Dear Reader,

Ideas for books come from everywhere. The idea for this book actually came from personal experience. Anyone who knows me knows I have no sense of direction. I can get turned around in a huge discount store and have to stop and ask someone how to find the exit! I have taken many a detour in my travels, some of which have led to meeting interesting people and discovering beautiful faces. (Of course, some of them also lead to lots of frustration.)

My husband, a man who was born with an internal compass, is amazed at how easily I get lost, but he’s learned to live with it. I’ve long wanted to write about a directionally challenged woman and an always-knows-where-he’s-headed man who learn to love each other. So here it is. I hope you enjoy Marlee and Craig’s story.

And if you ever see me driving aimlessly down a street near you, take pity and offer to give me directions!

Cindi Myers

P.S. I love to hear from readers. Write me at P.O. Box 991, Bailey, CO 80421 or e-mail Cindi@CindiMyers.com. Visit me on the Web at www.CindiMyers.com.

Take deep breaths. There’s no need to panic.

Marlee gripped the steering wheel so tightly her fingers were pratically fused to the leather. She gnawed her lower lip and tried to think calming thoughts.

Except that she didn’t have a clue where she was, or even if she was headed in the right direction. She glanced over at Craig, still sleeping, snoring softly. Thank God he wasn’t awake to witness this.

She’d done fine for the first hour or so driving. Then one of those nasty orange signs had popped up on the side of the road. Detour.

She’d told herself she could handle it, she just had to follow the signs. No problem.

Except she must have missed one of the signs, or maybe they’d forgotten to put one out. By that point she’d made two or three turns and had been completely confused.

So she’d guessed. A dangerous proposition, but the only other alternative was to wake Craig. And admit that she’d gotten lost. In the middle of nowhere. Not anywhere close to his precious planned route.

And what self-respecting woman wanted to do that?

Detour Ahead
Cindi Myers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cindi Myers believes in love at first sight, good chocolate, cold champagne, that people who don’t like animals can’t be trusted and that God obviously has a sense of humor. She also believes in writing fun, sexy romances about people she hopes readers will fall in love with. In addition to writing, Cindi enjoys reading, quilting, gardening, hiking and downhill skiing. She lives in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado with her husband (whom she met on a blind date and agreed to marry six weeks later) and two spoiled dogs.

Books by Cindi Myers

HARLEQUIN FLIPSIDE

10—LIFE ACCORDING TO LUCY

20—WHAT PHOEBE WANTS

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

902—IT’S A GUY THING!

935—SAY YOU WANT ME

HARLEQUIN BLAZE

82—JUST 4 PLAY

118—RUMOR HAS IT

149—TAKING IT ALL OFF

168—GOOD, BAD…BETTER

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Epilogue

1

THOSE OF YOU who’ve been following this Web diary for a while know that I am somewhat directionally impaired. In fact, you may recall I began this blog as a way of sharing some of my more interesting adventures while deviating from my original route—in other words, crazy things that happened to me while getting lost.

But my latest attempt to find my way in unfamiliar surroundings has landed me in hot water. I’m almost embarrassed to admit it here, but then, when have I ever held anything back from you, my faithful readers?

I lost my license.

I don’t mean I’ve misplaced the thing and can’t find it. I mean it was taken away from me. Pulled. I’m no longer a legal driver.

I was driving the wrong way down a one-way street and…And the traffic court judge took one look at the points on my driving record and confiscated my license. It wouldn’t have been so bad if I hadn’t racked up all those speeding tickets, too. And if I hadn’t been cited two other times for carelessness behind the wheel. Can I help it if I make a few wrong turns sometimes?

Maybe it’s like my friend Susan says. I need to carry a compass. Of course, then I’d have to learn to actually read a compass. A Girl Scout I was not….

Just thought I’d share that update. Now, real life beckons.

Real life in the form of two projects that needed to be finished by Friday, four phone calls to return and a handful of mail to open. Not to mention Susan’s wedding to deal with. Marlee Jones sighed and signed off from her Travels with Marlee Web site. What had begun as a way to teach herself HTML code had turned into a guilty pleasure. Her Web log, or blog, pulled in several hundred hits a day and she actually got fan mail. Most of it from nice ordinary people. Of course there was Dave, who wrote to her from Cellblock Sixteen at the state pen, but he at least was polite, and safely locked away for life, or so her contact in the criminal justice department had assured her.

She shook her head and picked up the heavy cream-colored envelope she kept propped against her monitor.

Mr. and Mrs. Anthony St. John request that you join them in celebrating the marriage of their daughter, Susan Elisabeth, to Bryan Fredericks, son of Mr. and Mrs. Wayne Fredericks and Alison Reynolds.

Susan would have a fit when Marlee told her the latest. She ought to be calling any second now….

The phone rang and Marlee picked it up on the second ring. “Hello, Susan.”

“How did you know it was me?”

“I’m psychic.”

“No, really, how did you know? Did your cheap-ass boss finally spring for caller ID?”

“Gary isn’t cheap, he’s frugal. After all, we are a nonprofit organization.”

“That’s his excuse for everything. But I notice that he isn’t doing without the finer things in life, while you labor away in that little closet of an office.”

