Peg Sutherland - All-American Baby

The judgment in her tone raised his hackles. “I am not a two-bit thief,” he said, aiming for a tone that wasn’t defensive. He knew he’d failed.

“Aren’t you?”

“No, I certainly am not.”

“You’re right! You’re a very classy thief. This is wonderful. Blue jeans! Movie star sunglasses! A gold-sequined T-shirt! You can steal for me anytime, Ash.”

“You were supposed to hate my choices.”

“That’s because you look at me and see a princess. I’m really just a suburban housewife in disguise.” He heard the click of her seat belt and looked to see her clambering over the seat into the back of the van.

He glanced over at her. “What are you doing?”

“Changing clothes.” She winked at him. “You’re welcome to look, but we’ll probably be better off if you keep your eye on that big truck heading this way.”

He quickly focused front and center. The road ahead was as deserted as it had been moments before. But that was okay. He really had no desire whatsoever to watch her change clothes.

Well, maybe a tiny bit of interest. Idle curiosity. She wasn’t exactly a Baywatch babe. A little on the skinny side, actually. Little-boy hips and lots of rib action. Breasts—

Okay. Eyes and mind on the road.

“If you aren’t a two-bit thief,” she said, her voice momentarily muffled by clothing going over her head, “I don’t suppose you’d like to explain how it is you know how to hot-wire cars and break into clothing stores without even turning a hair.”

He thought of trying to explain his childhood, his upbringing, his family. Not possible. You see, we’ve been thieves and con men for generations. But we only steal from the rich. Probably direct descendants of Robin Hood, don’t you see. With a slight variation. We might steal from the rich, but we definitely do not give to the poor. “No, I would not.”

“Is it a compulsion? An addiction of some kind. I’ll bet they have a twelve-step group for it. You could get help. Lead a normal, productive life.”

“The only way I’m going to lead a normal life is to figure out what to do with you.”

“I’m not your problem, Ash Thorndyke. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” The sound of delighted laughter floated up from the back of the van. “And I am perfectly stunning in my new wardrobe.”

She climbed back into the front seat and Ash noted that she did indeed look stunning. The jeans fit like second skin—had she filled out in the last three months, or was his memory that faulty? The T-shirt looked campy and fun, the 1950s sunglasses went perfectly with her gamine-like grin.

“Mel’s the name,” she said, adopting a familiar midwestern twang.

It was the same voice she’d used in London.

“We’ve met,” he said dryly.

Her enthusiasm wilted. “So we have.”

She lapsed into silence. They drove along the coast until he couldn’t stand the silence any longer. He saw a trail off the highway and followed it to a secluded clearing overlooking the ocean.

“Welcome to the Holiday Inn,” he said gruffly.

She scrambled into the back of the van again, making a little nest of her slightly bedraggled evening gown. For a pampered heiress, she looked not the least perturbed to be preparing for a night on the hard floor of a van in the middle of nowhere. She looked as cheerful as a kid on an adventure.

She’d used that to reel him in before, too.

He yanked off his tie and pitched it onto the floor behind the driver’s seat. The cummerbund followed, then his tuxedo jacket, cuff links, watch and shoes. He contemplated the gym shorts and T-shirt from the boutique and decided there was no way he was disrobing with her in the vehicle.

“Would you roll down the windows?” Her voice had a dreamy quality to it. “So we can hear the surf?”

His first impulse was to say no simply for the sake of saying no. Then he realized there was no good reason to be hard-nosed with her. After all, this had been his decision. Nobody’d said he had to bring her with him. As soon as he’d figured out that the deal he’d agreed to was not what he’d thought, he could’ve walked.

But no. He’d had to play hero. Rescue the woman in jeopardy.

He’d had no idea what he’d been getting himself into.

Thoroughly disgruntled with the way his day had gone, he rolled down the windows so Her Highness could hear the surf, crawled into the back, selected the corner farthest from Melina and stretched out on his back.

“Good night” she whispered.

His reluctant response was gruff.

The full moon spilled in through the front windows. The sound of the surf was mesmerizing, stirring a matching rhythm in his pulse—a little wild, a little fast. And Melina Somerset—his Mel Summersby—lay two feet away.

She was fun to kiss, he remembered that in sharpest detail. She could make him laugh right in the middle of a kiss, then keep right on going without spoiling the rhythm of their lovemaking. She liked to tickle him awake in the mornings when he still had lots of sleeping to do—little tickles, feathery tickles that made him smile.

He’d never laughed and smiled so much in his life as he had those two weeks with her.

And it had all been a lie.

THE OCEAN CALLED to Melina, its sharp scent and steady roar beckoning. She lay curled in the back of the van, head resting on her silky pillow, and thought of slipping out of the van and walking along the rocky shore she’d glimpsed through the trees. Lying here in the dark with no one to talk to wasn’t very relaxing. She kept thinking of her father and his anguish when he discovered she was gone again, and how much worse it would get when he realized he wasn’t going to find her this time. She kept thinking of the new life she was going to make for herself. Her thoughts were a whirlwind of guilt and excitement. And, she had to admit, a little anxiety.

A walk along the coast, surely, would quiet those troublesome thoughts.

She doubted she could get away without waking Ash. Every time she rustled around, his deep breathing stopped and she could almost sense him tensing, waiting to see what she had in mind. He slept like a cat, with one ear alert.

What kind of man could sleep that way? What kind of man knew how to hot-wire cars and break into dress shops?

What kind of man made love to you, then took off in the night without a word of explanation?

Who was Ash Thorndyke, anyway?

That mystery had haunted her for months.

He’d been a mystery from the moment they met. But she’d been naive enough to find that intriguing, alluring, downright exciting.

They met on her first day in London. Despite the constant cold drizzle, Melina had been almost giddy with her freedom. She had managed to elude her father’s people through northern France, then taken the Chunnel to England. Surely in a city the size of London, one could simply vanish.

She had next-to-no money and even less experience. All she possessed was the small valise she’d had at her side when she escaped, containing a few changes of clothes, some toiletries—and her mother’s diamond wedding choker. She was standing at the entrance to the Underground, London’s subway, studying the map that was a confusing maze of colored lines. She had the address of a pawnshop and no clue how to translate the map on the wall.

The voice over her shoulder was friendly and American. “You look like a damsel in distress.”

The voice alone would have been enough to make her fall in love with him instantly. An American. She could barely catch her breath as she turned toward the voice.

“Yes, I guess you could say that’s what I am.”

“Ash Thorndyke.” He’d tipped forward slightly, almost an old-fashioned bow. “At your service.”