Maureen Child - Marooned With a Marine

But at this point, she was willing to take her chances. Hurricane Henry was on its way and she was out of options.

“Come on, come on,” she whispered, keeping her gaze glued to the mirror where those headlights shone like spots of hope in the shadows. And as she watched, the approaching car moved over and came up behind her. “Oh, thank heaven,” she whispered, and then said a quick prayer that she hadn’t been delivered from the proverbial frying pan into a fire.

Still watching the rearview mirror, she saw the driver open his door, and in the flash of his dome light, saw that he was alone. So much for the faint hope that she would be rescued by a nice, normal family. “Doesn’t matter,” she told herself firmly. “Whoever it is, he’s my hero.”

A second later, her hero was standing beside her door, rapping his knuckles against her closed window. Quickly, she rolled it down and squinted against the rain slashing at her face.

“Well, why am I not surprised?” a too-familiar voice asked of no one in particular.

Karen’s stomach fluttered. “Sam?”

“The one and only,” he assured her, then bent down to peer in at her.

Rain coursed down his windbreaker jacket, pooled on the brim of his baseball hat and dripped down on either side of his face. She looked into those pale brown eyes of his and knew that God had a sense of humor. Why else would She send the one man Karen had never wanted to see again as her rescuer?

“What’re you doing just sitting here on the side of the road?” he demanded.

Of all the stupid questions. Nervousness forgotten, she snapped, “It was such a nice night, I thought I’d park and admire it for a while.”

“Real funny, Karen,” he said. “There’s a hurricane coming, in case you hadn’t heard.”

“Well, duh.” She reached blindly for another chocolate and folded it into her closed fist, holding it like a talisman. “Look, do you have a CB or something in your truck? I tried using my phone to call for help, but it’s not working.”

He shook his head and snorted. “Honey, even if it were working, there’s no one to call. If you’re lookin’ for help tonight, I’m it.”

Her left shoulder and arm were getting soaked and she scooted farther to her right.

Muttering something unintelligible, he took a deep breath, blew it out again and said, “Come on. We’ll get your stuff and you can come with me.”

“Where to?” she asked, eyeing him warily.

He laughed shortly. “Does that really matter at this point?”

“I guess not,” she admitted, knowing full well and good this was her only option. She could refuse and sit here in her car waiting…hoping someone else would come along and stop. But what if no one did? What if his was the last car headed her way? What if she ended up right here, alone, in the middle of the hurricane?

Nope.

Even Sam Paretti was a better choice than that.

“Give me your keys,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’ll get your stuff from the trunk.”

Officious as always, she thought as she pulled them from the ignition and handed them to him. Then she turned to pick up her purse and thermos and sack of candy from the passenger seat. Rolling up the window again, she pulled the hood of her coat up over her head and stepped into the mouth of the building storm.

The wind snatched her hood off instantly, and in seconds her hair hung lankly on either side of her face. Trails of bathwater-warm rain slipped beneath the collar of her shirt and rolled along her spine. Her jeans felt heavy and clammy against her legs as the water soaked into the denim fabric, and her tennis shoes squished in the mud and water flowing across the road like a dirty river.

Here in the low country, it could take days for the water to run off the highway. Until then, every street became a lake, every highway a river and every field an ocean.

Carefully, she leaned into the wind and slanting rain to make her way to the back of the car. She was in time to hear Sam mutter, “Females. How in the hell can they possibly need so much stuff?”

“Pardon me for not being able to get along with nothing but a pocketknife and a snare,” she snapped.

“You’re not going on vacation,” he said as he lifted both bags out at once. “This is an evacuation.”

“So?” What did he expect? That she should uproot herself with nothing more than a paper sack containing a change of underwear?

“Never mind,” he grumbled, shaking his head.

He sloshed through the wet to his car and set her luggage in his trunk. Right behind him, Karen peered into the back of the huge SUV and stared at the pile of survival gear he’d brought with him.

“A tent?” she shouted, to be heard over the rising wind. “You’re planning on camping out? In this?”

“Not anymore, apparently,” he said, and stalked back toward her car. Lifting the cooler and a plastic grocery bag out of the trunk, he slammed the lid down and walked back toward where she waited in the red glow of his blinking hazard lights. “What have you got in here?” he asked as he shoved the cooler and the bag into the trunk and slammed the hatch closed.

“Food,” she told him. “Necessities.”

“Chocolate?” he asked, one eyebrow lifting. Her fingers tightened on the bag she still held. “That’s a necessity. Trust me.”

“Whatever. Just come on.” He took her elbow in a firm grip and guided her to the passenger side of the car. Opening the door, he all but picked her up and threw her inside. The door slammed shut right behind her and the sudden silence and absence of wind and rain was almost a shock to her system.

Sam climbed in a moment later, and then they were alone in the warm, confined space.

He turned his head to look at her, and when she stared into those eyes of his, Karen had to wonder which would have been more dangerous.

Being stranded in a hurricane by herself?

Or being alone with Sam Paretti.

She looked like a drowned rat.

And still was more beautiful than any other woman he’d ever known. Damn it.

Sam just stared at her for a long minute, looking his fill, feeding the need that had been riding him for two long months. Damn. It felt as though it had been years since he’d seen her last. Not weeks.

His instincts had drawn him to the disabled car with its hazard lights blinking. With this kind of storm coming in, he hadn’t been able to just drive on past someone who might need help. It hadn’t been until the last minute, when he’d recognized her car, that he’d known he was about to pay a price for his chivalry.

The price being, he could look at her, but he couldn’t touch her.

And knowing that made him angry, giving his voice more bite than he’d intended when he swiped one hand across his face and asked, “What the hell are you still doing here? You should have evacuated hours ago.”

Finely arched blond eyebrows lifted high on her forehead. “Hello, Pot?” she said. “This is Kettle. You’re black.”

“Very funny,” he said, acknowledging that he, too, should have long since left town. “But my situation’s a little different.”

“Really?” she asked, and ate a piece of chocolate. “How’s that?”

“Well for one thing,” he told her, with a glance out the windshield at her DOA car, “my car works.”

She frowned at him.

“I told you three months ago,” he said, “that car was on its last legs. It’s a rolling disaster.” He shook his head in disgust. “I told you not to count on that thing.”

She shifted in her seat, unwrapped another chocolate and popped it into her mouth before answering. Like it was some sort of magic confidence pill. But then, hadn’t she always reached for chocolate when she was nervous? Or upset. Or happy. As he recalled, chocolate was a major part of Karen Beckett’s personality.