Hiding in Plain Sight (2 page)

I don’t know how long I sat, crouched with my knees deeply bent before I heard a motor.  A deeply thrumming motor as it raced over the little road.  All I knew was it was; a sound, which meant a vehicle, which equaled possible help as it raced towards me.  I couldn’t even tell which direction it was coming from since the area was so filled with small hills that the sound echoed and bounced.

I flexed my aching thighs as I stood slapping at the hungry mosquitoes, turning and propping myself against the roof of the car, flicking my glance both right and left.  As the engine noise got closer, I knew it wasn’t the sound of a car or even a truck.  And it definitely wasn’t a tractor.

The blip I glimpsed on the rise of one of the low-lying hills was the shape of a motorcycle before the road took it away from my sight.

A motorcycle meant ‘alone’. 

A motorcycle meant it wasn’t from
him
.

With that knowledge, I shook the pins and needles out of my legs and feet.  Holding onto the car, I moved around to the front, placing myself in front of the open hood towards the rider's trajectory.  He roared by in a flash of matte black and brilliant shimmering gold, with only the small movement of shaded helmet tilted in my direction as he breezed past me.

What if he is a scout?
My mind cautioned.  Like on TV when people are looking for the bad guys but don't know where they've gone.  He could've put lone people out there to look for me just as easily as he had the other groups in cars of three or four.

Shit!  I was exposed and didn't have even the least of a prayer in hiding myself away.  Though it didn't seem to matter as he roared by me, kicking up both dust and gravel as he passed by with a roar of engine and a spew of the road gravel.

Just another traveler and one that wasn't into helping women broken down on the side of the road in the middle of bum-fuck-Egypt.  At least my luck was running true to form.  I turned my eyes back to the engine exposed, wondering why I had never had the good kind of fortune others seem to be blessed with in the time I'd been alive.  

Other people got it.  Some in bits and spurts; some in deluges.  

But not me.  Not in even as a trickle.

My ears caught on the change in the speed of the motor of the machine, which had crested the hill behind me.  It was slowing before I heard it pick back up, the deep pulse of the motor echoing within me.

I turned back to the road and saw him crest the closest hill, then heard the engine again slow as he pulled onto the gravel of the space in the other lane directly across from me.  He was straddling what, at least to me, was a huge machine whose deep rumbling voice was cut off abruptly, leaving only the shushing sound of the wind through the grain fields.  As he turned off the deep-throated motor, I saw the dark shield of his visor pointed in my direction.  But its dark tint kept his face hidden.  As soon as the quiet settled, he swung a long, long, leather-clad leg over the seat.

All moisture from my mouth dried as I watched him step towards me. 

His wasn't a normal walk.  It was more like stalking, his leather boots a deep, slow beat on the hot asphalt.  He popped the fasteners on his leather jacket, exposing a chest that was broad and chiseled beneath a thin t-shirt that appeared to be wet and clinging to his body.  His large hands raised to the strap underneath his chin, and I saw him lift up his hands as he pushed the heavy helmet off his face.

My eyes narrowed on the vision before me.

Yeah, he was hot.

The bastard.

Long, shiny, sun-glistened light brown hair, though I couldn't have told you how long it was, the ends damp with his own sweat and captured underneath the collar of his leather jacket.  Heavy browed, but with sharp cheekbones and a full, yet severe mouth topped broad, broad shoulders which moved in counter-rhythm to the swivel of his hips.

I couldn't help my deep swallow at the sight of him or the prickle of sweat that began at my hairline on the band of my cotton bucket hat.

My eyes dropped to the movement of his knees, wondering how his creaking, black leather pants were able to mold to the thick muscles both above and below it.

Fucking bastard was my summation. 

No one should ever look that good, in that heat, in the fucking middle of Kansas.

"Hey," he said as he stopped in the middle of the road about ten feet away from me.

Oh, fuck, no.  Hot men didn't figure into my plan at all, and I found myself getting fucking freaked out, angry at just the look of him and all his gorgeousness.

