Oh, she was funny. Stripping off his shades so she could see what he was doing, he gave her the kind of look-see she’d just given him, only his was quite a bit more lingering and appreciative. Her cheeks colored accordingly, but she didn’t drop that haughty chin by so much as an inch.
“Yeah,” he said. “You?”
Giving him a killing glare, she reached for her little pack on the ground and unzipped it. “Thanks for making sure I wasn’t killed when I dove out of the way of your speeding death machine. Kindly leave me in peace while I patch this defective Chambers Winery bike tire.”
What? Patch? Her?
To his astonishment, she withdrew a repair kit and actually looked like she knew what to do with it, which really screwed with his preconceived notions of her as a partying airhead with nothing inside her skull but marshmallow fluff. But, of course, it’d only taken one look into this woman’s keen hazel eyes for him to know that there was way more to her than what he could see on the outside.
He’d have to stop misjudging her and give her a chance.
Maybe.
If only he didn’t have such fierce reactions to everything about her.
“There’s nothing defective at the Chambers Winery, including the bikes. You must have ridden over a nail or something,” he informed her gruffly. “And I’ll do that for you.”
“No, thanks.”
“It’s the least I can—”
“No, thanks. I can do it.”
Yeah, he could see that. The sight of her, tired, dusty, sweaty and proud as she stooped beside the tire, was really doing a number on him. It was a terrible time to discover that he was a caveman at heart, but she shouldn’t have to fix that tire, and he was incapable of standing by with his thumb up his ass watching while she did it.
He could do it for her. He wanted to do it for her. An irritating voice inside his head was egging him on, pushing him to prove to her that, even though he wasn’t a Hollywood millionaire with flashy cars and a plane, he was strong and capable, and if she needed help while she was here on his land, then he was the one she could rely on.
Crazy, huh?
Insanity. But he still squatted on the other side of that tire, stared at her startled face through the spokes and put his hand on top of hers where it rested on the rubber treads. Something sparked a shiver across his skin. He told himself it was the cooling sweat on his body but that was as blatant a lie as he’d ever told, even to himself. The contact between their flesh tied him up in knots. That, and the wary turbulence in the depths of those astonishing hazel eyes.
“I’ll either do this for you or take you back to the bike rental. Your choice, Livia.” Her tightening jaw reminded him of his manners. “Please.”
“I’m not a spoiled diva.”
The stubborn insistence in her voice said it all. She was tired of being stereotyped and dismissed on the basis of her looks, tired of being treated like a china doll that could break and ruin the franchise. She was a strong, capable woman, and she wanted him to see that about her, to acknowledge it.
That pride tugged at his heart. It shouldn’t have, but it did.
“I know you’re not,” he said softly. “And if the truck gets a flat, you can change that for me, okay?”
That got her. A sudden laugh lit up her face and it was every bit as breathtaking as a vivid red sunset on the ocean’s horizon or sunlight hitting a rainbow. He started to laugh with her, but halfway through the maneuver his throat seized up and he could only stare, wishing she’d release him from whatever spell she’d spun around him.
“You’re just being nice because you know I’m going to try and get you fired.”
He floundered, trying to get his voice back online. He wasn’t quite sure why he hadn’t told her that he was one of the Chambers that owned the winery, or why he’d given her his old nickname, J.R. for junior, rather than his real name, other than the idea of her trying to get his parents to fire him was hilarious.
This woman…she did things to him.
“Can we go now?”
“Yeah.” Her smile faded, probably because she’d seen—she had to see—how she intrigued him, how he wanted her. There were lots of things he was good at, but controlling his reactions to her didn’t seem to be one of them. Their touching hands became a fulcrum, the ground zero of a growing wave of heat that would ignite a fire capable of torching all these surrounding elms if they weren’t careful. “Can I have my hand back now?”
“Yeah,” he said, meaning it, and his brain sent the command to his hand: let go.
It took three or four beats after that for his hand to obey.
He stood, flustered, and she stood, clearing her throat. They didn’t look at each other. This unspoken signal made them look in other directions while he loaded the bike in the truck’s bed and she gathered up the helmet and her pack. They got in and he started the engine. No eye contact. They buckled up, staring out of their respective windows.
It didn’t matter. The damage had already been done and the air between them vibrated and sizzled accordingly, reminding him of the crackling energy created by the light sabers in the Star Wars movies. Which wasn’t a good sign.
He put the truck in gear and gripped the wheel with palms that were now wet like the rest of him but for an entirely different reason.
Drive, man. Keep your trap shut and drive. The sooner she’s out of your truck, the better.
Don’t say anything stupid.
“Livia?”
There was all kinds of yearning in his hoarse voice but it didn’t seem to reach her. She kept her head resolutely turned toward her window and didn’t answer.
“Are we developing a problem here?”
“No,” she said flatly.
Right.
Recognizing the lie for what it was, he drove off toward the winery.
Okay, girl, Livia told herself. Okay. This is not a big deal. There’re only a few miles to go back to the winery and you’ll be safe there. Not that you’re in danger or anything. Physical danger, that was. Just ignore the sexy man because you’re not here in Napa for a hookup or any other kind of romantic adventure. Stare out your window and think about what you need to pack for the shoot in Mexico at the end of the month.
She thought hard, possibly damaging her discombobulated brain in the process.
What did she need? Mexico was hot, right, so she’d need—what?
Oh, wait. Sunscreen. Good! Good start! Great job ignoring the sexy man!
Yes. She could do this. She’d need sunscreen, and she’d also need—
“Are you cold?” he asked, adjusting the vents.
Damn. Was he doing that on purpose or what? Was his voice always this velvety rasp that crept its way under her skin—when he wasn’t barking at her, that was? And why was he being so thoughtful and considerate all of the sudden when she knew darn well he’d already written her off as a Tinseltown flake with a worthless job flashing pretty smiles at the cameras for big money?
Why did his presence tie her belly up in crazy little knots?
He was dirty like a field hand, for God’s sake! Dirty, grouchy and arrogant. What was so thrilling about that? True, he wore a Negro League baseball cap—the black background with red lettering of the Indianapolis Clowns—so he couldn’t be all bad, but he was definitely mostly bad.