Murphy's Law. Lori Foster

asked a now-familiar, masculine voice.

      Oops. Not May. Ashley smiled as she strode to her car, no longer feeling so alone. “Hey, Quinton. You’re up early. Or late. Or something.”

      “I have a question.”

      “Shoot.”

      “Are you really going to wear pink taffeta?”

      Catching the phone between shoulder and ear, Ashley dug out her car keys. “It’s four o’clock in the morning, and you’re thinking about women’s wedding attire?”

      “I was thinking of you, actually, picturing you as you looked when I last saw you.”

      Meaning agog from a kiss, with wet noodles for knees? “Yeah, so?”

      “I kept trying to align the image with pink taffeta, but it’s not working. Or were you just pulling my leg?”

      She unlocked her car and slid into the seat. For October the weather remained stifling and humid. It wasn’t much cooler outside in the fresh air than it had been inside with broken air-conditioning. Her shirt stuck to her back, and her hair hung damp and limp on her shoulders.

      “I don’t even know what taffeta is, but the truth isn’t much better.” After starting the car, relocking the doors, and cranking up the air-conditioning, she asked, “You really want to hear about my dress right now?”

      “Can you not hear the anticipation in my voice?”

      Funny how talking to Quinton on the phone made all her exhaustion evaporate. Dangerous. “All right, then. You asked for it.” She began backing out of her spot. “It really is pink, but a pale pink. Silk, not taffeta, but it’s got some itchy lace on it. V-necked, floor length…”

      His voice darkened. “Sounds lovely.”

      “Hey,” Ashley teased, “is this turning into one of those perverted phone calls?”

      “I’m just visualizing you in silk.”

      “Yeah, well, if you start breathing heavy, I’m hanging up.”

      Quinton laughed. “I promise to behave.”

      “Good. Because I’ve had a hard enough night.”

      She heard some rustling, as if he’d just settled back in bed to get comfortable. “How’s that?”

      “The air went off and Flint couldn’t reach anyone from maintenance.”

      “Flint the security guard?”

      “That’s him.” She carefully steered the car from the garage, and though her nervousness had dissipated, she still glanced around at all the shadows, looking for she didn’t know what. She saw nothing but debris. No lurking madmen or threats of any kind. “The death of the air conditioner set the tone, and everything else went wrong, too. I’m sweaty, hungry, tired, and cranky.”

      “Now that’s an image I can reconcile better than pink taffeta.”

      “Ha ha.” But he was right. She couldn’t see herself all dressed up, either. She just knew she’d end up looking stupid. “Right now I’m aiming to eat, shower, and hit the sack, in that order. No time for phone sex, sorry.”

      “Another time then.” In the middle of her laughing, he added, “I haven’t eaten yet, either. Breakfast sounds terrific. Where should I meet you?”

      Her punching heartbeat ended the laughter. Butterflies started a brawl in her stomach. Her fingers hugged the steering wheel. “Who says you’re invited?”

      He gave an exaggerated sigh. “You tell me that you have no time to get to know me. Well, I’m up at this ungodly hour, and we’re both hungry, so sharing breakfast is the perfect plan.”

      “If the hour seems ungodly to you, why are you up?”

      Ashley could almost hear him thinking.

      “I have some things to do today.”

      To her ears he sounded evasive. “Before dawn?”

      “Soon. And no, I didn’t get up just to shanghai you for a meal. Actually, I assumed you’d be going straight home to bed. When I called, it was with the intent of hearing your voice, that’s all.”

      Ridiculous how badly Ashley wanted to believe him. With the offer out there, going home to sleep no longer seemed so appealing.

      So what would one meal hurt? A public restaurant would be a natural block to her explosive sexual urges. She’d have to keep it in check, and so would he.

      “Besides,” he said, intruding on her thoughts, “we should discuss the wedding. You haven’t even told me what time to pick you up, or where we’re going.”

      He had a point. Ashley glanced at the clock on her car console. “I was going to grab a bowl of cold cereal at home, but…” She decided to take a chance. “Know where the Squirrel is?”

      “Up a tree, I’d assume.”

      Ashley couldn’t help grinning. “The Squirrel is a little mom-and-pop diner in Stillbrooke, close to where I live.” She gave him brief directions. “They serve a lot of truckers, so they’re open now, and they make a mean ham and eggs breakfast. I’ll meet you there if you’re still interested.”

      She was sure he wouldn’t be. She doubted Quinton had ever been in a greasy spoon, much less dined on their fare.

      “I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

      Her jaw fell open. “No joke?”

      “Don’t back out on me now, Ashley.”

      “Wouldn’t dream of it.” New life entered her tired muscles. He was going above and beyond to see her. That had to count for something, right? “Fifteen minutes. Bye.”

      After she hung up, she found herself grinning. She wouldn’t get much sleep before her classes started, but these days, sleep was an elusive commodity anyway.

      She had work, school, a wedding…and once again the steady beams of headlights filled her rearview mirror.

      Damn it, she was being followed. Now she had to decide what to do about it.

      Quinton parked his Bentley a good distance from the entrance of the diner. The light of the moon reflected off Ashley’s little Civic, situated among a variety of work vehicles. His Bentley wasn’t the best choice for detouring to the Squirrel, but he’d made a promise he intended to keep.

      Gravel crunched beneath his feet as he crossed the cluttered lot for the open door of the diner. A warm glow, accompanied by the sounds of laughter and conversation, spilled out into the otherwise quiet night. Leaning against a fence, a man and woman embraced. Standing alongside a rig, two truckers conversed quietly behind the red smolder of cigarettes. Quinton glanced around the rest of the area, enjoying the quaint atmosphere, the small-town familiarity.

      That’s when he felt it.

      Someone watched him with ripening tension. Being rich hadn’t made him an idiot, and he didn’t ignore his instincts. He did a subtle perusal and spotted the junker parked across the street. A shadowed figure sat behind the wheel.

      Reminded that Ashley had also had a feeling of being watched, Quinton’s temper slipped up several notches. A coincidence? He tried, but couldn’t convince himself of that.

      In his position of wealth, he was used to being followed, photographed, and sometimes stalked—and he had no problem ignoring it most of the time. But he’d be damned before he let anyone harass Ashley.

      He started across the street with a purposeful stride.

      Before he even reached the curb, the car burped and gurgled to life, then sped away on balding tires.

      Damn it. He watched until the taillights disappeared around a corner before striding into