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“Oh, shit,” she said on a sharp breath. Shook her head. “Doesn’t that just figure?”
Now he was the one who was puzzled.
She let out a low groan, then thrust her right hand toward him, the one not bleeding. “Scarlet Drake. Insurance fraud investigator.”
Didn’t that just figure indeed.
He folded his arms over his chest, without the obligatory shake. “You showed up on my doorstep quicker than I expected.”
“I’m not actually on your doorstep. But how’d you know I was coming?”
“Michael called me.” He dropped his arms, closed the door behind her, and gestured to his truck. “Might as well get in before you freeze to death. I wouldn’t want to be blamed for that, too.”
She huffed. “I’m not here to accuse. I’m just here to get a few answers.”
“How about we start with determining how bad the damage is to your vehicle? Go from there?”
“Right.” She marched past him and jerked on the handle of his cab. Then gave a little squeal of joy. “A puppy!”
“Careful,” Sam hastily cautioned. “He’s skittish.”
“Says who?” she asked as the dog all but launched himself into her arms and nuzzled her neck, burying his tiny head in her mass of hair.
“Or a traitor,” Sam grumbled.
Scarlet climbed into the truck, and with the cab lights on Sam could see her cuddle with the mutt, who still had his blanket mostly wrapped around him. She appeared to be very gentle with him, though, so Sam didn’t say anything about his injuries. Instead, Sam set about connecting the cable from the winch and towing out the SUV. The tire made a god-awful screeching sound as the metal rubbed against it.
Fuck.
That likely meant tire damage. So that even if Sam could pull the dent in the wheel well this evening, he couldn’t get her back on the road to Rollins without a new tire. And if the spare wasn’t full sized, there was no point in putting it on in this weather. She’d have to wait for a match to be located in stock and delivered or for 93 to be cleared so Sam could pick the tire up.
Son of a bitch.
He just might be stuck with her for the evening.
A woman who likely thought he had something to do with 18 million dollars’ worth of missing artwork.
A woman who’d instantly gotten his blood flowing a bit faster in his veins and had, miraculously, immediately won over the usually cowering pup—who was now nestled so deep in her dark-auburn strands, it looked as though he’d practically crawled around to the nape of her neck and settled in for the rest of winter.
She didn’t seem to mind in the least. Appeared quite taken with the little scamp.
Damn it all to hell.
Sam was going to like her.
And didn’t that just jack his program to high heaven?
SEVEN
Scarlet was head over heels in love.
The little guy burrowed into the collar of her ski jacket and her hair, one paw at the base of her throat, the other tucked along her shoulder, had squirmed his way into position and now lay perfectly still, breathing a bit uneasily, as though he had a touch of allergies. He was out like a light; she was certain of it.
The other guy wasn’t so bad, either.
Sam Reed had a tall, wide build. Athletic. Powerful. He had longish, disheveled brown hair—not quite qualifying as dark, but not quite medium. Bronzed skin, despite it being winter. Apparently, he spent a lot of time outdoors, even during inclement weather. The tan set off his sky-blue eyes.
She stole glances at him as he expertly eased the truck down the empty two-lane highway in reverse, tugging along her rental. When he reached a side road that was barely noticeable with all the snow covering its opening, he plowed right over the soft bank and continued uphill, carefully towing the SUV. His arm was slung over the back of the seat and he gazed behind him, then into the windshield to check on the other vehicle, then behind him again.
