The Derby Girl Page 2

  Fortunately, those same years of maneuvering rugged, off-terrain military-grade Jeeps meant that he knew his way around a flat tire. He couldn’t count the number of times they’d been stalled mid-transport only to find that a rock or a tree branch or, as was more often the case, a piece of shrapnel, had stalled their forward movement. When you had to change a tire on a dirt path that had seen its share of attacks on civilian medical convoys, you learned to do it quickly.

  As soon as the spare was in place, he pumped the hand-crank to lower his car to the ground.

  “Thanks.” He struggled to get the gratitude out as he returned the jack to its owner. Funny how appreciation always seemed to get lodged in his throat just when it was needed most. “And despite what I said before, I appreciate the rescue.”

  She turned and nodded. “You’re welcome. Can I offer you a piece of advice?”

  He stopped. He’d been just about to say the exact same thing to her. “Can I offer you some first?”

  “By all means.” Then, wryly, she added, “Although I always thought ladies were supposed to go first. How appropriate that you’d be the exception to that rule.”

  Ignoring the barb, he reached up and touched her temple on the swollen side, gently feeling the edges of her contusion. As if sensing he meant no harm, she let him. Maybe she felt his doctor’s touch, or maybe it was that this woman was way too trusting to be let out alone after the sun went down, but she didn’t move or even wince.

  “You’re going to have a pretty bad bruise for the next couple of days, but it doesn’t look like anything is fractured.” He moved his fingers down her face, stopping gently at her lip. A protective surge moved through him, out of place and unfamiliar. “And I’d put some ointment on that to keep it from cracking more.”

  Another mark—this one darker and twisting—extended its way up her neck, but for some reason, that seemed too intimate a place to pry.

  “Anything else?” she asked, her tone light.

  He dropped his hand. “Yes. Go straight to the police station and place charges. Take pictures. Don’t let him get away with it.”

  She met his gaze directly, and he noticed for the first time that her eyes were light hazel, a kind of unearthly yellow that dazzled even in the middle of nowhere under a half-moon sky.

  “I see. And do I strike you as the type of woman to let a man get away with anything?”

  No. No, she doesn’t. But that didn’t lessen his overwhelming urge to demolish the asshole who’d dared to try.

  “Does that mean I can’t go kick this guy’s ass for you?” he couldn’t help asking. “Because I can tell you right now—all you have to do is say the word and it’s done. With pleasure.”

  She laughed. “That’s sweet, but you can go ahead and stop acting like you’ve just discovered your dick and won’t stop until the whole world has admired it with you.”

  Did she just say what he thought she said?

  Gretchen smiled again, wincing when she stretched too far and her lip started bleeding again. It didn’t slow her smile down one bit. Along with a growing tension in his chest, a strong sense of bewilderment stole over him.

  “I was at roller derby practice.” She took pity on him, touching the side of her head with a soft smile. “This is what a rogue skate does when it finds a nice place to land. It looks worse than it feels, I promise.”

  “A roller derby skate?”

  She nodded. “Fast and four-wheeled. Heavy too.”

  “You’re sure that’s all it was?” He studied her closely, looking for the typical signs of evasion—poor eye contact, an unconscious shifting of the body, arms crossed to keep outsiders at bay. Nothing. She didn’t move, barely even blinked.

  “I promise. I’m okay.”

  Why was disappointment his first response to that statement? He should have been relieved to hear that this woman was no victim, happy to know she had someplace safe to go when she got back into that junk heap of a car.

  A prurient medical interest—that was where he’d assign blame. Not at all the recent discovery of his dick, as she suggested. He knew very well where the damn thing was and what kind of trouble it created.

  “Come to think of it, you might need a stitch on that lip,” he said, lending credence to his thoughts. “I can help with that. Do you live around here?”

  “It’s not that bad.” She paused, eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute—you have no idea who I am, do you?”

  The bewilderment grew. It wasn’t often that Jared found himself at a loss for words. In fact, he was exceptionally good at saying what people wanted to hear. Yes, it’s lovely to see you again. Of course I remember what a great time we had at that party. I’m happy to be back in the United States, thanks for asking. But he came up empty as he racked his brain trying to place the woman. He would have remembered a militant roller-skating pixie. He was sure of it.

  “Why am I not surprised?” She directed her question more to herself that time and sighed. “I sure know how to pick them. Well, since you’re obviously far too important to mingle with the rabble, can I give you that advice now?”

  “Go out with me.” The words were past his lips before he even realized they’d entered his head.

  She blinked, looking at him with a mixture of fascination and surprise. The combination lit her already flashing eyes, pulling him in and leaving him suddenly weightless. “What did you just say?”

  “Go out with me,” he repeated, more firmly this time. Retreat, though wise, wasn’t an option. So far, he had yet to say one thing to this woman that impressed her. Or intimidated her. Or made her do anything but laugh at him.

  Yet there she stood, unmistakably interested. Unmistakably intrigued.

  The feelings, he was happy to note, were reciprocated.