Marlee glanced around her office, which had, in fact, been a storage closet in another life. Yeah, it was small and dingy and out of the way, but that had its advantages. Nobody ever bothered her back here and she was pretty much free to do what she liked.

“You’re not answering my question,” Susan said. “Since when are you psychic?”

“I know you’ve got Travels with Marlee linked to your home page. You read the new post, didn’t you?”

“What’s this about losing your license? How does a grown woman lose her license?”

“It’s not my fault,” Marlee protested. “Some people are born without a sense of direction. There’ve been studies.”

“You’re a study all right. The big question is, how are you going to get to my wedding? Don’t think I’m going to go through this without you. Besides, there’s a groomsman I want you to meet.”

“Susan!” Marlee rolled her eyes. Though Susan fancied herself a matchmaker, the truth was, her fixups always ended up broken. “I’m coming to be with you at your wedding, not to meet a man.”

“But this one would be perfect for you.”

“Right. Like that accordion player—what was his name, Terry?”

“Larry. And I thought you’d appreciate his quirkiness.”

“He was a horrible accordion player. And his idea of a hot date was a visit to the Air and Space Museum, to look at every single exhibit.”

“So I was a little off with that one. This guy I know you’ll like. But first you have to get here to meet him. Without a driver’s license, how are you going to do that? I know you won’t fly.”

Marlee shuddered. Looking at all those planes at the museum had been bad enough—no way was she getting on one. “Maybe I could take a bus.” She glanced over at the computer on her credenza. A chorus line of chimpanzees tap-danced their way across the monitor screen. Could she look up bus schedules online?

“Ick. It would take a week. You’d be a wreck by the time you got here. I don’t want my maid of honor looking like she slept sitting up for a week.”

Marlee sighed. She didn’t particularly want to try sleeping sitting up. Now that she was on the downhill slide toward thirty, even a couple of nights of less than blissful slumber made fine lines and dark circles appear out of nowhere. “What about the train?”

“Hello? Have you ever checked an Amtrak schedule? To get from D.C. to San Diego you have to change trains umpteen times and it takes like four days. It would be as bad as the bus. And way more expensive.”

“I guess I could try to catch a ride with someone else. Any other guests driving from D.C. to San Diego for the wedding?” Susan and Bryan had met in the capital city, so it stood to reason other wedding guests were from here. Though most of them were probably flying. Let them trust their lives to a heavy metal tube floating on air. She’d stay firmly on the ground, thank you very much.

“That’s a brilliant idea!” Susan sounded thrilled.

“It is?” As ideas went, it didn’t sound particularly spectacular to Marlee. She spent every day designing wildly creative ads for non-profits. Using rappers to promote the Reading Is Fundamental program—now that was a brilliant idea, but this…?

“Craig Brinkman is driving from D.C. You can ride with him.”

“Uh-huh. Who is Craig Brinkman?” She picked up a pencil and wrote a note for herself to call the metro library about a photo shoot.

“He’s Bryan’s old college roommate. The best man, as a matter of fact. It’s the perfect solution.”

“This isn’t the guy you’re trying to fix me up with, is it? Because I really don’t want to be fixed up right now.” Or ever, if Susan was doing the fixing. She was a great friend, but she didn’t have a clue what Marlee really wanted in a man. But then, Marlee wasn’t too sure on that score either.

“Craig?” Susan’s laugh came out more like a snort. “Absolutely not. Craig Brinkman is definitely not your type.”

“Why do you say that? If he’s so awful, why are you suggesting I travel all the way across the country with him?”

“He’s not awful. In fact, he’s a really nice guy. But he’s sort of uptight. A real overachiever.”

Marlee looked around her closet office. “And I’m an underachiever.” Ouch.

“You’re just not as ambitious as Craig. I mean, this is the man with a plan—for everything.”

She made a face. Craig Brinkman definitely didn’t sound like her type of guy. And not someone she wanted to spend a week in close quarters with. With her laid-back approach to life, she’d have him driving off a cliff inside of two days. Three, tops. “I don’t know, Suz. Drive cross-country with a man I’ve never even met? It seems kind of weird.”

“Craig’s a nice guy, really. One thing about being anal, he won’t get lost. And he’s one of Bryan’s oldest friends. You like Bryan, don’t you?”

As if I’d be clueless enough to tell you if I didn’t like the man you’re going to marry. But thankfully, she didn’t have to fake liking Bryan Fredericks. He was a genuinely good guy. Chances were this friend of his was a good guy too. Still…

“Craig will probably appreciate the company,” Susan continued. “And you can split expenses. I’ll have Bryan call him and set it all up.”

Marlee chewed her lower lip. If she was going to make Susan’s wedding, it was either gut it up to get on a plane, or accept a ride with mysterious Craig. “Okay. And thanks. I dreaded the thought of having to miss your wedding.”

“No way are you going to miss this. How many other best friends do you think I have? It’s too late to order another dress—or to find another gal pal.”

Marlee laughed. “Thanks. I can’t wait to see you again.”

“I can’t wait to see you. I need you here to help me deal with all the wedding craziness.”

“That bad, huh?”

