120 Mph Read Free Page B

saw
this man before in all her life, and if she had wouldn’t have forgotten him. He
had a charmingly handsome face.
    “And if I hadn’t stopped?” she clipped
rudely.
    Another deep, entrapping smile came her
way. This one loaded with dimple and delicious allure.
    “I would have followed you home, as I have
been ordered too,” he admitted, checking Sara’s reaction to the admittance by
another raise of his brow.
    “Ordered?”
    He’d been ordered to follow her? Why?
    Sara had to push forth her thoughts
because every word out of her mouth made her tongue feel as if stuffed full of
cotton and set to flame. The more that came out, the sicker she felt, and the
more her gut tightened. She could sense her cheeks reddening. She certainly felt
the sweaty palms. Christ! Even the back of her knees had sweat rolling down
their length . . . and it was late October—harvest time—with a very brisk dip
to the temperature. It was just too damn cold to sweat.
    Sara didn’t know what to do, or even how
to react. Men, she could handle. A man who could make her afraid all of a
sudden? Well, that was quite new to her.
    She wondered, should she simply grab a
crowbar off the table from behind his back and hit him over the head with it?
Then, make a run for it? There were plenty of weapons to use and within her
reach. A full table of easily accessible articles that could do the deed,
spread out by order of decay. On the other hand, she could always stand her
ground, confront the man on his tiresome jest, and simply be done with it.
    All options made her gag. She would
never purposely hurt another. Nor would she avoid confrontation. Avoidance
never suited her needs.
    “And who, exactly, ordered this?” she
said crisply. She was trying to be nonchalant about how shaken up she was, but
this was hard to do by how easily spoken it was from his tongue, and the fact her
body was now trembling like a leaf caught up in a windstorm.
    The man’s smile grew even more. He
checked it when the old woman on the rocker started moving their way.
    Without hesitation, he reached around
Sara’s back, grabbed the salad bowl in hand, and never quite answering a
question obviously made to him while Sara distraught, bought the bowl from the
old woman for seven dollars and fifty cents. He’d made a blatant point to show
the old woman the crack, bringing the price of the bowl down considerably.
    He must have seen Sara checking out the
crack. He certainly did not look the type to notice small defects as dire
imperfections in Depression Ware.
    Sara stayed nearer the table, watching
the unusual display of male arrogance—and dumbfounded by how shameful it had
been. She dealt with jerks of every size imaginable on a daily basis, but this
jerk just out-purchased her by way of cheat.
    He returned quickly, handed Sara the
bowl, and gave her another easy smile.
    “Here.”
    Sara’s eyes became trapped to his. She
grabbed the one hundred ten year old bowl before she could put much thought
into what she was doing. It was either that or she dropped it on the ground.
    “Now I will have to follow you home,” he
said recklessly, unsettling Sara even more.
    Her brow furrowed. “Oh? And why is
that?” She clamped her hand tighter to the bowl. The only good dropping it
would do her now would be to spite the man. She might have disregarded the bowl
as a purchase, but eventually she would have caved and bought it herself. He
had no need to do this for her.
    “You now have something of mine,” he
openly admitted, reconfirming her suspicions.
    Yep. Tried and true jerk. Men like this
guy only gave things away if expecting them back—with interest.
    His gaze slipped to the bowl. “I will
have to come to you now . . . in order to claim what’s mine.”
    A smile and a nod, a half-second later
he walked off toward his car, climbed into the vehicle while having purchased
nothing more, and left Sara holding a bowl she hadn’t bought and of which she’d
been informed was