“Over here.”
She spun, brandishing the tire iron. A tall man, stood there, half hidden in the trees. He was shrouded in a dull-green hooded rain poncho, dripping with rain. She would never have seen him if he had not spoken. Adrenaline zinged through her. She gave the tire iron an experimental heft.
“What do you think you’re doing, sneaking up on me like that?”
He took a step forward. She raised the tire iron. He stopped. Edna whined.
“Stay, Edna,” she snapped. “Who are you?”
“I’m not going to attack you,” he said, pushing back his hood.
Light, silver-gray eyes, cool and unreadable. His face was brown, lean. High cheekbones, a hooked nose. A scar on one temple slashed down into one of his straight, dark eyebrows, leaving a white line. He had a short beard, or maybe long beard stubble. Dark hair, long and shaggy. He regarded her steadily. Drops of rain beaded his face. He did not look like the Fiend, as Nancy and Nell had described him. This guy was not loathsome, pig eyed, or malodorous.
By no means. This guy was oh-my-God fine looking. She tried to breathe. Her terror was transmuting itself into utter embarrassment.
“Put it down.” A small smile crinkled up the skin around his eyes.
“What?” She realized that her mouth was hanging open.
“The tire iron.” He glanced at her white-knuckled hand.
“Oh.” She felt foolish, panicked. Acutely conscious of the mud on her clothes, the hair stuck to her face, of the way her wet, muddy shirt clung to her tits. Of how incredibly tall he was. Even if he wasn’t the Fiend, he was a complete stranger, and there was nobody around here for miles. Just her. And Edna, the world’s friendliest dog. She looked at the hand that clutched the tire iron. It was shaking.
“The boards won’t work,” he said gently. “It was a good idea, but the mud is too wet and deep.” He took a step closer. She backed away.
He sighed, silently, and picked up a stick, walking away from her around the back of the van, prodding the mud.
Released from the spell of his eyes, she finally managed to exhale. Get a grip. He was not going to leap on her like a mad dog. He didn’t look like a killer. Try to be civil. Her face felt so hot, raindrops should be skittering on it like water on a griddle. Insane. She never blushed. “I asked what you were doing here,” she said, trying to sound authoritative.
“This is my land,” he said.
“Oh.” She dropped her gaze, before his bright eyes could catch it and nail it down again. “Do you always walk around in thunderstorms?”
“I like the rain,” he said. “I like the way it smells. And I wish you’d put that thing down.”
“I’ll put it down when I’m ready to put it down,” she said shakily.
He tossed down his stick. “Whatever. Just don’t hit me with it.”
“Not without provocation,” she said.
His mouth twitched. “Would you just chill the fuck out?”
She felt ridiculous, and threw the tire iron back into the van in disgust.
“You travel alone?” he asked.
“No. I travel with my dog,” Vivi replied.
Edna bounded out when her existence was mentioned, landing in the mud with a wet plop. She shook herself, trotted over to the stranger, and gave his large brown hand a sniff. She yelped her approval and leaped up on him.
“Down, Edna,” Vivi ordered, startled. Edna had never cozied up to strangers. It made her feel vaguely betrayed. “Get back in here!”
The dog trotted back, panting into Vivi’s face. “Sorry about that,” she told him.
“No problem.” A brief smile lit his face. “Nice dog.”
“Too nice,” Vivi muttered. She started to push back the tangled hair that clung to her face, but stopped. Mud on her hands.
He gazed at her, with that supernatural calm. Maybe hanging out in nature for too long did that to a guy. Look at him, walking through the pouring rain because he liked the way it smelled. Give her a break.
It made her feel frantic, citified, stressed out. A shallow little squeaking hamster racing on the wheel. And the hungry fanged kitties lurking, licking their chops. Waiting for their lunch.
Oh, Christ, she needed a vacation. A night’s sleep. Something.
“You’re stuck,” he remarked.
She suppressed a sarcastic comment about stating the glaringly obvious, and concentrated on wiping her hands on her drenched T-shirt. Good grief. He could see everything through that shirt. She hadn’t worn a bra. She wasn’t wearing a jacket. She was blushing. Again.
“I noticed that actually,” she said. “Can you tell me how might I get a tow around here?”
He prodded the mud with his stick once again, looked up at the lowering clouds. “No,” he said. “See how steep that hill is? No one can pull you out until this dries up.” He stroked Edna’s head. “So why did you bring this piece of junk out onto the worst road in the county in the middle of a thunderstorm?”
“This van is not junk,” Vivi flared. “It’s been my home for years, and it’s perfectly fine. It’s the road that’s the problem, not my van!”
He looked incredulous. “You live in this thing?”
“I’m a craftswoman,” she informed him. “I work the craft fair circuit, so I live on the road. Up till now, that is.”
“Interesting, but it doesn’t explain what you’re doing on my land.”
Why, that arrogant putz. “None of your business,” she snapped.
“It is now,” he said. “This thing is blocking my road.”
Vivi lifted her chin. “Didn’t you just say that nobody’s going to be driving on it until it’s dry?”
His eyes caught hers, held them fast. “True enough,” he said. “But it’s still my land.” He gazed at her thoughtfully. Not ogling her, but her body still shivered, as if he were checking her out inch by inch.
She suppressed an urge to cross her arms across her breasts. She would remain nonchalant, or die in the attempt. “Besides, I’m not trespassing. I’m going to my new place. How far is it to Kendrick’s?”
The man’s face went blank for a second. Then his brow furrowed. He stared at her, then at the mud-splattered, fantastical painting on the side of her van. “Don’t tell me you’re Vivien D’Onofrio.”
Tension started to tighten, in her belly, her neck. “And just why shouldn’t I tell you that?”
“You’re not what I expected,” he said. “I have to talk to Duncan.”
“Oh, my God. You mean, you’re Jack Kendrick?” She stared at him, speechless. She’d been expecting a stolid jarhead type, older, thicker, with graying hair buzzed off.
Not a silver-eyed sex god who loved to walk in the rain.
“You’re early,” he said, an accusing note in his voice. “Duncan sent me an e-mail last night saying you were still in Idaho yesterday. I expected you this evening, or tomorrow. What, did you drive all night?”
“Uh, yes.” He didn’t need to know what a cowering scaredy-cat she was, so she skipped the explanations, while running their entire conversation through her mind, trying to assess how rude she’d been.
Hmmph. Pretty bad. No ruder than he deserved, but still. She had to make an effort. He was doing her a big, fat favor, after all. “Um. Seems like we got off to a bad start,” she said, trying to sound conciliatory.
“Yeah, it does.” He no longer looked Zen mellow. He looked pissed.
Vivi asked carefully. “What do you mean, not what you expected? she asked. “What were you expecting?”
“Duncan told me you were a professional designer with a stalker problem who needed to drop out of sight for a while. He did not tell me that you were a tattooed, itinerant teenager sexpot neo-hippie.”
Vivi’s jaw dropped. Teenager? Neo-hippie? Sexpot, for God’s sake? All thoughts of conciliation vanished. “You rude son of a bitch!” she hissed. “I am a professional! You owe me an apology!”
“We’ll see.” Jack’s face was blatantly unapologetic.