  “Please,” he said. “It’s the least you can do for making me feel like the biggest jackass in the world.”

  “What’s that famous quote?” Gretchen paused, thinking, but he could tell from the look of mischief in her eyes that it was all for show. “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent?”

  “Are you implying that the reason I feel like a jackass is because I am one?”

  “I’m just here to help you change a tire.”

  “I am a jackass,” he continued, ignoring her, only half joking. “A big one. Self-absorbed, vain. The only feelings I care about are my own. I break women’s hearts and don’t bother sticking around to see what they do with the pieces.”

  “They generally pick them up and move on with their lives,” she said dryly. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard a man insult himself with so much conceit lingering in the subtext. You have a gift.”

  “I have several,” he acknowledged with a slight bow.

  She let loose a burst of laughter. “I can’t wait to find out what the rest of them are.”

  As she seemed deliciously close to agreeing to go out with him, he chose his next words carefully. “Just so you know, I don’t improve much on further acquaintance. In fact, I get much worse.”

  Gretchen tilted her head, considering him. There was no use pretending she wasn’t flattered—giddy, even—despite this man’s obvious conceit and the fact that he didn’t recognize her as the barista who handed his breakfast out the to-go window most mornings. He was, after all, the Dr. Jared Fine, Pleasant Park’s newest hero.

  Stocky and powerful with craggy lines in his weathered face and around his deep-set eyes, Jared was the kind of guy who branded himself on a woman’s imagination in the best—and worst—possible way. Not one of your pretty boys, this one, not even handsome in the classical sense of the word. He looked like a man returned from war, hard and intent and determined to force his way through any situation—including those involving women.

  Her friend Caitlyn called him a panty disintegrator. One s
trong look, and satiny undergarments all but combusted on the spot, flung themselves at the nearest unsuspecting passerby.

  Good thing Gretchen’s undergarments were made of sterner stuff. She had specialty no-ride hotpants—a staple of roller derby girls everywhere. Those suckers didn’t move without express permission from the owner first.

  “Will you do it?” he asked, his eyes never leaving hers. Despite his almost clinical arrogance, she had the feeling her answer meant a lot more than it should have, given the circumstances.

  “That depends...would you insist on picking me up in that horrible car?”

  Jared looked over his Ferrari with a grimace. “I admit it might be a bit much.”

  She held her fingers up in an approximation of an inch. “A very tiny much.”

  He caught her meaning and fell into a startled laugh. Damn, but that was a laugh, low and rumbling, practically shaking the ground beneath her feet. There was something about taking a stern man by surprise that had a way of making a girl all unsteady on her legs.

  “Don’t worry. It’s not my intention to pick you up at all.”

  “How thoughtful. I might have figured.”

  “I’ve never had any complaints about my technique before,” he said smoothly. “But you really need to start taking precautions—especially with strange men. For a first date, you should always drive yourself and offer to meet at the restaurant. And didn’t your parents ever teach you not to pull over to help random strangers when you’re alone?”

  “I told you already. You’re not a stranger.”

  His eyes flashed with something dark as her meaning became clear. “You must live in Pleasant Park.”

  “I do.”

  “Then you know who I am.”

  “I do.”

  There was that dark flash again. “Don’t believe everything you hear.”

  “The good stuff or the bad stuff?” Gretchen might not have the most glamorous job in the world, but one thing about being situated in the middle of the downtown area and serving caffeine to the masses was that she experienced no shortage of borough gossip. When Jared and some of his friends had opened a medical spa a few months ago, the New Leaf facility was all anyone could talk about.

  Gretchen had liked the place right from the start. The other plastic surgeon who worked there was this hilarious, high-volume woman, and Gretchen had even gone in a few times to talk to the giant, kindly massage therapist about getting her grandmother in for a Swedish massage.

  “The good.” He turned sharply away. “Don’t believe any of the good stuff. The bad is all true.”

  Well, shoot. There went the last of her resolve.

  Agreeing to go out with this man was the horror-movie equivalent of splitting up to go investigate a scary noise, of running through the kitchen to escape and not taking one extra second to grab a butcher knife or nutcracker or big-ass wooden spoon or anything by way of protection.

  Yet still she ran.

  Hey—someone had to be the first to go, and her blood splattered red and gory just as well as the next gal’s. Gorier, even, she realized as she touched her lip. And he didn’t seem to mind in the least.

  “The answer is yes. I’ll go out with you. I’ll meet you at a public place in the full light of day and with my rape whistle around my neck. Satisfied?”

  He looked it. Within two seconds, the gloomy, moody man-child disappeared, replaced once again by the arrogant doctor she recognized, all smirking lips and uplifted brows. In that moment, she wasn’t sure which of the Jareds she was saying yes to—the man or the monster.

  Who was she kidding? Both of them gave her insides a twist. And a little meltiness in the panty region.

