120 Mph Read Free

she held
out her hand . . . and he did not shake it. In fact, Chippendale seemed
to be openly glaring at her, perhaps for Sara having tried to make an apology
toward a rather innocent bump in the first place. Good grief! It was not as if
she’d flattened him onto his backside.
    Her fists balled while putting more
thought to doing just that.
    No. Just because her day started out so
crappy did not mean she should resort to road rage mentality on the front lawn
of a stranger. Her hands released their fists.
    “Um . . . yes, I am sorry,” she
reiterated, then turned on her heels and moved away. Under her breath, she slipped
out the words, “Even though you don’t want to believe me.”
    Sara headed back to the glassware and
suddenly could not control the fury building inside her. So strong in an
otherwise generous nature . . . well, it could not be contained, no matter how
hard she tried.
    She whipped around, set her hands on her
hips, and gave Mr. Chippendale what’s what—right over the span of a
table of tools and old bric-a-brac displayed in proper order of rust. The fury
released out of her within two beats of a bumblebee’s wing. Surely the man had
no need to add to her crappy day just by making it rather tiresome.
    “What exactly is your problem?” She almost
growled out her frustrations, which wouldn’t have been at all ladylike.
    Unfortunately, the bluest eyes
imaginable rose and stared at her. Those eyes raised their corresponding brows,
while a sudden smile filled the expanse of his firm, tipped mouth.
    “I did not think that I had one . . . until
now,” he said.
    Didn’t have one? Of all the nerve!
    The sharp lilt to his voice set Sara’s
world afire. Yet the condemnation in that tone somehow doused any fire faster
than could be lit. Anger? Remorse? No, it had looked and sounded to go much
deeper inside the man. He sounded . . . bothered .
    Good Lord! Was that his problem? She was
bothering him, while a few minutes wasted shopping for old treasures and an
accidental bump with the ass?
    Without much pause he added more, likely
his sole purpose to force Sara into regretting having stopped at another yard
sale on her way home from work. “And I know exactly who you are, Ms. Ruby.”
    She must have looked ready to contradict
this fact, and state she clearly did not know him, and if she had wouldn’t have
liked knowing him, because he continued with, “It is why I have been following
you.”
    Eight carefully spoken words suddenly
stalled the beating of her heart.
    “Y—you’ve been following me?” she
questioned firmly, but with a mild stutter when finding her voice still intact,
and the control of that voice located more toward the knees than within the back
of the throat. “W—why would you be following me?”
    Okay. Time to do a quick assessment
check . . .
    She would need a proper description when
having to tell a sketch artist his more than prominent features. Strong jaw,
blue eyes, dark hair, tall, about six-feet-two, leather jacket that fit like a well-worn
glove, snug . . . no, not right. His pants weren’t at all snug; more the pity
to all the women of the world.
    Jesus! There were a million men with this
rather vague description to his person. She’d have to try a whole lot harder to
assess all of him. Sara’s gaze darted to his pants.
    He didn’t seem to notice, while turning a
hasty glance toward the old woman who was selling her treasured possessions, and
who sat in a rocker nearer the farmhouse with knitting needles in hands.
    Two seconds later, his attention
returned to her and Sara’s eyes had to be forcibly moved up to his face.
    Her handsome, leather bound stranger then
stepped toward her, leaned his head near her ear, and all she could do was remain
motionless, waiting out fate.
    “Why shouldn’t I be following you Ms.
Ruby?”

 
     
    Chapter
Three
     
    Sara took a huge step back, unsure what
his intentions were, exactly. Her jean-clad rear bumped the table and rattled