. He’d apparently gutted the back for storage.

      Awareness tingled through her, triggered by an earthy scent she recognized as Rafe’s. His shirtsleeve grazed her cheek; his body heat warmed her. A glance revealed the clench of his stubbled jaw. Unfamiliar as she was with meteorology, Mariah recognized the charged atmosphere between them. She eased back into her seat.

      And she proceeded to grill him on his interesting array of equipment, right down to the cell phone she knew he carried in his pocket.

      “So, you’re saying your cell phone system interfaces with your laptop for on-road reports?”

      “That’s right.”

      A man of few words. “What about that odd-looking instrument mounted outside? Not the antennas, but the staff with the three little cups attached?”

      “The anemometer. Measures wind speed.”

      She attempted a closer look out the window, pushing at the creeping hem of her shorts. СКАЧАТЬ