“You try interviewing six caterers and three florists in one week. It’s enough to make me want to elope.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“I said I was crazy, not insane. I’ve waited years for my dream wedding and I won’t let anything stop me from having it. Including a maid of honor with no sense of direction.”

“Right, well, have this Craig guy give me a call. We’ll see if we can’t work something out.” She hung up the phone and relaxed in her chair, bouncing against the springy back. Susan sounded so happy. So in love. The tiniest pinch of jealousy grabbed hold of Marlee. Why did some women find love so easily while others never seemed to get a break?

She herself had had about as much luck finding Mr. Right as she did finding her way around the city in traffic. Maybe whatever genetic flaw led to her always getting lost was connected to her inability to sustain a relationship. Sure, she had plenty of male friends, but not one special man. Men didn’t take her seriously. Her last boyfriend had flat-out told her he couldn’t plan a future with a woman who didn’t even think about lunch ahead of time.

So what was wrong with being spontaneous? Her motto was Be Prepared—for Anything!

She sat straight in her chair again and resolutely opened the file for RIF. Was her carefree attitude a sign of immaturity? After all, what kind of grown woman lost her license? And while all her friends had moved on to high-profile jobs and fancy homes and families of their own, she still lived in a funky little carriage-house apartment in Georgetown, and had a job that provided more satisfaction than salary. No wonder men looking to settle down steered clear of her.

She let out another sigh and told herself to concentrate on work. Marching along to a set plan for her life sounded like sheer drudgery. She couldn’t see living in a certain kind of house or working a certain kind of job just because it was expected. She needed more freedom to move around, to go with the flow.

If that made her man-poison, so be it. Except for her lackluster love life, she was happy, and what more could a girl ask for?

Except maybe a better internal compass.

FROM: TopToque@govnet.net

To: Marlee@TWM.com

Subject: Driving to San Diego

Understand you need ride to Bry & Suz’s wedding. Am leaving Sat. June 6, 8 a.m. sharp. You’re welcome if you can pay your expenses. Expect 5 nights on road. Let me know ASAP.

Marlee frowned at the e-mail message that showed up in her box two days after her conversation with Susan. She assumed this “TopToque” character was Craig Brinkman. He wasn’t much on small talk, was he? A little “Hello, how are you, my name’s Craig,” wouldn’t have been out of line, would it?

Okay, maybe she was being too hard on the guy. Maybe he was shy. Or he felt awkward about this whole give-a-ride-to-a-stranger thing. She could relate to that.

No problem, then. She’d be the one to break the ice. She’d show him how it was done.

From: Marlee@TWM.com

To: TopToque@govnet.net

Subject: Road Trip!

Hi Craig. Good to hear from you. I’m Marlee Jones, erstwhile best woman in need of a ride to San Diego. Thanks so much for agreeing to help me out here. I promise I’ll be good company and, of course, I’ll pay my share of the costs.

Since we’re going to be spending some time together on the road, I thought it might be nice to get to know each other a little first. How about coffee or a drink sometime? Call me at 555-6129. I’m looking forward to meeting you!

Marlee

Smiling to herself, she hit the Send button. That should thaw Craig out a little. They could meet for a drink, hammer out the details of the trip and when it was time to hit the road they’d practically be old friends instead of strangers.

“Hey, Marl.” Gretchen Wunderlich, her boss Gary’s secretary, slipped into Marlee’s closet/office. “Gary told me to give these to you.” She dumped a pile of multi-colored papers on Marlee’s desk.

“What is all this?” She frowned at the top sheet, “Sterilization Techniques for Meat Handlers.”

“P.I.O. sheets that need to be updated. Gary says to work on them as you get the chance.”

Public Information Office sheets always needed updating. Most of them dated from the forties and fifties. Marlee pulled a pale-pink sheet of paper from the stack. “Safe Food Handling for the Housewife” was illustrated with drawings of a smiling woman in a full-skirted dress, apron and high heels. “Why did Gary send these to me?” she asked.

Gretchen leaned against the doorjamb and smacked a wad of gum the color of a honeydew melon. “They’ve been cluttering up the office for months now. I got tired of moving them around and complained, so Gary had me bring them here.”

“So now they can clutter up my office. Gee, thanks.” She frowned at the six-inch high tower of paper. “I thought the interns were supposed to do this kind of grunt work.” As a nonprofit, the agency relied on interns from George Washington University for free labor.

“This semester’s intern is designing an animation program for the art department.”

Great. Now even the interns did more exciting work than Marlee. “Tell Gary I don’t think I’ll be able to get to this anytime soon.”

“No prob.” Gretchen heaved herself upright once more and started to leave. She stopped halfway out the door and swung around to face Marlee again. “I almost forgot—Gary really liked your idea to use the rappers for the Reading Is Fundamental promo.”

“Great.” Of course, it would have been greater if Gary had managed to tell her this himself, but she’d learned to be grateful for small favors.

Gretchen was almost out the door again when Marlee stopped her. “Gary knows about my vacation, right? Remind him I’ll be away the next two weeks.”

“I’ll remind him. Knowing Gary, he won’t even notice you’re gone.” Gretchen waved over her shoulder, then was gone, her feet slapping on the tile floor in rhythm with her popping gum.

