Pick Me Up. Samantha Hunter

side, a safe distance from the edge, trying to enjoy the view.

      Frowning at her own apprehension, she took a step forward. There was nothing to be afraid of—the guardrail was there, and it wasn’t like someone was going to push her over the side. It was a stunning landscape—she should take a look.

      No wimps allowed.

      One more step forward, then another.

      Adrenaline pushed through her, the crazy motorcyclist forgotten as she stared out over the valleys and mountains, awestruck. The dry wind was hot on her face, but the heat relaxed her, permeating her skin, claiming her.

      “Oh my God,” she breathed the words out, feeling…overcome. It was just so beautiful. Opening her arms to the vast space, she laughed, and then laughed again at her echo.

      “You’ve come a long way, baby,” she joked to herself, feeling cocky and brave. She risked a look down past the rail and stepped back quickly.

      “Okay, well, baby steps,” she reassured herself, shuffling back to the solid safety of the car, but still smiling.

      Back behind the wheel, she was looking forward to what she’d find at the bottom of the canyon more than ever.

      Switching the radio channel as she took the next curve, she looked up, surprised to see that daredevil motorcyclist again. She thought he’d be long gone by now, but no, there he was.

      The bike was parked, its slanted posture mimicking the way the man who rode it leaned against the guardrail as if there weren’t a sheer drop on the other side. More amazing, he was standing there in a tux, the collar ripped back, his black tie hanging crookedly.

      She drove up, got a closer look—square jaw, dusty, sun-bleached sandy hair—she wasn’t sure what to make of him. Part GQ model, part Road Warrior. Maybe she’d give him a piece of her mind for passing her so hazardously, but something about his expression and his posture suggested that maybe she’d be better off driving by. A lifetime of training in good manners wouldn’t allow it though; he could be in need of help.

      He was tall. The wind had apparently whipped the crap out of what was once a lovely boutonniere. When he fixed intense green eyes on her, she met his stare. There was something wild in that look, a feral gleam.

      She rolled down the window. “Is everything okay?”

      “Broke down.” Nice voice, not as smooth as she would have expected, given the tux. The voice was definitely Road Warrior, low and dry.

      “Lucky you’re alive at all,” she said under her breath. He might have heard, but he didn’t say anything. She tried again.

      “On your way somewhere?”

      “Not really.”

      “Do you have someone coming to get you? Triple A?”

      “Nope.”

      Lauren weighed what to do. He wasn’t being very cooperative.

      “Do you want a ride?” The words were past her lips before she could reconsider them.

      He appeared to consider, too, pausing, and answered her with one short, curt nod. As he reached for the door handle, she wondered what the heck she was doing. He settled into her small front seat, looked at her and smiled ever so slightly, wiping out every coherent thought she’d ever had.

      She never picked up hitchhikers—what rational woman did? But he wasn’t exactly hitching, was he? In her experience, most hitchhikers weren’t hanging around in designer tuxes, either.

      “Where to?”

      He paused again, staring out the window, and shrugged. “Surprise me.”

      BRETT WALLACE was sure he was going to lose his freakin’ mind if the woman didn’t hit the gas—my God, his eighty-year-old grandmother drove faster. He should have known when he saw the Connecticut license plates. At this rate, they’d never make the bottom of the canyon by dark, and then what? There weren’t any streetlights up here, and she was a city girl, obviously. She could barely handle the roads in broad daylight. In the dark, she’d just pull over and quit. He snorted to himself. Tourists.

      He passed a few moments by studying her profile. Not that he couldn’t think of a few things they might do in the dark—after all, nothing holding him back now, was there?

      She was pretty, he realized as he took the time to notice. Her short brown hair had a slight curl and curved slightly at the chin, framing a face that would be considered plain by some, but which he found attractive. She had that kind of creamy skin that looked like it might melt if you touched it, and a sprinkle of freckles across her nose that added charm. He’d always liked freckles. Her skin was so light—unprepared for the hot temperatures and harsh sun of the Sonora Desert.

      “How about I drive for a bit?”

      She spared one second to look over at him before gluing her eyes back on the road. To his astonishment, she barked an unladylike laugh.

      “Right—the way you were driving that bike? No thank you. I’d like to reach the bottom of this road alive.”

      “If we ever reach it at all,” he muttered, blowing out a breath, and admitting only to himself that he had been pushing it a bit back on the bike. Maybe more than a little. But by God he’d been pissed and had a perfect right to be, too.

      When a guy was racing away from the church where he was supposed to have gotten married just about an hour ago, a little speed was justifiable. He’d had the good luck—and he was counting it as good, all things considered—to discover his best man, Howie, in the bride’s chambers shortly before the ceremony was to begin. That was unusual, but might not have been a problem except that she’d had her dress up around her waist, and Howie hadn’t been helping her with the buttons. With a full congregation waiting, no less.

      Howie had done him a favor, he supposed, since he’d been on his way to talk to Marsha, intending to call it off. At least he was going to do her the service of breaking it off, of being honest, though granted, he’d waited until the last minute, as well. Right now he wasn’t sure what to think about it, the whole sorry mess.

      “My apologies about that. I’ve been driving these roads for most of my life, and I think I might be able to return a favor and save you a nervous breakdown if you allow me to get us to the bottom before dark.”

      At the mention of night, her eyes went wide, and after a long pause, she shook her head. “I can handle it.”

      “Okay then.” He sat back, trying to relax, but just getting annoyed. Headstrong women were going to be the death of him.

      “Thank you,” she answered primly, and he raised his eyebrows. She was wound way too tight.

      “Where are you headed?”

      “Nowhere in particular,” she murmured, and he could tell by the sudden pause that she’d thought better of it a moment too late. Smart girl, she’d just more or less told a stranger she was on the road with no destination, no one expecting her.

      “We all need to get away sometimes,” he offered by way of convincing her he wasn’t a serial killer. He held out his hand. “Brett Wallace. I own a ranching operation back about ten miles. I’m very reputable, depending on who you ask.”

      He grinned and saw her shoulders ease. “Lauren Baker.”

      She dared to take one hand off the wheel and gripped his lightly; she had buttery soft hands, her white skin contrasting against his own darker tone. Her touch reverberated somewhere down low in his belly, where he felt a stirring. Shaking it off, he pursued the small talk. It kept him from thinking about how he’d ended up here, anyway.

      “Where’d you start from?”

      “Hartford, Connecticut.”

      He whistled. “That’s about as East Coast as you can get, huh? They don’t have roads like this back there. No wonder you’re