Read Online Knightless in Seattle by Jill Jaynes - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jill Jaynes
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up the handmade birthday gift
waiting for her. She had gambled that those fumes would be enough
to make the six-block detour and still get her to the gas station.
She was a terrible gambler.
Lifting her head, she stretched out her fingers to admire the
delicate ivory lacework of the fingerless gloves Nikki had made for
her and decided running out of gas two hundred feet away from the
gas station was a reasonable price to pay.
Romantic, feminine and completely impractical, they were
perfect. She loved the feel of the lace snugly enclosing her arms up to
her elbows; her little secret beneath the bulky sweater she wore
against the chill. Something about them reminded her of a time when
a woman could count on a little chivalry in the world, maybe even a
knight-in-shining-armor or two.
Jackie rolled her eyes. Yeah, like that was ever going to
happen. The only men--and she used the term loosely--she ever
seemed to attract with any consistency were shy, socially awkward
emo-boys that she agonized over hurting when she inevitably gave
them the "Let's be friends" talk.
She peered through her watery windshield at the gas station
ahead. It looked pretty deserted, except for one car parked by the
minimart, so it didn't appear that assistance would be showing up
any time soon. She sighed. It wouldn't be the first time she had
pushed her car into a gas station, and it likely wouldn't be her
last.
Popping the gearshift into neutral, she shoved open the
driver's door and jumped out to the accompanying whoosh of cold,
damp air. Gripping the steering wheel with one hand and the door
frame with the other, she lowered her head and pushed with
everything she had.
Nothing happened. Nothing at all. Dammit! Shifting her grip,
she tried again, grunting with what surely had to be super-human
effort. Still nothing.
"Well, crap," she muttered, and shivered as the rain turned
her carefully straightened hair into rebellious curls and trickled in
icy rivulets down the back of her neck. Where was a hero when a girl
needed one?
She moved to the front of the car and bent to peer at the
angle of her wheels to see if anything was blocking them. Suddenly
the skin beneath her lace gloves began to tingle again. She hiked the
sleeve of her jacket up, rubbing one arm. "What the heck? Am I
allergic or something?"
"Need a hand?"
With an involuntary squeak, Jackie whirled to face whoever
had snuck up on her. The tart response on the tip of her tongue died
with her first glimpse of the man who stood before her.
The second glance pretty much killed any other chance of a
civilized response.
He had to be at least six-foot-three. But it wasn't just his
size, or the muscled breadth of shoulder and chest on that
impressive frame that stole her breath. Or the blue of his eyes that
smiled at her from a square-jawed face that would do Sir Lancelot
proud. Nor was it the way his nearly shoulder-length golden hair
seemed glow with its own light, even dripping with rain in the gray
of a drizzly Seattle morning.
Nope. It was the chain mail.
Worked in an intricate pattern of silver rings, it clung to his
form from neck to thigh like a living thing, flexing sinuously with
every movement, every breath.
Jackie pushed wet hair out of her face and stole an admiring
glance at lean hips banded by an ornate leather belt, then down to
long muscular legs encased in sturdy looking leggings of some kind.
Scuffed black leather boots that looked like they had marched a
league or two completed the ensemble.
He oozed sheer male power from every pore, sending an
unmistakable call that reverberated through every cell of her body
and shook her to her toes. Raising her eyes, she found him watching
her, apparently still waiting for her response.
"I'll take that as a yes." He produced an amazing dimple with
his careless smile. "Why don't you get into the car and steer, and I'll
push."
"Um, sure. Okay." She silently smacked her forehead at her
inane answer as she hurried past him to duck
waiting for her. She had gambled that those fumes would be enough
to make the six-block detour and still get her to the gas station.
She was a terrible gambler.
Lifting her head, she stretched out her fingers to admire the
delicate ivory lacework of the fingerless gloves Nikki had made for
her and decided running out of gas two hundred feet away from the
gas station was a reasonable price to pay.
Romantic, feminine and completely impractical, they were
perfect. She loved the feel of the lace snugly enclosing her arms up to
her elbows; her little secret beneath the bulky sweater she wore
against the chill. Something about them reminded her of a time when
a woman could count on a little chivalry in the world, maybe even a
knight-in-shining-armor or two.
Jackie rolled her eyes. Yeah, like that was ever going to
happen. The only men--and she used the term loosely--she ever
seemed to attract with any consistency were shy, socially awkward
emo-boys that she agonized over hurting when she inevitably gave
them the "Let's be friends" talk.
She peered through her watery windshield at the gas station
ahead. It looked pretty deserted, except for one car parked by the
minimart, so it didn't appear that assistance would be showing up
any time soon. She sighed. It wouldn't be the first time she had
pushed her car into a gas station, and it likely wouldn't be her
last.
Popping the gearshift into neutral, she shoved open the
driver's door and jumped out to the accompanying whoosh of cold,
damp air. Gripping the steering wheel with one hand and the door
frame with the other, she lowered her head and pushed with
everything she had.
Nothing happened. Nothing at all. Dammit! Shifting her grip,
she tried again, grunting with what surely had to be super-human
effort. Still nothing.
"Well, crap," she muttered, and shivered as the rain turned
her carefully straightened hair into rebellious curls and trickled in
icy rivulets down the back of her neck. Where was a hero when a girl
needed one?
She moved to the front of the car and bent to peer at the
angle of her wheels to see if anything was blocking them. Suddenly
the skin beneath her lace gloves began to tingle again. She hiked the
sleeve of her jacket up, rubbing one arm. "What the heck? Am I
allergic or something?"
"Need a hand?"
With an involuntary squeak, Jackie whirled to face whoever
had snuck up on her. The tart response on the tip of her tongue died
with her first glimpse of the man who stood before her.
The second glance pretty much killed any other chance of a
civilized response.
He had to be at least six-foot-three. But it wasn't just his
size, or the muscled breadth of shoulder and chest on that
impressive frame that stole her breath. Or the blue of his eyes that
smiled at her from a square-jawed face that would do Sir Lancelot
proud. Nor was it the way his nearly shoulder-length golden hair
seemed glow with its own light, even dripping with rain in the gray
of a drizzly Seattle morning.
Nope. It was the chain mail.
Worked in an intricate pattern of silver rings, it clung to his
form from neck to thigh like a living thing, flexing sinuously with
every movement, every breath.
Jackie pushed wet hair out of her face and stole an admiring
glance at lean hips banded by an ornate leather belt, then down to
long muscular legs encased in sturdy looking leggings of some kind.
Scuffed black leather boots that looked like they had marched a
league or two completed the ensemble.
He oozed sheer male power from every pore, sending an
unmistakable call that reverberated through every cell of her body
and shook her to her toes. Raising her eyes, she found him watching
her, apparently still waiting for her response.
"I'll take that as a yes." He produced an amazing dimple with
his careless smile. "Why don't you get into the car and steer, and I'll
push."
"Um, sure. Okay." She silently smacked her forehead at her
inane answer as she hurried past him to duck
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