Marlee sank into her chair and stared at the P.I.O. sheets. So much for the artistic, interesting and important work she always bragged about whenever her friends asked why she continued to work for a peanuts-for-pay nonprofit when she could be plying her trade for real dough at one of the big ad firms around town.

Not that she hadn’t asked herself from time to time if she was really making the best use of her talents. Sure, working for programs like Reading Is Fundamental and the March of Dimes was rewarding and important, but was she selling herself short by not being more ambitious?

Ambition sounded like so much hard work. She’d always been one to go with the flow and see where life took her next. Only lately she felt as if the flow had stopped and she wasn’t going much of anywhere.

She shoved the P.I.O. busywork aside and opened a new file on her computer. Writing new blog entries always helped her to sort out her thoughts.

Road trip!

Don’t those words immediately make you think of fun and adventure? Whether it’s a Spring Break caravan to the Florida beaches or a summer safari across the country, hitting the road with friends for a few days away from the grind is a sure cure for a case of the dulls.

Yours truly is about to set off on a cross-country odyssey of my own. I’ll be traveling from D.C. to San Diego to attend by best gal pal Susan’s wedding.

Before you start alerting state police to be on the lookout for me, rest assured that I will not be driving myself on this trip. (See previous entry for the whole sad story of my recently departed driver’s license.) No, I have the privilege of a chauffeur for this vacation, the wedding best man. More on him later.

Right now I’m musing about the value of road trips in general and this one in particular. I’m thinking this will be the perfect time to take a closer look at where I’m headed—literally and figuratively.

Don’t worry, though, I don’t intend to get too serious. I’m not forgetting this is a vacation, too. And vacations are for fun. For cutting loose and doing things we might not do in the confines of our ordinary lives. How else to explain the penchant for Las Vegas conventioneers to sing karaoke or overly pale beachgoers to throw their backs out doing the limbo?

So expect a few surprises from yours truly in the coming weeks. Though I don’t know exactly how yet, I intend to find my own way to cut loose.

MARLEE was well into her regular Wednesday-night movie marathon when the phone rang. She was tempted to ignore it, since tonight’s theme was road-trip movies and she hated to break away from Priscilla, Queen of the Desert to talk to what was probably a phone salesperson anyway.

But guilt and the worry that it might be a friend in need drove her to hit the pause button and reach over and pluck the phone from its cradle. “Hello?”

“Is this Marlee Jones?”

“That depends on who’s calling. Who is this?”

“This is Craig Brinkman.”

“Oh, hi, Craig.” She smiled and tucked her feet up under her, settling in for a longer conversation. “Nice to talk to you. How are you doing?”

“I’m actually pretty busy right now. I just called to get directions to your place.”

“Sure. Or if you want to meet for a drink or something I can bring you a map.”

“I don’t really have time for that. Just give me your address.”

She frowned. Craig wasn’t any chattier on the phone than he was via e-mail. “Sure. I’m really easy to find.” She rattled off her address and the names of the cross streets.

“Great. I’ll pick you up at eight on Saturday morning.”

Almost too late, she realized he was about to hang up. “Wait, wait,” she called. “Don’t hang up yet.”

“What is it?” He came back on the line.

“Is there anything I should bring? Anything you need me to do?”

“No, I already have everything planned out. And I have reservations for hotels along the way.”

“You do?” Not that she wasn’t aware some people traveled this way; she just never saw the point.

“Yes. That way we don’t have to waste any time searching for a place to stay each night.”

“What if something happens and we don’t make it to the place where you have reservations?”

“What could happen?”

“I don’t know—bad weather, construction detours. Or we could get lost.” She didn’t mention that she always got lost at least once on a trip of any length.

“You don’t have to worry about that. I have our itinerary all mapped out and I’ve checked road conditions.”

“Oh. Well, I wasn’t really worried.” She shifted the phone to her other ear. “Are you sure you don’t have time for a quick drink? Or a cup of coffee.”

“Sorry, but I’m pretty busy here. I’d better go.”

Without waiting for her to say good-bye, he hung up. She replaced the phone in its cradle and stared at it, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. Hadn’t Mr. Brinkman heard that first impressions counted? He certainly hadn’t made a very good one with her.

She sat back on the sofa and stared at the television. The Pause function had timed out and the movie had stopped altogether while she’d been on the phone. Just as well. She couldn’t focus on enjoying Guy Pierce in drag until she’d sorted out her reaction to Craig Brinkman.

What she knew about Craig:

A) He didn’t waste time on small talk, to the point of brusqueness. Her father would have said he was a “no-nonsense kind of fellow,” something Dad approved of. So maybe that wasn’t all bad, though it tended to annoy Marlee.

B) He was a planner. Okay, some people were like that. They liked to pretend they were in control. Not her cup of tea but she could live with it.

Besides, she’d taken enough detours in her life to know that you could never, ever, count on things turning out the way you planned them. She’d give Craig’s itinerary a day, maybe a day and a half, before something came up to throw it off completely.

