What he needed was a fast girl. With the right tools and a
little patience, he'd have her stripped down and ready to
ride in no time.
That '69 Pontiac GTO he'd spotted at auction last week was
exactly the kind of sweetheart he was looking for. He'd get
his hands on one of those babies as soon as possible.
His Cadillac lurched forward with a neck–wrenching
crunch and there went his fantasy and his morning. He'd been
back in town less than forty–eight hours and some bozo
had already rear–ended his car. An omen?
Then came the metallic sound of his bumper hitting the
asphalt, and his gut cramped the way it did when he
occasionally overindulged in beer weenies.
Cameron sucked in thick Texas air, but the humid stuff did
nothing to soothe the sudden burn in his belly. He should've
crawled back into bed. The signs had all been there. Shower
water icy enough to permanently shrink his balls. Nothing
but tap water to pour over his cereal. Boxers the color of
Pepto–Bismol after a run–in with a red
T–shirt in the washing machine.
His mom always warned him to wear clean underwear in case he
was ever in a car accident. Cameron might flirt with other
types of danger, but he wasn't stupid enough to disobey
Emmalee Wright. He climbed out of his prized possession, a
1963 Caddy convertible with butter–soft leather seats
and fins big enough to propel a shark. The car's door handle
caught the back pocket of his jeans, and well–washed
cotton gave way with a thread–popping rip.
Of all the days to mind Mom's advice.
"Welcome frickin' home," he muttered. Jesus,
bare–assed or half of Shelbyville ogling his
Give me bare–assed any day.
His car sat in two pieces in the middle of his hometown's
busiest intersection, and people were already craning their
necks to stare out the front windows of McIntosh's drugstore
and Bitsy Miller's beauty shop. What a way to kick off his
career as a respectable business owner.
He stalked to the back of his car to inspect the damage.
Cracked taillights, ruined bumper and buckled trunk.
Goddammit. Now he definitely wouldn't pick up the garage
keys from Scooter Kaynes on time.
The source of his latest run–in with Monday morning
madness, who'd almost run him over in her shiny Escalade,
was Alice Ann Shelby. Cameron hadn't seen her in years, but
he'd recognize that white–blond hair anywhere.
Without a doubt, God was a woman. Because a man wouldn't
have thrown him into this mess with the princess of
Shelbyville. That big SUV with its oversized grille guard
and without one damned scratch was probably her latest
indulgence from Daddy, the town's self–appointed king.
Squashing the urge to cover his butt cheek with his hand,
Cameron stepped over the bumper sprawled like shiny roadkill
behind his car and headed toward Allie. Why wasn't she
removing her fanny from her car? Surely she realized she'd
He peered closer. Her forehead was resting on the steering
wheel. Jesus, was she hurt?
He rushed over and jerked open the Escalade's driver's side
door. The fear jumping in his belly boiled over into purely
pissed off. Hurt, his ass. She was punching buttons on her
cell phone like a madwoman.
Cameron swung between the urge to throw back his head and
laugh and the urge to beat his head against her hood and
bawl. Neither made much sense, seeing as the headache he'd
been courting since 7:00 a.m. was currently drilling a hole
the size of Dallas through his left eyeball.
"Allie, you okay?" a boy hollered as he and two friends
barreled down the sidewalk on skateboards, jumped over the
curb and into the intersection.
Allie's attention finally shifted from her phone, and she
lowered her passenger side window. She scrambled across the
console and leaned so far out the window, Cameron couldn't
help but check out the sight of her grade–A ass thrust
into the air. If she didn't watch out, she'd end up lying on
the asphalt along with his bumper. Relief and disappointment
warred inside him as he ogled the backside of her thin white
pants. If she'd worn a skirt today, he would surely know the
make, model and color of Allie Shelby's panties.
"Ben, why are you skateboarding in the road?"
The lead skateboarder hitched up his baggy shorts and
pointed toward Cameron. "Um...I'm pretty sure you nailed
She glanced over her shoulder at him and plopped back into
the driver's seat. Looking at her heart–shaped face
was no real hardship either. Her long lashes were a few
shades darker than her hair. Her eyes were light brown at
the center and brightened to dark blue at the rims. Those
eyes had always struck him as a little unsettling.
His survey caught on her mouth. Yep, God was a woman and
Satan was a man. Because a mouth like hers, with full
unpainted lips, was certainly made for sin.