Susan Crosby - Secrets of Paternity

“What the—? Stop!” He banged on the hood. “Hit the—”

She jammed on the brakes. Metal hit metal. Then came silence. Hot, heavy, condemning silence.

Even through her closed window she could hear him swearing, succinctly, menacingly. Her heart thundered, deadening his words.

What had she done? She’d never had an accident. Never had a ticket. And the one time she needed to blend with the surroundings—

She stopped the thought. Took a breath. Then she shoved the jumbled map aside and looked out her window at him. Okay, she thought as her heart thumped a little slower and her hearing returned. Okay. What was done, was done. While she stared at the man, he ripped off his helmet and tunneled his fingers through his dark hair. Eyes, green and direct, drilled her. The angles of his face sharpened beneath a several-days’ growth of dark beard.

She rolled down the window and tried to smile.

Given the driver’s reckless behavior, he expected a teenager. Instead the idiot who’d just creamed the fender of his two-month-old, custom-detailed Screamin’ Eagle Harley—which he’d just gotten out of the shop from a previous accident—was a woman, one closer to his own age of forty-two. He cataloged her, as he always did with people at first meetings: auburn hair, straight, chin length and with bangs. Slender and small boned. He couldn’t judge her height precisely, but average or a little taller. Hesitation hovered in her blue eyes as she said hello, her inflection turning the single word into a question.

He rested his fists against the top of her window frame, not trusting himself not to yell at her and turn her into a quivering mass of contrition. Terrorizing wasn’t his style—most of the time, anyway—but, damn, he’d waited almost a year for that bike. A year. And this was the second time in a month he’d been hit.

Finally he gave her a “stay-put” look and went to assess the damage. Fender bent straight into his tire, just like the last time.

He grabbed a notepad and pen from the saddlebag, copied down the woman’s license plate number, then stared at the asphalt until he was calm enough to talk to her.

“I’m so sorry,” she said as he approached.

He met her gaze. Turquoise eyes, he noted, not blue. And she wore red lipstick. He hated red lipstick.

“You startled me when you banged on my window. My foot slipped—”

“I knocked,” he said, correcting her. “Not even loudly.” So much for being a Good Samaritan. He’d seen the map and thought she was lost.

He flipped open his notepad to an empty page. “Your tailgate is dented, by the way.”

“Bad?”

“You can see for yourself.”

She didn’t budge. Was she afraid to get out of the car? He looked that intimidating?

“We need to exchange insurance information,” he said.

After a few seconds her body language changed, not in a sexual way but a casual can-we-be-friends pose—except she looked too nervous for it to be real. What was going on?

“Could we just keep this between us,” she said, “instead of involving the insurance companies? I’ll pay cash for the repairs.”

Ah. Afraid of being canceled by her insurance company—or maybe having her license pulled? Should he sanction her game by going along with her? Or would the world be better off without her on the road?

While he debated how to answer her, he peered into her SUV. Spotless. Not a single scrap of paper or water bottle or straw wrapper. She wore a white blouse and black knee-length skirt, like a waitress’s uniform. Not the serial-accident type, at least not at first impression. So, what was her story? A husband who wouldn’t tolerate another accident?

He dropped his gaze to her left hand. No ring. As he looked, she touched her thumb to the vacant spot, as if a ring was still there.

He’d made her wait long enough, he decided. And his silence hadn’t made her tip her hand, anyway. He admired that—grudgingly. He widened his stance and crossed his arms. “You want to pay cash, it’s fine with me.”

Her shoulders dropped, her relief palpable. “How much do you think it will cost?” she asked.

He shoved the notepad and pen toward her. “Why don’t you put down your name, address and phone number. I’ll send you the bill.”

He knew by her expression she wouldn’t write down anything, even though she poised the pen above the paper. After a few seconds, she angled the tip away.

“Could you get an estimate over the phone now?” she asked.

“Doubtful.” He didn’t know why he was stringing her along. He knew the answer, probably to the penny, if the damage was what it had been the last time. He was just reluctant to let her go. Maybe it was the way she wouldn’t back down even though he seemed to terrify her.

“Can you try?”

He was entertained by her discomfort. She obviously wasn’t used to intrigue or she would’ve realized he could track her down through her license plate, whether she gave him her name or not.

He unzipped his jacket, pulled out his cell phone and pressed a button until the right number appeared on the screen. The phone rang twelve times before it was answered. “Yo, Bronco,” James said. “It’s Paladin.”

Her face paled. She busied herself with closing the pad of paper, as if the task was huge, aligning the edges of the tablet precisely, one side then the other, her fingers shaking. He figured he should just tell her what he did for a living—that she didn’t have to be afraid of him.

“Jamey! How’s that baby runnin’?”

“Could be better. There’s been an accident—” He held the phone away as Bronco shouted a few choice words. From her wince, James figured the Harley wrecker had heard them, too.

“Some woman driver hit you?” Bronco asked when he ran out of steam.

“As a matter of fact.” He was glad the woman in question couldn’t hear the sexist statement.

One more curse blasted the airwaves. “What’s the damage?”

“Same as before.”

“Drivable?”

“Not until it’s fixed.”

“I’ll come take a look in a while,” he said with a sigh.

He turned his back on the woman responsible and massaged his forehead. “Got a loaner?” he asked quietly.

“You on a job?”

“Yeah.”

“I can scrounge up something. Won’t be an Eagle. It’ll have some muscle, though.”

“Works for me. Thanks. I’ll see you later.” He snapped the phone shut and tucked it in his pocket before he turned back to face the woman and gave her an amount. “That’s if there’s no structural damage.”

She swallowed. “Plus you won’t have it as transportation.”

“Right.”

She looked at his house as if assessing his net worth. She also seemed to have calmed down. “You don’t have a car?” she asked.

“That’s not the point.”

A small fire flared in her eyes. “Look, I’m not denying my responsibility. I’m sorry you’ll be inconvenienced. I’ll go to the bank right now and bring the cash back to you, then I’ll stop by again in a few days to see if there are further costs. Will that be okay?”

“No.”

She gave him a long, cool look, which interested him as much as the heated one had.

“You said you were okay with my paying cash.”

“I am. But I’m going with you to the bank.” James wasn’t about to let her out of his sight yet. He wasn’t worried about finding her again, since he had her license plate number, but, well, frankly, she intrigued him—from her red lipstick, to her ringless finger that she continued to use as a touchstone, to her modest skirt and blouse.

“I don’t give rides to strangers.”

Implied in her tone was the fact he looked like part of a biker gang, which was his job at the moment—but she wouldn’t know that unless he chose to tell her. Not yet, he decided.