LITMIR.BIZ

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those things, and not caring to have his life bared for perusal by anyone except the military, he shifted the large, red metal toolbox to his other hand. “What else do you have there?”

      Her smile was supremely confident. “I have it all, so you might as well accept the fact that I’m here to help you. I didn’t come all the way from Missouri for nothing.”

      “No way, Ms. Hayes.” He turned and headed out of the carport.

      She followed, her strides remarkably long and determined despite the height of her heels and the snugness of her skirt. Which were two things he hadn’t wanted to notice, given the disaster his life had become. So he stopped and asked, “Or is it ‘Mrs.’? Don’t you have a husband or someone waiting on you? Why don’t you fly home early and surprise him, ma’am.”

      She made a disgusted-sounding noise. “Afraid not, Major. It’s Miss, and even if it weren’t, even if there was someone waiting for me to come home, which there isn’t, he’d just have to wait.” She glared for several moments, then her expression softened and she shifted toward him.

      His survival-training-honed instincts went on high alert.

      In a beguiling tone that was a far better match to her unusual eyes and full mouth, she said, “On the other hand, the more you cooperate with me, the sooner we can get you free of this unpleasantness. And the sooner you’re free of this unpleasantness, the sooner you can be rid of me. So it’s entirely up to you, Major.”

      It was Rick’s turn to make a disgusted sound as he started again toward his truck. He might free himself of her, but they both knew he’d never be free of the stain “this unpleasantness” would leave on his reputation.

      Nor would he be free of the McCoys, for that matter. His mood darkened further. He wasn’t about to run to them because he had nothing else to do.

      He dropped his toolbox with a bang next to the crushed left front of the once dingless Dodge.

      Planting his hands on his hips, he tried to ignore the woman next to him by focusing on the truck’s damage. The lights on this side were completely obliterated, the hood had buckled and the side panel was creased and streaked with black paint.

      From the other car. The car of Emelie Dawson, forty-six, divorced mother of two.

      If only he’d looked closer that night, he would have realized a tree hadn’t caused the damage. His throat tightened and his stomach turned.

      Focus on what you have power over.

      He examined the front of the truck. He’d have to pry the bumper away from the wheel to keep from further trashing the tire if he wanted to drive the truck to the repair shop rather than have it towed—a minor concession he’d make to his restrained pride. There’d be a little too much symbolism involved in having to watch his truck being winched up onto a flatbed and hauled away.

      He pushed the button on the key fob and unlocked the truck so he could get a crowbar from the space in back of the seat.

      Behind him, Miss Hayes said, “I’m surprised they didn’t impound your vehicle.”

      “They did. My Acme lawyer got it returned to me right after the police processed it.”

      Without commenting, she said crisply, “Back to the police report. You initially admitted to having driven this truck the night of the accident. Is that correct?”

      Rick stifled a sigh as he backed out of the cab and straightened, crowbar in hand. Maybe if he let her see exactly how little help she could provide, she’d leave. He shut the truck’s door. “Correct.”

      He’d said the words that night; now he’d pay the price.

      She moved just enough to let him get down on the blacktop to search beneath the bumper for a good leverage point. “But then you exercised your Fifth Amendment right to remain silent in order to avoid incriminating yourself. Why? Why not just ask to speak with an attorney before you answered any more questions?”

      He found a notched spot and fit one end of the crowbar against it, then braced the other one on the bumper. “Because talking to a lawyer then wouldn’t have made any difference. I still wasn’t going to answer any questions.”

      “Because you’re guilty.”

      He grunted an answer, but the acceptance in her tone made him shove on the wedged crowbar extra hard.

      “Okay, then. Let’s walk through the facts.”

      “I don’t want your help, Miss Hayes.”

      “Humor me. And please, call me Lynn.”

      She was cozying up to him, to get him to let her into the game. The healthy male in him locked and loaded at the mere thought of cozying up to a looker like her—but no way.

      “Witnesses have you leaving the Rancho Margarita Bar’s parking lot in a truck matching the description of this one—”

      She stepped close and lightly kicked the tire next to his shoulder with her beige, high heeled shoe. She wasn’t wearing any hose, and her incredibly smooth, lightly tanned skin pulled his gaze upward over a slender ankle, a toned calf, a perfect knee, a satiny thigh shadowed by the hem of her skirt…

      “—and heading south in the northbound lane for approximately a hundred yards before making a correction.” She humphed and shifted her weight. “Hard to claim a momentary lapse of control caused the accident.”

      Rick jerked his attention back to the crowbar, practically forgotten in his hands. “That it would be,” he concurred, pretending that he hadn’t just been peering up her skirt. He knew the perspiration forming on his back and his forehead said otherwise.

      He gave the crowbar a fast, hard push.

      She shifted again, but this time he only allowed himself a glance. Damn, but she had nice legs. Runner’s legs. The kind that had to be earned, especially since she appeared to be about his age. Thirty-something women didn’t keep legs like that free.

      He gritted his teeth and pushed again. The bumper moved an inch with a satisfying metal-on-metal squawk.

      “Why don’t you just let them crank the thing up on a flatbed and haul it to a shop?”

      “Because.” He grumbled and pushed at the bumper a third time. “It’s not that bad.”

      She scoffed. “If you say so. But according to this, you must have been traveling about thirty miles per hour when you ran the light after getting into the right lane. No skid marks before you hit the black sedan as it was starting its left-hand turn. Just because you could back up and drive away doesn’t mean your truck isn’t trashed.”

      She took a step nearer and he glanced up to see her peering into the cab. “Ah. So that’s what an airbag looks like. Can’t be easy to drive with all that hanging out of the steering wheel into your lap. Or feel pleasant when it nails you.”

      Good thing he had no intention of taking his shirt—or anything else—off around this woman, because she was certain to spot that he didn’t have a mark on him other than his tattoo.

      “Too bad the airbag in the car you hit couldn’t prevent the driver from getting her pelvis broken. I can’t imagine anything that would hurt worse.”

      He grunted in response, using all his strength to shove the bumper outward, away from the wheel well so the tire could turn freely. He didn’t want to think about the specifics of that night, didn’t want to form a picture that would play over and over in his head. The future held enough nightmares for him as it was.

      But he was a man of his word, and he’d given his word. Besides, now it was all too late.

      “Interesting.”

      He paused, only barely refraining from asking what?

      “It says here, you refused a breathalyzer and blood test at the station, but exhibited no signs of inebriation. Even though

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