"Hey," I replied with my hand squeezing my lower lip as I was struggled to breathe properly.

"Trouble?" his deep voice asked but there was a catch on the 'r' sound of the word.

"My car stalled and I can't get it started," I explained, trying to tame the broad vowels I'd known from my upbringing but were not common in this particular portion of the world.  He had no need to know I was from East Texas, and most Americans can tell which people are not from their neck of the woods simply based on an accent, on their choice of words.  I'd been working very hard on eradicating both and was hoping that my practice was working.  But not having talked to anyone for any length of time, I couldn't be sure if my rehearsals were successful.

Actually, he had no need to know about me at all.

Hot men had no reason to notice me and were not a part of my escape plan for any reason. 

Or my life, full stop.

I didn't need to be saved.

And at that thought, I got pissed off again. 

Another freaking guy, looking better than he should to make my life a living hell. 

While I was stuck out in the middle of nowhere. 

Shit!

Mama and I had argued about it.  The 'being rescued' versus 'being saved'.  She thought that men were here to help us, pull us up and out of whatever it was that we'd known before or the problems we found ourselves in.  I was all for that if that but only if it was a one-time thing; a simple rescue. 

'Saved' meant long term. 

'Rescued' was a one-off.

And, at the moment, I had a car that didn't work yet a guy in front of me that could probably command the stars just on his looks alone.

So, my mind gave him permission to perform a type of rescue of me in my predicament. 

Maybe.

Fucking, fucking hell.

He kept moving towards me and I continued to be mesmerized by vision of him.  Golden, glinted hair which set you up to encounter his light green eyes, and his full, well defined mouth. 

In any other situation I would've done a glance and stored the viewing for a later date to enjoy all he displayed.  But I was in hiding.  And after my recent sojourn of being pursued, I was extremely cautious of any of his gender.  So I made a point of breaking our eye contact as soon as it was socially polite while taking a small, hesitant step back.  But I sure as shit kept him in my peripheral vision as he moved closer without allowing him to invade my personal space.

I saw his eyes roam over the antique that was my engine before his eyes came back to me.

"Called for Triple A?" he asked, and again my ears caught the catch of the 'r' sound.

"Tried.  No service," I explained, trying to keep an innocent look on my face as I brought out my useless cellphone up to wave as demonstration.  I'd also been working the innocent look since day three of my journey.   I was hoping the lack of accent and the innocent expression, along with the looks god had given me would help me hide in plain sight.  Two of the three I was having to work on, the last one I'd just had to adjust.   In order to use whatever attractiveness the good Lord had given me.  In order to get what I needed.

I slowly slid my sunglasses off. 

I turned my head, which had been following his gaze to the motor parts, only to catch on his steady stare when his chin pointed towards mine.  Okay, I'll admit it, his slight grin softly thundered inside me as his light eyes captured my own brown ones.  Or it could've been the one devastating dimple, which made an appearance with his lip tilt.

"So, what is the plan?" he asked, peering and poking into the rusted parts, which comprised the engine of the car I'd negotiated so hard to obtain by illegally trading in a two-year old Mercedes that wasn't mine.  Well, in order to have a vehicle without a title in my name and without having to sign a shit-load of paperwork.

"Uhm…" I stalled.  I'd admit at the beginning, I had some scheme in mind but it hadn't included buying a piece of crap car at a shoddy outpost by trading in a top of the line stolen luxury automobile, that should have netted me both more cash and a better car.

He straightened and our eyes got caught again.

"No plan?" he offered softly.  And with that, I knew he had uncovered my inexperience with car buying.   And maybe even revealed a lot of other ineptitudes as well.

"Shit," I muttered and whipped my eyes away from his, my mind whirling.  No, I didn't have a plan beyond getting to the next place, the next stop, in order to escape, to hide. 

His eyes were still on me and from the underside of my lashes I saw his were weighing me, measuring me.

