too happy about it. “Get in. We’ll go to my place, call for a tow.”
In the car? With him?
Don’t talk to strangers.
Marian’s warning echoed in her ears. Of course, she’d ignored that advice a dozen times over the last week and a half. But get into the car with one, on a deserted road?
Still, if he’d meant her harm, he didn’t need her to get into the car. He could simply climb out, bash her on the head and be done with it.
So, faced with spending hours in her disabled car or taking a chance on him and finding a dry spot and—God willing—hot coffee, she nodded. “My bags are in the trunk,” she told him.
“Fine. Go get them.”
At this, she blinked. Then, when he simply continued to scowl at her, set her teeth.
Shining knight her butt, she fumed as she trudged through the rain to retrieve her bags. He was a rude, miserable, ill-mannered boor.
But if he had a telephone and a coffeepot, she could overlook it.
She heaved her bags in the back then climbed in beside him.
It was then she saw that his right arm was in a sling strapped close to his body. Immediately guilt swamped her.
Naturally he couldn’t help with the car, or her bags, if he was injured. And he was likely impolite due to discomfort. To make up for her hard thoughts, she sent him a brilliant smile.
“Thanks so much for helping me. I was afraid I’d have to spend the night in the car—soaking wet.”
“Wouldn’t be wet if you’d stayed in the car.”
Something wanted to hiss out between her teeth, but she swallowed it. Diplomacy, even when it wasn’t deserved, was part of her training. “True. Still, I appreciate you stopping, Mr….”
“Caine. Delaney Caine.”
“Mr. Caine.” She pushed at her wet hair as he drove through the storm. “I’m Camilla—” She broke off, the briefest of hesitations when she realized she’d been about to say MacGee. The episode had rattled her more than she’d realized. “Breen,” she finished, giving Marian’s last name as her own. “How did you hurt your arm?”
“Look, let’s just ditch the small talk.” He was driving, one handed, through a wailing bitch of a storm, and the woman wanted to chat. Amazing. “We both just want to get out of the rain, and put you back on the road to wherever the hell you’re going.”
Make that ill-mannered swine, she decided. “Very well.” She turned her head and stared out the side window.
One advantage, she decided. The man hadn’t looked at her twice—had barely managed once. She wouldn’t have to worry about him identifying the damsel in distress as a princess.
Chapter 2
Oh, he’d looked at her, all right.
It might have been dark, she might have been wet and spitting mad. But that kind of beauty managed to punch through every obstacle.
He’d seen a long, slender, soaked woman in shirt and jeans that had clung to every subtle curve. He’d seen a pale oval face dominated by gold eyes and a wide, mobile mouth and crowned by a sleek cap of hair that was dark fire with rain.
He’d heard a voice that hinted of the South and of France simultaneously. It was a classy, cultured combination that whispered upper crust.
He’d noticed the slight hesitation over her name, and had known she lied. He just didn’t happen to give a damn about that, or any of the rest of it.
She was, at the moment, no more than a nuisance. He wanted to get home. To be alone. To pop some of the medication that would ease the throbbing of his shoulder and ribs. The damp and the rain were killing him.
He had work to do, damn it, and dealing with her was likely to cut a good hour out of his evening schedule.
On top of it all, she’d actually wanted to chatter at him. What was it with people and their constant need to hear voices? Particularly their own.
The one benefit of having to leave the dig in Florida and recover at home was being home. Alone. No amateurs trying to horn in on the site, no students battering him with questions, no press wheedling