Protecting His Brother's Bride. Jan Schliesman

of the clothing into her lap, holding on to a camouflage shirt. He mopped some moisture from the roof of the car with it, then knelt down and used the shirt to clean the mud from her feet.

      “I can do that,” she said.

      “I’m sure you can.”

      “Buckshot’s?” She eyed the purple shirt in her lap. “Like hunting supplies or something?”

      “Or something.” It might have been a reasonable conclusion for somebody living on the moon, but how could anyone with a television, a smartphone or even one dollar to her name not know about Buckshot’s? They were “world famous.” Dalton had personally opened a dozen new stores in Europe before Lauren had died.

      If Blondie had never heard of Buckshot’s, she probably didn’t know who he was or what he was worth. The idea that she’d shown up looking for some fast cash, from either him or Josh, was quickly losing merit. What if Dalton was wrong? After all, he’d bailed Josh out of more than one unpleasant situation. In school. In his choice of careers. His brother could weave a story and paint himself as the victim in less time than it took to microwave a bag of popcorn.

      Dalton swallowed a sigh before it crossed his lips. Blood would always be thicker than water. Was he really going to let this woman disparage his brother’s memory? God forbid his mother got wind of the latest attempt to tarnish the family name. She’d been through more than enough.

      “Put on a dry shirt while I get a couple more things from the trunk.” He slammed the door before he could blurt any of his thoughts aloud. It was probably safer to let her assume he dealt in hunting supplies.

      How warped was it that Dalton knew his brother was capable of deception, but couldn’t bring himself to admit it to anyone else? Fat raindrops fell on the back of his neck as he returned to the trunk. The light mist segued into rain, and he was about to be soaked.

      He shoved the dirty shirt into an empty box and snagged a soft-sided cooler containing drinks. After giving the trunk lid a slam, he sloshed to his door.

      “So you handle marketing for this company?” Blondie had removed her wet shirt, which was now lying on the floorboard.

      A true gentleman would feign interest in the moonroof or a dashboard gadget. A true gentleman wouldn’t have hauled her out here at all. But Dalton had learned enough to make the trip worthwhile. He settled himself in the seat and watched. She didn’t seem to care, confident with her long hair dripping onto her pink bra.

      “Among other things.”

      “Travel a lot?” She struggled to get the clean T-shirt over her head.

      “Not as much as I used to.” He allowed his gaze to follow her curves. Their conversation was quickly fogging up the windows, something he hadn’t contemplated doing in a long time. And he shouldn’t be thinking of it now, in a cemetery, with a woman who was nothing but trouble.

      The dry shirt twisted below her armpit. As he reached forward and yanked on the fabric, his fingers brushed against an unusual shape. It had been forever since he’d touched a woman’s breast, but not so long that he’d forgotten what parts went where. Unless Blondie had a third nipple, she was concealing something. The unexpected jolt he felt from his knuckles skating down her rib cage took him by surprise. When their hands met near the waistband of her jeans, she turned his way. Apprehension was evident in the way she bit her bottom lip and pulled her fingers away from his.

      “Did you design the logo, as well?” She was making small talk as he reached for a shred of sanity to keep his hands to himself.

      “Depends.”

      “On what?”

      “On whether a wrong answer will make you punch me again.” The comment earned him a partial smile as she combed strands of wet hair away from her face. The cut near her eye started bleeding again and her actions smeared the blood across her forehead.

      “Hold still a sec.” He grasped her chin, then reached into the glove compartment for some paper napkins. He applied pressure against the wound.

      “I’m okay, really.” She pried the napkins from his fingers.

      “Humor me and keep pressing.”

      “I’m out of humor.”

      “And yet still full of sarcasm.” He flipped on the map light for a better view and transferred the cooler to her lap. “Drink something.”

      She opened the lid and eyed the contents. “How can your company stay in business if you give all this stuff away?”

      “Advertising expense.”

      “Yeah, but do hunters really need all these things?” She gestured to the cooler and then plucked at her T-shirt. “And since when do they wear purple?”

      “People love getting something for nothing. Hunters may not need it, but it builds customer loyalty and name recognition. Usually.” Or maybe she had a valid point.

      “Tell me how he died.” She removed the wad of napkins from her face before dropping them into a cup holder.

      That was certainly an attempt at directness. And since she’d already asked once, he didn’t see the point in delaying the inevitable. “Josh had been missing a week before his car was found in a ravine forty miles from Denver. The highway patrol ruled it an accident, but I hired a private investigator to dig through all the reports, anyway. I’m curious why the PI didn’t find anything about your marriage.”

      “He’s not very good?” she said, before swallowing half the water in her bottle.

      “He’s the best.” Dalton couldn’t quite get a read on her. First demanding, then hostile, followed by defeated, compliant, accepting, and now, withholding something. He’d always been good at judging first impressions, but she was challenging everything he’d thought he knew.

      She yanked a hooded sweatshirt over her head with another muffled remark.

      Vagueness was not his forte. Dalton preferred getting to the point by the most direct route and with the least amount of details. “How did you meet Josh?”

      “The usual way.” She shoved her knees up under the wide-as-a-tent sweatshirt before offering him the other one. It was obviously the smaller size—her size—and she knew it. He threw it into the backseat.

      “Online dating?”

      “I would never date someone I met online.”

      “Friend of a friend, then?” Dalton was trying to come up with a few more choices that didn’t involve a drunken one-night stand.

      “Nope. My wallet was stolen. Of course, they got my college identification card and bus pass.” She stared out the window. “I was six miles from my dorm room and my roommate wasn’t answering her phone.”

      “No money for a taxi?”

      “If I had any money, I would have used it on the bus.” Blondie’s teeth chattered, kicking him into motion.

      He started the Cadillac and turned on the heat. “Keep talking.”

      “I thought someone was following me, and I panicked. Ran into the first business that was still open at nine-thirty on a Sunday night.”

      Dalton put the car in gear and made a U-turn. “A church?”

      “An art studio. I burst through the door and ran into your brother. Literally. It took nearly a month to get all the paint out of my hair.”

      “You met Josh at an art studio?” Dalton had to admit she was going the distance with her story. “An art studio in Denver?”

      “Why would I be in Denver?” Her neck cracked as she shifted in the seat until she was facing him.

      “What’s wrong with Denver?” Evidently something, by the way she was preparing to pounce.

      “I’ve