"I will take you to the next town," he announced.  I was guessing that whatever he'd seen in that assessment time had assisted in his decision to help.  "Grab only what will fill your purse, my panniers and a backpack."

"Pan-ays?" I asked.  Okay, I knew I was showing more than a trace of my accent when I tried to copy the word he'd used.

I saw his luscious lips tilt up, that hellacious dimple on full display in a kind of grin as he offered, "my saddlebags."

Oh, Christ.   This was way more than I was prepared for.

I steeled myself at the devastation of his looks and debated what to do.

For all I knew, he was a part of the army of
him
, sent out to find and return me. 

"No," I said, realizing my voice was shaky and had no volume.  Clearing my throat, I said it again, stronger this time.  "No."

My glance at his face when I spoke showed raised eyebrows with a head tilt. 

"You could be here for days since this is only a farm road.  Are you prepared for that?" he asked as he gazed at the open road both behind and in front of my stranded car.

"I don't know you," I admitted.  And that was the most truth I was willing to reveal in the few minutes we'd been together.

His eyes met mine and again seemed to weigh and measure me.  "No, you do not," he agreed.  "But at the moment, I am your only hope of a ride.  It is Sunday.  Farmers do not work their fields on Sundays.  Therefore, you cannot hope to receive rescue until at least tomorrow.  And, because these fields have been recently furrowed, maybe not until next week."

My gaze followed his as he spoke and found he was right.  The deep, wet earth on each of the grain fields spoke of having been recently turned.  The meticulous farmer would have no need to check on this portion of his fields for a while. 

Which meant no traffic. 

No ride.

And no rescue.

Chapter Two

He was frustrated and his ass hurt.  It had already taken him more time to meet with his contact in Colorado than what it should have, and he was behind schedule which would create problems.  The thirty-two extra hours, almost all of them spent on the bike, had been important, although his butt remembered the journey in miles and was reminding him loudly.

He couldn't let the 'real' intrude with his mission, though.  The subterfuge was beginning to wear thin and the blending of his two worlds wasn't something he could afford.  Not right away, not when he was so close.

Which was one of the reasons he'd chosen one of the farm roads to get back to Missoula.  He needed time; time to think things through, shore up his defenses and get back to the other life as fast as possible.

Then he'd seen her.

Standing in front of a broken down wreck of an automobile.

Beautiful, built and needing assistance.

Fuck was the word his mind had drawled out at just the glimpse of her as he'd roared by.

His brain told him to ignore her, completely forget the sight of her and the car with the engine hood opened on that lonely, desolate piece of road.  That's exactly what he'd tried to do as he'd blown past her.  He knew that particular stretch of road, though, and was aware she could be stuck for days without any hope of help, aid or assistance.

An opened hood was the universal sign of car trouble. 

Fuck!

Without thinking about it, he'd slowed his bike and turned around, something inside him compelling him to go back.  He'd just get her the help she needed as fast as possible, he told himself.  Then he would be done and out of there.

Keeping his eyes on her, he'd turned off the bike.  As long as she didn't see his face, he'd be okay.  But Christ!  It had to be in the 90's here on the open plains with more than 80 percent humidity.  How were you supposed to wear a helmet when it was that fucking hot?

As he slung his leg over, disembarking, he couldn't help but let his eyes do a long slow roam over her.  Not too tall and not too short in his opinion.  Curvy, in the way he liked with a deep chest, sharp waist and full hips.  But it was her thick thighs that really kept his attention.  Firm, full thighs that could cradle a man as he rode between them, gripping tightly as he plunged deeply, guiding them both towards…

Her knees were soft, almost bent.  Not locked in the position of: 'I can handle this'. 

Shit.

He shot his eyes up to her face, shadowed by her hat and hidden by her wrap-around sunglasses.  He needed to find something else to concentrate on. 

The rusted bucket of bolts of her ride was good.  Okay, yeah.  Sure.  He'd just stay focused on the faded gold of the carriage, ridden and pock-marked attesting to many rides on graveled ice and salt-studded snow. 

