When Bruce Met Cyn Read Free Page B

suitcase into her left hand, and held out her right.
    â€œI’m Cyn, Cyn Potter.”
    His automatic “nice to meet you” froze on his tongue. Sin? What was her middle name? Temptation?
    As if she’d read his thoughts, she smirked. “Short for Cynthia, though I haven’t used that name in a long, long time.”
    â€œI see.” He needed to get his thoughts in order, fast. He folded her slender fingers into his. “Bruce Kelly.”
    Her hand was small and warm and her handshake held no reservation, no uncertainty. Bruce gestured to the side lot. “My car is over here.”
    She’d been rolling her suitcase along, but the uneven lot, littered with rocks and other debris, made it difficult. Bruce took it from her, lifted it with ease, and led the way. He knew she’d follow.
    Where else did she have to go?
    He started to put the luggage in the back of the aged station wagon, but Cyn stopped him. “Put it in the backseat. Not that I don’t trust you, but if I have to make a fast exit, I don’t want to leave my stuff behind.”
    Bruce didn’t question that, he just did as she asked. “This thing weighs a ton.”
    â€œBooks.” She shrugged. “I like to read.”
    â€œMe, too.”
    Her mouth quirked. “Somehow I doubt we share the same interest in topics.”
    Bruce was well used to untrusting women and he always did his best to reassure them. He opened her door for her, and without a word, she checked to make sure the lock hadn’t been tampered with.
    He was wondering how many cars she’d been trapped in when she explained. “I read in a book that some sickos fix the door locks so once you’re in, you can’t get out.” Her eyes slanted his way. “Hope you don’t mind me checking.”
    â€œNot at all. I think it’s smart.”
    â€œYeah—me, too.”
    He wanted, needed, to know more about her. But he’d learned patience and wouldn’t push her. Simple questions seemed the best, and he’d ask them whenever the opportunity arose. “You ever find yourself in that situation?”
    â€œNope. And I don’t plan to, either.” She fastened her seat belt, kicked off her sandals, and slouched down comfortably. Bruce watched her a moment more before closing her door and circling the hood. He dug his keys out of his pocket.
    Before seating himself, he pulled off his windbreaker and offered it to her. “I noticed you were chilled.”
    She laughed and accepted the jacket. “I noticed you noticing.” She pulled it up over her like a blanket. “Man, you must be like a furnace. It’s still hot from your body.” She gave a soft, contented groan. “Feels good.”
    The things that tripped out of her delectable mouth would set a man on fire. He merely nodded and gave his attention to the car.
    Once he’d left the lot and entered the main road, he asked, “So what do you like to read?”
    â€œDepends.”
    â€œOn what?”
    â€œWhere I’m at, what I’m doing. I’ve read books on self-defense, on psychology, safety, and on self-help.” She turned her face toward him. “What about you?”
    Her choices surprised him, but he hoped he’d hidden his reaction. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but heavy reading about serious issues never entered his mind.
    In comparison, his genre reading seemed almost silly, and he smiled when he said, “I’m partial to mysteries.” He meant her as much as the stories he read. “Where are you headed?”
    â€œVisitation, with you.” The night was dark and quiet. The lights of the console barely limned her face.
    He shook his head. “I meant ultimately—where are you going?”
    â€œNow that’s the funny part.” She idly coiled and recoiled a long, ebony tress around her finger. In nervousness or out of habit?
    Or because she