  She stuck out her hand, holding it aloft until he shook. His hand was surprisingly soft for his grizzled exterior, although that shouldn’t have surprised her. He probably spent most of his time swimming in latex and fat tissue. Still, she took a moment to revel in it, the strong grip and smooth skin, the wildly divergent extremes.

  And then he ruined it, doing that condescending doctor thing where he placed his other hand in there and forced a double shake, as though he wanted to comfort her into handing over all her insurance information.

  “Is it too late for you to give me that advice?” he asked.

  She’d been planning on telling him to be nicer to the barista who drew little hearts and rainbows on his cup in the morning, but that didn’t seem appropriate now. If he couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to minimum-wage service workers on his own, she certainly wasn’t going to smooth the path for him now. Besides—he seemed like the type to appreciate the challenge. She changed tactics.

  “I think I might make you earn it first.”

  He accepted her decree with a nod of almost grateful understanding.

  “How did you say I know you again?” he asked as they exchanged phone numbers and made plans for a highly public date—no dark roadsides allowed. It was almost cute, how wary he was of protecting her. All she had to do was swing her purse at him and the roll of quarters in there would have probably knocked him flat while she made a break for it.

  And she was fast. As the team jammer, being light on her feet was a given.

  “I didn’t.”

  “I’m going to be ashamed of myself when I finally figure it out, aren’t I?”

  She nodded happily. “If you have any decency at all, yes, you are.”

  He let out a long sigh, though a smile lurked at the corners of his mouth and robbed the sound of any melancholy. “Unfortunately, decency is one of the many things I have in short supply.”

  Chapter Two

  Gretchen got the first text as she pulled in front of her grandmother’s house and put her car into park.

  I didn’t pass any stranded roller skaters in broken-down cars on my way home. I assume (and hope) that means you got home in one piece. P.S. I’d still be happy to beat someone up for you. Let me know.

  First of all, it was an old man text. Grammatically correct, full sentences, taking up two entire messages so she got charged twice. It was the sort of thing her grandmother sent her. No matter how many times Gretchen tried explaining that shorter was better, Gran would sit and diligently compose entire paragraphs at a time, swearing when the autocorrect took over and she ended up sending long, complex codes it took hours to decipher.

  Secondly...how sweet was that? If she ignored that whole episode where he’d acted condescending and had no idea who she was, this was the type of situation a woman might break out her diary for. It seemed that early-morning smiles and coffee-cup doodles weren’t the way to capture this man’s interest. All one had to do was show up, mangy and half-beaten, not altogether unlike a dog on the street who needed to be pacified with a bagel.

  With another half wince, half smile, Gretchen tucked the phone in her purse and got out of the car. She’d intended to go straight through the back door and down to an exhausted, well-deserved sleep, but a light in the front room gave her pause. As Gran wasn’t in the habit of staying up late, or of wasting good money on electricity she wasn’t using, it seemed an investigation was in order.

  Taking care of the woman was, after all, the only reason Gretchen could reasonably give for sharing an abode with her paternal grandparent. No matter how much she might try to pretend that living in an almost separate basement apartment was an approximation of adulthood, she still shared a mailbox with the woman who’d raised her.

  “Gran?” Gretchen called softly, setting her keys on one of the three tables in the foyer. Experience had long since taught her that waking the sleeping dragon at this time of night was not the best way to uphold her personal commitment to self-preservation. Gretchen might not be the most brilliant or successful member of her family, but sixteen years of living under this roof had taught her a thing or two about surv
ival. “Are you still awake?”

  A low murmur reached her ears, putting her on instant alert. That could easily be the sound of an old woman being tied up and cast as bait to lure a young woman, unaware, into a room with only one exit. It could also be the sound of two robbers discussing how best to crack open the safe that hid behind an enormous picture of a family ancestor with muttonchops that would have done a Civil War general proud.

  Not that they’d find anything behind those sepia-tinted jowls. Gran kept most of her important personal effects under a floorboard in the kitchen. A floorboard that squeaked, thank you very much, and could benefit from being nailed back down.

  Another murmur sounded, this time broken by a crack of her grandmother’s signature laugh, a shrill, half-cackle sound Gretchen had never been able to duplicate. She released her grip on the can of pepper spray in her purse and sighed.

  She pulled open the French doors leading to the slightly recessed living room and immediately closed them again.

  “I am not here,” she announced. Oh, dear God. What she would give for that to be true. “I’m going down to bed and pretending I didn’t see that.”

  The doors pulled open again, this time from the inside, and a round, friendly male face popped into view. “Oh, hey there, Gretchen. I was just showing your grandma how she can improve her circulation with some deep breathing.”

  “I don’t want to know.” She held up her hands and backed away. “It’s none of my business.”

  “Oh, but it is. I’d like you to plunge in with me on some of these later.” Freddy smiled widely at her and gestured for her to enter the room, where her grandmother lay in the middle of a swirled-pattern rug. Red-faced and breathing heavily, Gran looked as though she’d just run a marathon. Also, her nightgown was pushed to the top of her thighs. These things did not add up to an appealing picture.