His, Unexpectedly Read online

  Marianne refilled his coffee and put a plate in front of him. He barely glanced at it, except to note two forks, until Jenna enthused, “Now, that’s a work of art.”

  He took another look. Flaky-looking crust, plump red strawberries suspended in glaze, a mound of whipped cream. Not bad at all.

  Jenna told the other woman, “Neal at the service station sent me your way, and I’m sure glad.” She picked up a fork, then gazed up at Mark with wide, expectant eyes.

  How could he say no to those eyes? “Go ahead. I have a feeling I’d have trouble stopping you.” He only spoke the truth, but she grinned as if he’d said something amusing.

  She carved off a sizable chunk—an entire, huge berry, a portion of crust, and a hefty dollop of cream, and opened those pink lips wide to take it in. Her eyes slid shut, and she tilted her head back, humming approval as she chewed, taking forever to consume that one bite. The sounds she made and the blissful expression on her face reminded him of slow, very satisfying lovemaking.

  His cock throbbed and he swallowed hard, wanting what she was having.

  Finally she opened her eyes and beamed at Marianne. “Perfection.” Then she frowned down at the plate and up at Mark. “Aren’t you having any?”

  Pie, she meant pie. “I was …” Watching you get orgasmic. “Uh, waiting for you to taste-test.”

  “It’s delicious.” She dug in her fork again. “Here.”

  Next thing he knew, that laden fork was in front of his lips. Startled, he opened and let her slide the hefty bite into his mouth.

  “Close your eyes,” she said. “Things taste better that way.”

  Yeah, if he kept staring at her beautiful, animated face, he wouldn’t taste a thing, so he obeyed even though he felt weirdly vulnerable about shutting his eyes while she gazed so expectantly at him.

  Normally, when he ate, his mind was on work not on food, but now he concentrated as he chewed. Ripe, juicy fruit, the sweetness of the glaze, a rich, buttery taste to the pastry, and unsweetened cream with a hint of vanilla. Each flavor was distinct and the way they blended together was … perfect.

  If all food tasted this good, he’d get as addicted as he was to coffee.

  He finished the bite and opened his eyes. “She’s right,” he told Marianne. “That’s the best pie I’ve ever had.”

  “Glad you like it,” the woman said, grinning as if she was enjoying a private joke, then turned to deal with new customers.

  He turned to Jenna, who held her empty fork poised. “Go on,” he said, “we’ll share.”

  “Thanks.” Speedily, she prepared another forkful and stuck it in her mouth.

  It was as pleasurable watching her savor the food as eating it himself. All the same, he plied his own fork and matched her bite for bite as they finished the pie. When all that remained was a streak of scarlet on the plate, he said, “Not that I mind sharing, but it seems to me you were hungry enough to order a piece of your own.”

  “It has nothing to do with hunger,” she said wryly, “and everything to do with finances.”

  Huh? She couldn’t afford a piece of pie?

  “I’ll order you another piece,” he said quickly. “Or a sandwich. Whatever you want.”

  “You’re totally sweet, but I’m not starving to death. Just watching my pennies. Speaking of pennies, though …” She flicked her head so her pale gold curls shimmered. “Are you just out for a day’s drive or are you actually heading somewhere?”

  “Vancouver. The Canadian one,” he added so she’d know he didn’t mean the one in Washington State. He lifted his mug for another swallow of coffee.

  “Yeah? As it happens, so am I.”

  She slanted her body to one side, raised a slim, bare arm, and cocked her thumb in classic hitchhiker body language. “Got room for one more? I’ll split you on the gas.”

  He almost spewed coffee. “You want a ride to Vancouver? You’re hitchhiking to Vancouver?”

  She made a face. “Dude, you sound like my parents. No, I’m not hitchhiking. I’m asking you for a ride.” A mischievous grin lit her face. “Of course if you say no, I guess I’ll be forced to stick my thumb out at the side of the road. And you know, it’s dangerous out there for a girl on her own. Never know what might happen. You don’t want that on your conscience, do you?” Her teasing tone told him she wasn’t serious.

  But he was. He was always serious. And it was dangerous out there. Surely she wouldn’t really hitchhike. “How did you get this far?”

