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“Shoot, Skeet, you're scaring her. Pull that ugly head of yours in, will you?”
Skeet's head retracted, and the gorgeous man with the strange name she hadn't quite caught lifted one perfect eyebrow, waiting for her to say something. She decided to brave it out—to be brisk, matter-of-fact, and under no circumstances let them see how desperate she actually was.
“I'm awfully afraid I've gotten myself into a bit of a muddle,” she said, setting down her suitcase. “I seem to have lost my way. Frightful nuisance, of course.”
Skeet poked his head back out the window.
Mr. Gorgeous grinned.
She kept going doggedly. “Perhaps you could tell me how far it is to the next petrol station. Or anywhere I might find a telephone, actually.”
“You're from England, aren't you?” Skeet asked. “Dallie, do you hear the funny way she talks? She's a English lady, is what she is.”
Francesca watched as Mr. Gorgeous—could someone really be named Dallie?—swept his gaze down over the pink and white ruffles of her gown. “I'll bet you got one hell of a story to tell, honey. Come on and hop in. We'll give you a lift to the next telephone.”
She hesitated. Getting into a car with two strange men didn't strike her as the absolute wisest course to take, but she couldn't seem to think of an alternative. She stood in the road, ruffles dragging in the dust and suitcases at her feet, while an unfamiliar combination of fear and uncertainty made her feel queasy.
Skeet leaned all the way out the window and tilted his head to look at Dallie. “She's afraid you're rapist scum gettin’ ready to ruin her.” He turned back to her. “You take a good hard look at Dallie's pretty face, ma'am, and then tell me if you think a man with a face like that has to resort to violatin’ unwilling women.”
He definitely had a point, but somehow Francesca didn't feel comforted. The man named Dallie wasn't actually the person she was most worried about.
Dallie seemed to read her mind, which, considering the circumstances, probably wasn't all that difficult a thing to do. “Don't worry about Skeet, honey,” he said. “Skeet's a dyed-in-the-wool misogynist, is what he is.”
That word, coming from the mouth of someone who, despite his incredible good looks, had the accent and manner of a functional illiterate, surprised her. She was still hesitating when the door of the car opened and a pair of dusty cowboy boots hit the road. Dear God... She swallowed hard and looked up—way up.
His body was as perfect as his face.
He wore a navy blue T-shirt that skimmed the muscles of his chest, outlining biceps and triceps and all sorts of other incredible things, and a pair of jeans faded almost to white everywhere except at the frayed seams. His stomach was flat, his hips narrow; he was lean and leggy, several inches over six feet tall, and he absolutely took her breath away. It must be true, she thought wildly, what everyone said about Americans and vitamin pills.
“The trunk's full, so I'm gonna have to throw your cases in the back seat with Skeet there.”
“That's fine. Anywhere will do.” As he walked toward her, she turned the full force of her smile on him. She couldn't help it; the response was automatic, programmed into her Serritella genes. Not appearing at her best before a man this spectacular, even if he was a backwoods bumpkin, suddenly seemed more painful than the blisters on her feet. At that moment she would have given anything she owned for half an hour in front of a mirror with the contents of her cosmetic case and the white linen Mary McFadden that was hanging in a Piccadilly resale shop right next to her periwinkle blue evening pajamas.
He stopped where he was and stared down at her.
For the first time since she'd left London, she felt as if she'd arrived in home territory. The expression on his face confirmed a fact she had discovered long ago—men were men the world over. She peered upward with innocent, radiant eyes. “Something the matter?”
“Do you always do that?”
“Do what?” The dimple in her cheek deepened.
“Proposition a man less than five minutes after you meet him.”
“Proposition!” She couldn't believe she'd heard him correctly, and she exclaimed indignantly, “I was most certainly not propositioning you.”
“Honey, if that smile wasn't a proposition, I don't know what one is.” He picked up her cases and carried them to the other side of the car. “Normally I wouldn't mind, you understand, but it strikes me as just short of foolhardy to be hanging out your advertising when yo
u're in the middle of nowhere with two strange men who might be pervert scum, for all you know.”
“My advertising!” She stomped her foot on the road. “Put those suitcases down this minute! I wouldn't go anywhere with you if my life depended on it.”
He glanced around at the scrub pine and the deserted road. “From the looks of things, it's getting mighty close.”
She didn't know what to do. She needed help, yet his behavior was insufferable, and she hated the idea of demeaning herself by getting in the car. He took the choice away from her when he pulled open the back door and unceremoniously shoved the luggage at Skeet.
“Be careful with those,” she cried, racing up to the car. “They're Louis Vuitton!”
“You picked a real live one this time, Dallie,” Skeet muttered from the back.
