She hopped down, and the hem of her top fluttered up above the belly button of her toned stomach.
Dax swallowed.
“Hi. I’m Annelise Ansel, but call me Lissa.” She reached back into the van and grabbed the bag full of leashes that sat near the door. “We’d better get these guys rounded up. Don’t want them to become gator bait.”
Dax looked from her, to the now empty van to the dogs rollicking about them. He slowly shook his head. “Where did you come from?”
“The French Quarter. I needed a ride.” She shrugged. The small strap of her top slid down her shoulder, and she pushed it back up.
“You needed a ride,” he repeated, and pinched the crown of his nose. He’d definitely hit his head harder than he thought. “You needed a ride, so, what? You decided to hitch one in the back of a van moving rescue dogs up to Michigan?”
“Michigan? Is that where we’re going?” She unwound one leash from the bunch and chased down a small terrier.
“We’re not going anywhere.” Dax grabbed the bumper and hefted himself upright. “I’m going home. You’re going”—he flapped his hand toward New Orleans—“wherever the heck you belong.” He looked at the van’s doors and jiggled the lock. It worked. “How did you get in here?”
“On Royal Street, you left the doors open for a moment.” She snagged a small mutt and held his squirming body in one arm while trying to attach the leash with the other. “These guys don’t like being cooped up. I think on the rest of the drive up to Michigan, we should let them ride outside their cages.”
Dax gripped the back of his neck with both hands. “I repeat: We are not going to Michigan. I am. You are going back to … a psychiatric facility?”
The edges of her pink lips curved up, and she rolled her eyes. Like he was the one with a screw loose.
“A halfway house?” He planted his hands on his hips. “Are you jumping parole?”
“Don’t be absurd.” She looped the end of the leash around her wrist and grabbed a corgi as it trotted by. “I’m a painter. I was getting tired of New Orleans and decided to try somewhere else.” She tilted her head. “Michigan sounds as good a place as any. Does it get really cold there?”
“Freezing.” He took a step closer to her and ignored the scent of honeysuckle rolling off her skin. “If you want to move, you call a moving company. Pack more than a backpack’s worth of stuff,” he said, nodding at her pack wedged in the corner of the van. “You do not, I repeat, do not, hop in the back of a stranger’s van full of rescue dogs.”
She snapped the leash to the corgi’s collar. “All I need are my brushes. Everything else is replaceable. Are we going to Detroit? I hear the music there is almost as good as in New Orleans.”
Dax stared at the sky. A puffy white cloud was its sole occupant, aside from the sun. That celestial object had started its descent toward the horizon, a reminder that daylight was burning and he was on a schedule. “Look, I’ll call a cab for you. I’ll even pay—”
“No, thanks.” She shook her head, and the waterfall of curls shimmered in the light. “Besides, why waste money on a taxi when we’re going the same way?”
“You must have family who can help you if you want to move.” The Bluetick nudged Dax’s hand with his cold nose. Dax bent for his collar, but the hound took off at a sprint toward the tree line. Perfect. “Why don’t you ask them for a ride?”
“My parents live in a Winnebago. I’m not sure what state they’re in today.” She handed him the leashes to the dogs she’d captured and took off after the Akita, which was rolling in the dirt nearby.
“Siblings?” he yelled after her.
“Nope!”
Dax rubbed his forehead. It was beginning to throb. His dad had taught him to be a gentleman. He couldn’t leave a woman alone on the side of an interstate. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t picked up hitchhikers before. But those people had asked for a ride, not stowed away in the back like fugitives. He was getting a bad vibe from this chick. And no matter how beautiful she was, he couldn’t let his hormones override his good sense.
“How about friends?” he shouted. “You must have friends you can call.”
She dove for the dog, missed, and landed on her butt. The Akita trotted up to check on her and she snapped on the leash. “Other artists,” she called back. “Complete flakes.” Standing, she brushed grass off her behind and sauntered back toward the van. Her blue jeans were molded to her hips, and each step she took toward him was a seduction.
He swallowed, trying to bring moisture back to his mouth. Dragging his gaze up to her face, he met her mesmerizing eyes. The irises were an intense blue near the pupils, almost electric, and faded out to a sultry gray. That didn’t help his resolve. He gave it one last try. “Look, I’m not a taxi service. I don’t pick up strays unless they’re of the four-legged variety.”
She arched a dark eyebrow and gave him a smile worthy of the Sphinx. “Well, then, consider me your latest rescue.”
Chapter 2
The pounding rhythm vibrated through her veins. Lissa lifted her arms to the ceiling and swung her hips to the rockabilly beat. Aside from painting, there was nothing she loved more than dancing. She spun, her hair swinging over her bare shoulders, and felt a moment of absolute independence.
She was free. Finally. Working for the Sam Morris Gallery on commission had been stifling. Everyone still wanted blue dogs, red cats, yellow birds, or whatever the heck else tourists thought they needed to buy in New Orleans. It had drained her creativity. And her bank account. She still couldn’t believe the jerk had been ripping her off.
She pounded the heels of her sandals into the worn wooden floor of the honky-tonk and let the irritation drain away. It didn’t matter anymore. She’d reclaimed what had been taken.
A set of hands gripped her hips from behind, and Lissa raised an eyebrow. So, the stick-in-the-mud had decided to come out of his cave. After walking all the dogs, Dax had stomped into the room next to hers at the Hideaway Motel and shut the door. Firmly. She’d shouted that she was going across the street for a burger and a beer but had only heard dogs barking from his room in response.
It was like the man was unhappy a woman had hopped into the back of his van. Wouldn’t most guys accept their luck and roll with it? Well, if Dax had come out to dance, maybe he’d decided to lighten up.
She turned to face him and looked up with a smile. Which quickly crashed. The man leering down at her wasn’t the cute ginger she was expecting. Stepping back, she wagged a finger at the stranger. “Most men at least ask to buy me a drink before they try to touch.” Giving her a ride to her new life was an acceptable substitute. “Didn’t your momma teach you any manners?”
Shuffling forward, he reached for her again. He flashed a tobacco-stained leer at her, and her stomach rolled. “Just wanted to keep you company,” he said. “You looked lonely out on the dance floor all alone.”
The song ended and a ballad with a slow beat came over the speakers. Nope. She didn’t even want to shake it with the guy to a club beat. No way was she doing a slow song. “I’m never lonely,” she told him, and turned to leave.
He grabbed her wrist. “Now, come on. I think they’re playing our song.”
Irritation flushed through her body, raising her temperature. And loosening her tongue. “I wouldn’t share a song with you if you were the last man in Memphis.”
His fingers tightened as his eyes narrowed.
Good. Let him experience some of her annoyance. It seemed only fair.
“Take your hand