But it was the burnished brown hair that seemed to strike just below her shoulder blades that caught his attention, picked up by the winds whipping through the grasses lining each side of the road.  It reminded him of the color of rocks lining the creek near his cabin.  Almost brown, almost copper but flowing with the different colors and gleaming with health in its thickness.

Not her hair, dickwad.  The car.  Remain focused on the car
, his mind bellowed.

His body was steaming beneath the leathers but in more ways than one.  In an effort to cool off, he immediately opened his jacket and felt the wind catch against his sodden T-shirt.  In this heat, any breeze felt awesome against his sweat soaked body, and he began fumbling with the nylon strap which held his helmet.  It was too hot, too heavy to wear in that heat, and he was almost feverish in his attempts to remove it and cool his head.

When the air finally hit his scalp and hair, when he felt like he could, at last, take a deep breath that wasn't tainted by his own exhales, he slackened his pace.

"Hey," was all he could think of to say.  It was a typical American greeting.  Not unusual and in no way threatening, just a guy offering help. 

He stopped in the middle of the road to await her reply.  He'd learned that another's reaction could cue him on his next step of contact, so he waited.  She was pulling at her bottom lip.  Her face was well covered by the hat and the sunglasses.  He wondered what she looked like without them.

"Hey," she replied and he found her voice intriguing.  With the body, clothes and hair, he was prepared for something younger, higher sounding.  But hers was slightly deeper, huskier. 

He felt his cock stir at the sound.

Walking to the opened hood, he tried to talk with her to get a sense of what was going on.  He had already determined that she was from one of the southern states, although the accent was slight.  Which meant she was far from home.  Why?

Glancing at the engine, he was shocked the car had made it as far as it had.  It should've died a couple of years ago.  From the smells still emanating, it had overheated and was losing oil from someplace inside.  Glancing at the worn belts and hoses, he knew there wasn't help for it.  This machine was not going anywhere. 

He was just going to have to get her to the nearest service station or auto repair so she could receive the help she needed.  He couldn't leave her stranded on her own, although the thought did cross his mind.  

Strongly.

It was after she slipped the black sunglasses off, exposing her fathomless brown eyes, he knew taking off was no longer an option.   His leathers had again tightened at his crotch, and he made a point of turning his face and his body's reaction away from her beauty.  He had to stay on course and, if he was to assist, he had very little time to waste.

He felt a niggle of warning flare as he saw her response to his offer.  Something about this was off.  Because of his occupation, his dedication to his cause, he trusted his instincts and they were telling him things were not right.  Peeking into the car, he saw no suitcases or extra clothes.  Not even a purse, the symbol of independence most women carried.  Nothing but just a bunch of trash, a map and a well-worn though cheap wallet littered around the tilted passenger seat and floorboard.  When he'd grabbed the keys from the ignition, the ring only held those of the car and its trunk.  No house key or any other kind was hanging from the simple tag adorned with the VW symbol.

"Hey," he'd heard her protest when he'd removed the keys, though he ignored her.  There was too little time to waste for a petty argument between them.

He moved quickly to the trunk and saw this was where the beauty kept her personal items.  Tucked tight and out of view.

Things didn't add up.

So he laid it out, to let her know he was not buying the scene she was trying to sell.

"You are running," he'd said straight up but other than the brief flash of panic, she didn't respond.  Okay.  So her environs were a lie, but she was not a born liar.  He glanced at her, assessing her reaction as he told her to pick what she needed for the motorcycle which wouldn’t hold all the shit in her trunk. 

"I don't understand," he heard himself mumble in the old language.  Old car, but new clothes.  Cheap pocketbook.  Very fancy luggage, but two cases of water.  Plus, the trash in the car were of snack foods, no fast food bags were in attendance.  A pay as you go cell phone.  No house key on the well-worn key ring. 

Fuck it.  He already had too much on his mind to take on anything else.

"You have three minutes," he advised, hoping to get this over and done with as speedily as possible.  "Use the time wisely."