  She picked up her mug. “By car. But the alternator packed it in back at the service station, and I’m stranded.”

  “So, get it fixed,” he started, then paused. “Oh. If your finances don’t run to pie …”

  She nodded. “Exactly.”

  “Put it on a charge card.” He wasn’t a fan of running up credit, but that had to be better than hitching or bumming a ride with a stranger like him. Not that he wasn’t boringly trustworthy, but Jenna had no way of knowing it.

  “No charge card,” she said airily. “I don’t believe in them. If I don’t have the money to pay for something, I don’t need it.”

  A good philosophy. And yet she believed in taking rides from strangers. This was one of the oddest women he’d met in a long time. Along with being the hottest and most bewitching.

  “How do you know I’m not a serial killer?” he asked.

  She grinned. “Serial killers don’t share pie with their victims.”

  He frowned at her frivolity. “You just met me.”

  “Your camper’s awfully cute.” She flicked her head in the direction of the parking lot.

  He had to admit the Westfalia with all its environmental stickers looked pretty innocent. All the same, “Ted Bundy wore a cast and looked like the boy next door.”

  She gave a long-suffering sigh. “Yeah, I’d probably have fallen victim to Ted Bundy. So, you’re telling me you are a serial killer? A serial killer who reads the Journal of Experimental Marine Biology and Ecology?”

  He snorted. “Of course not.”

  Her eyes twinkled. “So we’re good, right?”

  She was incorrigible and she’d bedazzled him. Suddenly doubting his own judgment, he asked, “How do I know you’re not a serial killer?”

  She chuckled. “Good one. Just when I was thinking you were too stuffy for words.”

  He was. Again, she’d misinterpreted his serious question as a joke. Or was she avoiding answering? “Are you insulting me so I won’t notice you didn’t answer the question.”

  Another chuckle. Dancing eyes. “A sense of humor, and smart too. As well as having a great bod.”

  Huh? Yeah, he was smart, but he didn’t have a sense of humor and his body was … functional. And, at the moment, lustful. He glanced down, hoping his clothes camouflaged his erection. She’d been checking out his body? Or maybe she really was a criminal and this was another tactic to put him off guard.

  Jenna turned to Marianne, who’d returned with the coffee pot. “Marianne, what’s your opinion? Do I look like a serial killer to you?”

  The older woman chuckled. “Honey, if you do that boy in, I don’t think it’ll be with a knife.”

  “Not all serial killers use knives,” he pointed out. The statistical odds were against the pretty blonde being a killer, but all the same … “And, though most serial killers are male, there have been a few female ones.” The thought crossed his mind that if he fell victim to Jenna Fallon, he well might die with a smile on his face.

  Chapter 2

  Igrinned as Mark spoke. Marianne’s sexual innuendo had whooshed straight over his head, and so had my flirting.

  What was up with this guy? He wasn’t gay, and he wasn’t oblivious. The hefty bulge under the bottom of his loose tank top, one that wasn’t a natural drape of the fabric, told me that. It also made my whole bod hum with sexual awareness and need.

  The man just seemed to take everything dead seriously. Like with his current discourse on serial killers and their M.O.
s.

  His low, husky voice would’ve suited a rock singer better than a scientist, and his lean, toned body, tantalizingly revealed by the sleeveless top and shorts, was that of a natural athlete. His face was lean too, angular, masculine and arresting. His summer blue eyes were piercing, especially in contrast to his tan. Mom would’ve said he was months overdue on a haircut, but I liked long hair. His, the mixed brown shades of nutmeg, was casually tousled, softening the almost harsh lines of his face.

  Oh yeah, Mark Chambers was hot. Yet, he didn’t seem aware of it, or maybe he didn’t care. Over the years, I’d known all sorts of guys—yeah, often in the biblical sense—and this one confused me.

  But in a good way. He was intriguing. A challenge. Like, he was obviously turned on, but he’d rather talk about falcons or serial killer statistics than flirt. And, oddly, he was kind of sexy when he lectured in that rough voice more suited to a concert stage than a classroom.

  “Female serial killers usually kill for personal gain,” he went on, “not the thrill of killing, and their victims are people they know rather than, as with Bundy, total strangers.”