C) He wasn’t very sociable. Sure, he said he was “busy” but who was so busy he couldn’t have a cup of coffee or a single drink? Especially with someone he’d be spending an awful lot of time with in the next week or so. Of course, maybe he reasoned that since he was going to be hanging out with her all week there was no need to worry about getting to know her before then. Men did think like that sometimes.

So this uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach when she thought of Craig didn’t mean that he was a bad person. He was different, maybe, than the people she normally chose to hang out with, but that wasn’t all bad, was it? It was good to get out and get to know different people. She was all for expanding her horizons.

She sat back and hit the Play button for the movie. Fine. Traveling with Craig Brinkman would be merely another kind of adventure. Maybe not the most fun she’d ever had in a car, but it was better than riding the bus.

Just in case though, it wouldn’t hurt to pack the Greyhound schedule.

2

MARLEE was up early Saturday morning, stashing the last few necessities in her suitcase and keeping watch out the front window for her ride. She paced the living-room floor, stopping from time to time to stretch or to fetch some last-minute item to stow in her bags. Anything to burn off the nervous energy humming through her. She couldn’t wait to see Susan. And to meet Bryan’s friend, Craig.

He was probably a lot nicer guy than he’d sounded on the phone. After all, how much could you really tell from a few minutes’ conversation and a single e-mail?

They’d have plenty of time to get to know each other on this trip. She’d probably spend more time with Craig Brinkman in the next week than she had with the last four or five guys she’d dated. Men seemed to prefer her as a friend instead of a girlfriend.

Fine. She’d settle for a friendly relationship with the man who was providing a way for her to get to Susan’s wedding. A girl couldn’t have too many friends, could she?

A sleek black sedan turned the corner and she pulled back the curtains for a better look. A Beemer. Very up-and-coming professional looking. Not very imaginative, but it definitely looked better than a Greyhound bus, so she wasn’t complaining. The car parked at the curb and a tall, dark-haired man unfolded from the front seat. She let out a low whistle. Very, very nice. He wore loose-fitting jeans, a polo shirt that showed off broad shoulders and muscular forearms and dark sunglasses that added a hint of mystery. Why hadn’t Susan mentioned her chauffeur was so easy on the eyes?

He slammed the car door shut and headed up the walk toward the main house. Marlee’s shoulders slumped. Oh. So maybe this wasn’t the right guy after all. She picked up the oversize tote bag she’d stashed next to her suitcase and inventoried the contents once more. Should she take another bottle of water? More sunscreen?

She was in the bathroom searching for another tube of sunscreen when the doorbell rang. She checked the peephole and found Mr. Gorgeous himself on her front porch. She hurried to unfasten the multiple locks and chains. “Hello,” she said. “You must be Craig. I’m Marlee.”

He nodded. “You didn’t tell me you were in the carriage house.”

Ouch! Was that any way to start their trip? She purposely flashed her biggest smile. “I didn’t? Sorry about that. The main house is 112A. I’m in 112B, but quite a few people get the addresses mixed up.” See? It’s all your fault you went to the wrong door first. She held the door wide. “Won’t you come in? Can I get you a glass of water or a soda?”

“No thanks.” Sunglasses still hiding his eyes, he stepped into the living room and looked around. She wondered what he was thinking. She’d decorated the place herself, in what one friend had dubbed “eclectic kitsch.” A row of brightly colored papier-mâché cats from Guatemala lined the mantel over the small gas fireplace, a fuchsia shawl from India was draped over her Salvation Army sofa and a chipped marble garden bench served as her coffee table, while an inflatable palm tree left over from a photo shoot took the place of any living plants.

He frowned at the palm tree. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes. My luggage is right over here.” She started toward the bags she’d stashed to the left of the door.

He shook his head.

She looked at him. “What?”

“I should have known a woman would pack half her closet for just a few days.”

The words set her teeth on edge. She faced him, hands on her hips. “We’ll be gone over a week. Besides, that’s not half my closet. Not even close.” One of the best features of the carriage house was a huge walk-in closet. She’d filled the space with clothes to suit her every mood, all bought at bargain prices at the city’s best thrift and vintage clothing stores.

He frowned down at her luggage. “Three bags?”

Honestly. Just because a man could get by with one suit, two shirts and pair of jeans didn’t mean a woman could! “The big suitcase is clothes and shoes. The small tote is makeup and hair accessories. The larger tote has my laptop, books, snacks and emergency supplies.”

“Emergency supplies?”

“Band-Aids, aspirin, sunscreen, stain remover and, uh, other things.” She didn’t mention the condoms she’d added at the last minute. Not that she was planning anything, but you never knew….

He picked up the suitcase and the larger tote. She locked the door behind her, then followed him to his car. “Thank you for giving me a ride,” she said, determined to start off on the right foot with him, despite his less than pleasant demeanor. He was Bryan’s friend. She was Susan’s friend. There was no reason they shouldn’t get along. “Just let me know how much my share of expenses comes to.”

“I’ll do that.” He stashed her totebag in the back seat, then turned and handed her a CD case and a sheaf of computer print-outs. “Your job is to keep the tunes spinning, read this itinerary and schedule I’ve printed out, and keep quiet.”

