driving this car with some familiarity."
He'd tested her, and apparently she'd failed. "This was your brother's car?"
"He often let his women use it."
"My father had a Jag. He taught me how to drive it." It had been one of the few times that father and daughter had connected. She had enjoyed driving the expensive car, and he had adored that she appreciated, for once, something his money had bought.
Ryan was impressed with how easily she lied. "What color?"
"Taupe. Well, that's what Mother called it. It looked light brown to me."
"Nice touch." "What?"
"The mother thing. That's a very nice touch," Ryan repeated.
"I'm not lying."
"Sure." He glared straight ahead, wondering how far she
could take the lie before giving herself away. "What year?"
"79."
"Where is it now?"
Meg coasted to a stop. "Which way?"
Ryan glanced at her, saw her swallow. For the first time, he noticed the stress lines etched on either side of her nose. "Straight. What happened to the car?"
"You're testing me," Meg said.
"So what if I am?"
"So maybe I don't like it."
"So maybe you don't have a choice," he said. "You're the one insisting that I've got the wrong woman. I happen to think that I don't. Prove it."
She drew in a slow breath and prayed that her voice wouldn't shake. "It was totaled."
He interpreted the tremor in her voice as fear of being caught in the tall tale. "Daddy's little girl wrecked the precious Jag?"
Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the steering wheel. "No, a drunk driver wrecked the car," she said. "Am I still going straight?"
"I'll tell you when to turn." She looked genuinely distressed, and Ryan marveled at her acting ability. "When?"
"When what?"
"When did the drunk driver wreck the Jag? Make it good, now."
"You son of a bitch."
He leaned closer to her. "Excuse me?"
Meg swerved onto the shoulder and jammed on the brakes. She had her seat belt unbuckled and the car door open before he grabbed her arm.
"Where do you think you're going?"
She yanked away and would have taken a swing at him if there'd been room in the car, or if that had been her goal at the moment. As it was, she just had to get out. Now.
She stumbled, catching herself against the rear end as her knees almost buckled, and threw up in the weeds. She heard the passenger door open and close, then felt his presence at her side. She kept her eyes closed. To her humiliation, her stomach convulsed again.
Exhausted, she pulled off the baseball cap and shoved the hair back from her face as she gulped in air. The sun felt hot on the top of her head, and the humidity made it difficult to take a deep, cleansing breath.
Ryan offered her a white handkerchief with the initials RK embroidered in one corner.
"You're kidding, right?" she said. Afraid she was going to be sick again, she hung her head, grateful for the protective curtain of hair.
Feeling like an idiot, Ryan shoved the handkerchief back into his jeans. She was so white and shaken that he thought she might faint. But he kept his distance, certain she would deck him if he tried to touch her. Besides, he didn't want to. This was just another attempt to win his sympathy, to get her claws into him so she could fool him the way she had Beau. "Okay now?"
She raised her head and might have laughed at his concern, no matter how feigned, if she hadn't felt so sick. "I'm peachy. Thanks for asking."
There was not a breath of color in her face, but he was de-termined not to give an inch. "Get in the car."
Meg considered running, but only dense, swampy land stretched for miles in most directions. Not one car had whizzed by while she had embarrassed herself in the weeds.
He grasped her arm. "In the car. Now."
She tried to jerk away from him, but getting sick had left her weak and trembling. She didn't have the strength to do anything but jam the White Sox cap back on her head and return to her place behind the wheel.
As she steered the car onto the road, Ryan cranked up the air-conditioning. "The
He'd tested her, and apparently she'd failed. "This was your brother's car?"
"He often let his women use it."
"My father had a Jag. He taught me how to drive it." It had been one of the few times that father and daughter had connected. She had enjoyed driving the expensive car, and he had adored that she appreciated, for once, something his money had bought.
Ryan was impressed with how easily she lied. "What color?"
"Taupe. Well, that's what Mother called it. It looked light brown to me."
"Nice touch." "What?"
"The mother thing. That's a very nice touch," Ryan repeated.
"I'm not lying."
"Sure." He glared straight ahead, wondering how far she
could take the lie before giving herself away. "What year?"
"79."
"Where is it now?"
Meg coasted to a stop. "Which way?"
Ryan glanced at her, saw her swallow. For the first time, he noticed the stress lines etched on either side of her nose. "Straight. What happened to the car?"
"You're testing me," Meg said.
"So what if I am?"
"So maybe I don't like it."
"So maybe you don't have a choice," he said. "You're the one insisting that I've got the wrong woman. I happen to think that I don't. Prove it."
She drew in a slow breath and prayed that her voice wouldn't shake. "It was totaled."
He interpreted the tremor in her voice as fear of being caught in the tall tale. "Daddy's little girl wrecked the precious Jag?"
Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the steering wheel. "No, a drunk driver wrecked the car," she said. "Am I still going straight?"
"I'll tell you when to turn." She looked genuinely distressed, and Ryan marveled at her acting ability. "When?"
"When what?"
"When did the drunk driver wreck the Jag? Make it good, now."
"You son of a bitch."
He leaned closer to her. "Excuse me?"
Meg swerved onto the shoulder and jammed on the brakes. She had her seat belt unbuckled and the car door open before he grabbed her arm.
"Where do you think you're going?"
She yanked away and would have taken a swing at him if there'd been room in the car, or if that had been her goal at the moment. As it was, she just had to get out. Now.
She stumbled, catching herself against the rear end as her knees almost buckled, and threw up in the weeds. She heard the passenger door open and close, then felt his presence at her side. She kept her eyes closed. To her humiliation, her stomach convulsed again.
Exhausted, she pulled off the baseball cap and shoved the hair back from her face as she gulped in air. The sun felt hot on the top of her head, and the humidity made it difficult to take a deep, cleansing breath.
Ryan offered her a white handkerchief with the initials RK embroidered in one corner.
"You're kidding, right?" she said. Afraid she was going to be sick again, she hung her head, grateful for the protective curtain of hair.
Feeling like an idiot, Ryan shoved the handkerchief back into his jeans. She was so white and shaken that he thought she might faint. But he kept his distance, certain she would deck him if he tried to touch her. Besides, he didn't want to. This was just another attempt to win his sympathy, to get her claws into him so she could fool him the way she had Beau. "Okay now?"
She raised her head and might have laughed at his concern, no matter how feigned, if she hadn't felt so sick. "I'm peachy. Thanks for asking."
There was not a breath of color in her face, but he was de-termined not to give an inch. "Get in the car."
Meg considered running, but only dense, swampy land stretched for miles in most directions. Not one car had whizzed by while she had embarrassed herself in the weeds.
He grasped her arm. "In the car. Now."
She tried to jerk away from him, but getting sick had left her weak and trembling. She didn't have the strength to do anything but jam the White Sox cap back on her head and return to her place behind the wheel.
As she steered the car onto the road, Ryan cranked up the air-conditioning. "The
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