  “So you’re safe,” I joked. “You’re almost a stranger. But, hmm, you do have that cute camper, and I do need a ride. Would it count as personal gain if I bumped you off and stole your camper?”

  “That’s an awfully minor personal gain.” His tone was still serious. “Usually, it’s a more significant financial or material gain.” He went on to give examples.

  “Hmm,” I teased. “You’ve made a real study of this. I think you’re a serial killer groupie.”

  He shook his head. “I read a lot, and things stick.”

  An academic, like my dad and oldest sister. They’d probably get along.

  Bizarre thought, that I’d be attracted to a man my family might approve of.

  As a little kid, I’d craved my parents’ approval, but to get it I’d have had to warp my natural instincts and become the perfect daughter like my two older sisters. Nope, not happening. So I became a “take it or leave it” person: This is who I am. Take it or leave it. That was the great thing about being a grown-up. You got to decide for yourself who you wanted to be.

  As for Mark, I hoped he’d realize the universe had put us together for a reason, and he’d take me. To Vancouver—and who knew what sexy mischief we might get up to along the way. Mmm, I did love possibilities.

  Marianne brought us our bills, and I paid her and included a good tip. Mark dragged a battered brown leather wallet from his pocket. He, too, tipped generously, I was glad to see. I hated bad tippers.

  “Fabulous pie, Marianne,” I told her. “If I’m ever back this way, you bet I’m stopping in.”

  “Come in August. I’ve got peach then.”

  “It’s a date.” I blew her a kiss.

  “Don’t you just love her?” I asked Mark as we climbed off our stools.

  He frowned. “Uh …”

  “So, what about it? Am I thumbing, or are you going to help a girl out?” He’d left the journal with the eye-glazing title lying on the counter, so I grabbed it and handed it to him, letting our hands brush. Sexual awareness pricked my skin and tingled through me.

  He glanced down, staring at his hand and the magazine as if he didn’t recognize them. “Uh, thanks.” Then his gaze lifted to my face and he frowned. “You wouldn’t really hitchhike?”

  I sighed, following him to the door. “I might get the car fixed then see how far I get on the gas money that’s left. The mechanic is checking things out and doing an estimate.”

  “Then let’s go see what he says.” He opened the door.

  We walked over to the camper, where he unlocked the passenger door. “Ooh, taking a risk,” I teased. “Or do the stats say a female serial killer never strikes within the first mile?”

  “I don’t recall any statistics on—”

  “Mark! Joking?”

  “Oh, right. I knew that.”

  He so obviously hadn’t. The man was pretty damned adorable. I climbed in, swiveling to look in the back as Mark got into the driver’s seat. “Totally cute.” It was like a tidy dollhouse. Table and bench seat, sink, mini fridge, and stove top. I guessed the seat would make into a bed.

  One bed. A double. Nice and cozy for two people.

  As Mark started the Westfalia and drove onto the road, I gazed appreciatively at his muscular, tanned thighs, his lean, strong shoulders and arms, the well-shaped hands on the steering wheel. Hot bod, great face. Smart, serious, intriguing. A tingly shiver of anticipation rippled through me. Would he ever loosen up enough to have fun?

  He pulled into the service station.

  “That’s my car.” I pointed to Mellow Yellow, which had been moved from the pump to a corner of the parking lot.

  The corner of his mouth twitched then straightened as he parked beside it. “How old’s that thing?”

  “It’s a 1974.”

  “Older than you by a fair bit.”

  “Yeah.” This year, I’d turn thirty, which probably made me a few years younger than him. “First car I got, and we suit each other.” I poked his forearm, appreciating his warm skin and the solid muscle below. “You’re not exactly driving the latest in wheels yourself.”

  “It serves its purpose.” He swung out of the camper and, in long, loose strides, headed toward the service bays.

  I scrambled to catch up. The mechanic I’d spoken to earlier was pumping an SUV up on a hoist. “Hey, Neal.”

  “Hey, Jenna.”

  Mark, eyebrows raised, glanced between us, maybe wondering at our informality. I got the feeling he wasn’t as much a people person as I was. Pity. Life was so limited when you hung back and didn’t share it with others.