She stared at him. So much for thinking they could be friends. The guy was a jerk. “You obviously have the wrong impression of me,” she said, barely suppressing the urge to rip his head off.

“What do you mean?”

She reached up and removed his sunglasses. He blinked at her. “Hey—”

“I like to look people in the eye when I talk to them,” she said. “Let’s get this straight. I am not some child or some servant for you to order around or patronize.”

Without the sunglasses, he looked less forbidding, though he was still frowning. “I’m going out of my way here to do you a favor.”

“And I’m doing you one.”

“How’s that?”

“I’m keeping you company and paying half the expenses.”

“I didn’t ask for company.”

“No? You agreed to do this, didn’t you? You could have said no.”

They stared at each other in silence for a long moment. He had eyes the color of toffee, a rich brown with golden flecks. The kind of eyes that could make a woman forget what she’d been arguing about….

He was the first to look away. “You’re right. I agreed.”

She suppressed a thrill of victory. A man who’d admit he was wrong couldn’t be all bad. “So if you have regrets about that, that’s your problem, not mine. That doesn’t give you the right to make us both miserable.”

He winced. “Right again.” He took a deep breath and straightened. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a jerk. Let’s start over.” He held out his hand. “I’m Craig.”

Now this was more like it. The faintest hint of a smile replaced the scowl he’d worn earlier. Much better. The man was definitely easy on the eyes. She slipped her hand into his, warmth traveling through her at his touch like an electric current. “It’s nice to meet you, Craig. I’m Marlee.”

She didn’t know how long they stood there like that, holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes. She was dimly aware of traffic moving past, of the distant drone of a lawnmower and a slamming door. These were merely background noise for the fireworks going off in her brain. If she was writing dialogue for the commercial version of the encounter, the only word she would have been able to come up with was Wow!

He slipped his hand from hers and took a step back. “Come on,” he said. “We’ve got a long way to go. We’d better get started.”

While he guided the car toward the Beltway out of town, she adjusted her seat, then flipped through the CD selection. Lyle Lovett, Shania Twain, Stevie Ray Vaughn. Filed alphabetically. Of course. The man had eclectic tastes. Nothing boring here. She slid the Lyle Lovett disc into the player, and flipped through the sheaf of papers he’d handed her. “What is all this anyway?” she asked.

“The itinerary for our trip. It shows driving directions, mileage between major intersections and the hotels where we’ll be staying. I’ve listed our rest stops, stops for fuel and food, along with local gas prices and information on highway conditions.”

She scanned the pages of close print and columns of figures with the horrified fascination of someone perusing an autopsy report. “You must have spent an awful lot of time putting this together,” she said.

“It’ll save us a lot of time later.”

Right. With a week to go until the wedding, they didn’t exactly have to race across country to get there in time, but Craig was obviously one of those guys who didn’t consider a day on the road worthwhile unless he could set a new record for distance traveled in the shortest time.

She slipped the itinerary under the seat. They could deal with that little problem later.

She studied Craig out of the corner of her eye, trying not to be obvious. He had a good strong jaw and short hair. His hands on the steering wheel looked strong, too, with long fingers and neatly trimmed nails. No ring. Was he divorced? Involved with anyone? Not that she was interested, but she’d been playing the dating game so long such assessments were as automatic as locking her door behind her when she entered her house.

“How do you know Bryan?” she asked.

“We met in college. We were suite mates and both studying business and we really hit it off.”

Of course. He was obviously the serious, sensible businessman. Not a flighty artist like her. “What do you do now?”

“I’m a chef.” He glanced at her, as if gauging her response to this revelation. “Right now I’m in charge of the Senate Dining Room.”

Oh-ho! Not a dull businessman. Cooking was creative, wasn’t it? She leaned forward, suppressing a buzz of excitement. This trip might prove to be a lot more interesting than she’d anticipated. “I’m impressed. And I have to confess, a little intimidated by a man who can cook better than I can.”

His smile was definitely killer. “Not to brag, but I can cook better than most people I know. It comes in handy sometimes.”

Now there would be a nice twist—a man who could cook dinner for me, instead of suffering through my own uneven attempts at a meal. And then for dessert… She quickly pulled her mind back from the cliff it was about to dive off. Where had this rampant lust come from? Yeah, it had been a while since she’d had anything like a steady relationship, but since when did handsome strangers inspire such wild fantasies?

Deep breath, she reminded herself, inhaling slowly. Unfortunately, all she could smell was Craig himself, something herbal and spicy and definitely yummy.

She swallowed hard and leaned back in the seat. Slow down. Make innocuous conversation. “Do you enjoy your work?” she asked.

“The cooking part, yes. I’m thinking of opening my own restaurant soon.”

“You should do it.” She tucked one leg under her and arranged her skirt over her lap. This was more like it. Act casual. Just friends. “I’m a big believer in doing what makes you happy.”

He shook his head. “It’s not so easy. Opening your own place involves a lot of risk. Restaurants fail in this town every day.”

“Life is risky, though. Isn’t it?”

He frowned and she wondered if she’d overdone the Miss Mary Sunshine routine. People had accused her before of being too much of an optimist.

“What do you do that makes you happy?” he asked after a moment.

“I’m an advertising copywriter for a firm that specializes in non-profits.”

“I guess you like the work enough to bring your laptop on vacation with you.”

“Oh, I love the work. But the laptop’s not for that. It’s for my Web diary.”

He raised one eyebrow. “Web diary?”

“Yeah, I’m a blogger. I have a Web site where I post writings about what’s going on in my life.”

“Things like this trip?”

“That’s right. I figured I could make notes as ideas strike me during the day, then upload them at the hotel every evening.”

“And people read this? Strangers?”

“Yeah, I’m made a lot of cool friends that way. Fans.”

He shook his head. “You don’t think it’s a little odd to have people you don’t even know reading about your life?”

She shifted in her seat. “I’m not an idiot. I don’t put personal information on there. It just gives me a chance to work on my writing and…I don’t know. Make a connection. There are hundreds of bloggers. Thousands. It’s another kind of Internet community.”

He continued to look skeptical. “Does this diary of yours have a name?”

“It’s called Travels with Marlee. I write about places I go. Things I see.”

“Do you see that many interesting things?”

She nodded. “They’re out there, if you keep your eyes open. Every trip is a journey of discovery. That’s what the blog is about, really—sharing my discoveries with readers.”

“You don’t think sometimes you’re simply moving from point A to point B in the most efficient manner?”

“This may come as a shock to you, but there are people who think efficiency is overrated.”

He glanced at her. “You, for instance?”

“Haven’t you heard that getting there is half the fun?”

He shrugged. “And sometimes getting there is merely something you endure to reach your destination.”

She leaned toward him. “You wouldn’t be talking about this particular trip, would you?”

“Now why would you think that?” The corners of his mouth twitched and she relaxed. He was teasing her. She couldn’t help but like a man with a sense of humor, even if he kept it under wraps most of the time.

And she did like Craig, in spite of his scarily organized and exacting ways. She supposed there were advantages to having every journey—and the rest of your life—all laid out neatly. There were probably times when having an idea of what you’d be doing next week or next year was useful.

But what if while making all those plans you missed something even better? It seemed an awfully big risk to her.

“I take it you plan to write about this trip?”

His question interrupted her musings. “Well, yeah. That’s what I do.”

“Do me a favor and leave me out of it. I don’t want strangers reading about me.”

“Don’t worry. If I mention you at all, I’ll give you an assumed name.”

“What kind of name?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought of anything yet.” She leaned back and dug around in the tote that rested on the floor behind his seat and pulled out two apples. “Want one?”

“Thanks.” He accepted the fruit, bit into it, and chewed, looking thoughtful. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you.”

She laughed. “A lot of people say that. This time, I’m going to take it as a compliment.”

“Do you look on the bright side of everything?”

“You can either cry or laugh. I prefer to laugh.” She leaned back in the seat and took a bite out of her apple. Not that her life was one laugh after the other, but she did try to limit the tears. Anyone who micro-managed things as much as Craig seemed to could use a few more laughs in his life. Maybe she could oblige, and enjoy herself in the process.

But not too much. She shifted in her seat as her inner seductress sought once more to make an appearance. What was with her today? She’d have to check the ingredients on the power bar she’d had for breakfast. Maybe it contained some secret aphrodisiac.

She glanced at the man in the driver’s seat. He was intent on traffic, apparently oblivious to the effect he was having on her and her libido. That figured. She was lusting after Handsome here and he was figuring out the best route through Virginia. That was the story of her life, wasn’t it? They might be in the same car, but once again, she was headed in the wrong direction.

HERE I am on the road again, this time headed to California. My chauffeur is a man who wishes to remain anonymous, so I’ll be referring to him as “the Chef.” This trip is definitely shaping up unlike any other I’ve taken. Not to say the Chef is uptight or anything, but the man has a schedule planned down to the minute. When we stop for gas, he figures his mileage and records it in a little notebook he keeps in his glove compartment, along with the date and the price of the gas. When I suggested we make a little detour through Winchester, Virginia, to see the World’s Largest Apple (Red Delicious, natch!) he looked at me like I was a nut. I can see I’m going to have to educate him on the Travels with Marlee philosophy—never pass up a chance for adventure!

Hasn’t he heard the point of a vacation is to relax? Still, he’s a nice guy when he loosens up, and I appreciate him giving me a lift to Susan’s wedding. And who knows? I’ve got the next few days to convince him to slow down and make room in his life for adventure. After all, this wouldn’t be Travels with Marlee without a few detours along the way, would it?

MARLEE fell asleep shortly after they crossed into Virginia, her legs drawn up beside her, her head resting against the window. Craig glanced at her every few minutes, enjoying the view. She wasn’t what you’d call a stunning woman, but she had an intriguing, gamin quality—short brown hair and huge dark eyes set against pale skin. And that damned wide-eyed optimism of hers was coupled with an oversize self-confidence.

When she’d called him on the carpet this morning over his jerky behavior, he’d been struck dumb with awe. He couldn’t help but admire anyone who seemed so sure of herself.