  “Neal, this is Mark. A friend.” Of course he was. He’d shared his pie, even if I hadn’t given him much choice.

  The two men nodded at each other, then I asked Neal, “How’s it looking?”

  He stripped off a work glove and ran a hand over his bald head. “Found a rebuilt alternator in San Francisco. If you give the go-ahead, they’ll send it out. Today’s Friday, it won’t get here until tomorrow. We’re booked up for Saturday already. Usually take Sundays off, but if you’re in a hurry I could work on your MGB then.”

  “You’re the sweetest. What would it cost?”

  “You’d be looking at around three hundred.”

  I grimaced. “Ouch.” That’d burn through my gas money.

  “Sorry,” he said sympathetically.

  “I hate to ask you to work Sunday, but if you did, when would the car be ready?”

  “Late Sunday afternoon.”

  I thought it through. Assuming for the moment the universe might actually shower money … “Best case scenario, I’d get home Wednesday.” My family’d be pissed. “The rehearsal and dinner are Friday, and the wedding’s Saturday.”

  “You getting married next weekend?” Neal asked, at the same time Mark said, “You’re getting married?”

  Their stunned expressions made me laugh. “Not me. My baby sis.” Definitely not me. Being tied to one man in a stifling, paternalistic institution that subjugated women and discriminated against gays? No f’ing way. But M was a traditional girl and knew what she wanted, and her fiancé Matt was a sweetie. They’d been M&M since grade two.

  She’d popped the news only a week ago, calling to say she and Matt were getting married in two weeks rather than next summer. Tree, Kat, and I—known in the family as the three-pack—had said we’d help organize the wedding.

  I knew no one was counting on me, but it’d be nice, for once, not to live up to their low expectations. Okay, so maybe I hadn’t entirely gotten over craving family approval. So long as I could get it for being me, not warping myself into the hopelessly boring woman they wanted me to be.

  If I went with Mark, the sexy guy with the one-bed camper, I’d be home by Sunday night or Monday. Just as I’d estimated when I e-mailed this morning to say I was on my way.

  It was t
he responsible thing to do. Hey, look at that, I could be responsible.

  I nodded. Yeah, that was obviously what the universe had in mind. I’d have to leave Mellow Yellow. I hadn’t planned past the wedding, so clearly it was fated that I was supposed to come back to California.

  And fated that I’d travel north with Mark Chambers.

  While I’d been deliberating, Mark, tanned, tousled, and serious, had been grilling the mechanic, asking a bunch of logical questions. All of which Neal had good answers for. I broke in. “And now you’re reminding me of my mother.” A litigator, her conversations were more like cross-examinations.

  “Huh?” Mark turned to me, looking puzzled.

  “Never mind. Okay, here’s what I’ve decided. I don’t have enough money for repairs and gas, and I don’t want to be late getting home.”

  To Neal, I said, “Could I leave the car here for a couple weeks? I’ll give you money for the parts.” I hated to abandon Mellow Yellow, but I trusted Neal just as I trusted Mark, and my instincts about people were good. At least when I wasn’t in love—and I sure wasn’t about to fall in love again. Not in this lifetime.

  “No need to pay until the job’s done.” The mechanic grinned. “After all, I got your car as collateral.”

  “I love you to pieces.” I went to hug him.

  He, grinning, held his hands out to ward me off. “I’ll get grease all over you. Not to mention, my wife’ll hear I’ve been hugging some blonde, and I’ll get an earful.”

  I laughed, then held out my hand, and he matched it with his. We shook firmly, sealing the deal.

  Then I turned to Mark. “Decision time for you now. I know from all those stickers on your camper that you’re into saving the ocean and the whales and all that stuff. Are you going to save one stranded Canadian?”

  Expression a little shell-shocked, he muttered, “Seems I don’t have much choice.”

  “Yes!” I squealed. “Thank you!” I flung my arms around him and squeezed tight. “Ooh, I love you, you’re the best.” Wow. He was hot, firm, and he smelled like the ocean. I wanted to hang on, but he wasn’t hugging me back, just staring down looking as stunned as if a peregrine falcon had perched on his cock.