He still wasn’t sure about spending the week traveling with her, though. The whole reason he was driving to California instead of flying was to have the time alone. He’d purposely set aside two weeks for the trip out and back and planned his route to give him plenty of time to get to the wedding and relax beforehand. He had some important decisions to make about his future and this would be a good time to sort things out in his head. The last thing he needed was a woman along. She’d throw off his schedule completely and he wouldn’t get a moment’s peace.

Quit your whining, Brinkman. You said you’d do this, so time to gut it up and do it. He had to admit he’d enjoyed Marlee’s company so far. He smiled, remembering all her talk about the importance of doing work you loved. That was certainly a different way to look at things. He wondered what his dad would say if Craig tried out that argument. Dad had wanted him to be a banker or an architect. To his way of thinking, cooking was something women did. He was still waiting for Craig to “come to his senses” and get a real job.

If only he could make Dad see that being a chef was a real job, and he had the potential to be a big success at it. It was all part of his five-year plan: establish a customer base and get on-the-job training working for someone else, then open his own place inside the Loop. He’d already completed the first part of his plan. After three years at the Senate Dining Room, he felt ready to strike out on his own. But it was still risky. He had to find the right location, design the perfect menu and make sure he had enough financial backing. He wanted to be certain of every detail before he made his move.

Marlee sighed and shifted in her seat, smiling to herself. What was she so happy about? And why did was he suddenly happier, just being in the same car with her? Obviously he’d been neglecting his social life too much if simply being with a woman he hardly knew could make him this lightheaded.

Not that he didn’t date when he had the chance, but he wasn’t in any rush to get involved in a long-term relationship. He certainly wasn’t rushing to the altar like Bryan.

He still couldn’t believe his best friend—his last single buddy—was tying the knot. What was the rush to get married all of a sudden? Bryan was the same age he was, twenty-eight. They had plenty of time.

The way Craig figured it, he’d get himself established in his career before he took on the added responsibility of marriage and raising a family. Say, around age thirty-five sounded right. Then he’d find a woman who was successful in her own right, someone capable and dependable like himself.

Eyes still closed, as if struggling to hold on to sleep a little longer, Marlee unfolded her legs and stretched her arms overhead. Her slow, sensuous movements made him think of lazy mornings spent in bed and languid lovemaking in tangled sheets, things he seldom indulged in. She arched her back against the seat and her breasts jutted against the thin fabric of her dress, and he felt an immediate physical response.

He forced his eyes away. He wasn’t going to get involved with this chick. She was sweet, but she definitely wasn’t his type—and the last thing he needed in his life right now was any more complications. He had too much else to think about. He’d get his career on the right track, and then he could work on the relationship side of things.

“Where are we?” she asked, her voice soft with sleep.

“Somewhere outside of Roanoke, Virginia. I’m hoping to make Kingsport, Tennessee by dark, but the traffic around Fairfax put us behind.” Too far behind for his liking. They’d have to make up some time to get back on schedule.

“What time is it?” She leaned toward the dashboard clock, squinting in the glare.

“Lunch time. I’ve been looking for a place to stop, but there isn’t any.” And they weren’t anywhere near his planned stop. The last town they’d passed had been little more than a post office and a service station. Since then, the view had been mostly trees and fields.

“That’s okay. We can have a picnic.” She reached back into her bag and began taking out items and piling them in her lap. “I’ve got some cheese. Crackers. Summer sausage. Grapes. A chocolate bar.”

He suppressed a laugh. Any minute now he expected her to pull out half a roast chicken and a bottle of wine. She turned to him once more. “It’s enough to tide us over until we can have a real meal.”

“Sounds great. I’ll look for a place to pull over.”

A few miles farther on, they spotted a sign for a roadside park. “Pull in there,” she directed.

He parked under a shady oak and they carried the food and two bottles of water to a picnic table. The air smelled of freshly mown grass and the wild irises that bloomed on the bank of a stream running through the little park.

While she arranged the meal on the table, he walked over to the stream and stooped to rinse his face and hands. He spotted bunches of watercress growing at the water’s edge and picked some.

“What’s this?” she asked when he offered her the greens.

“Watercress.” He tore off some of the crisp herb and popped it in his mouth. “The same stuff they use to make fancy tea sandwiches.”

She grinned and helped herself to the greens. “I guess if we run out of food, you’ll be able to forage for us. Do they teach that kind of thing in chef’s school?”

“The Culinary Institute didn’t take field trips to pick wild greens, no.” He took a seat on top of the picnic table, his feet on the bench below. “I learned about this stuff on my grandparents’ farm.”

“And where was that?” She sliced off a thick round of summer sausage and offered it to him.

“Arkansas. I spent every summer there.” He grinned. “I couldn’t wait for school to be out so I could go.”

“Where was home the rest of the time?” She topped a cracker with cheese and popped the whole thing into her mouth.

“New Mexico. A little town not too far from Farmington.”

“Is your family still there?”

He nodded. “My mom and dad and two sisters.” He grinned. “I’m the black sheep, moved all the way out to D.C.” His tone was light, but the words weren’t too far from truth. He’d always been the different one in his family, the one who was never satisfied.

“That’s practically on the way to San Diego, isn’t it?” she asked. “We should stop and say hello.”

He shook his head. The last thing he wanted right now was to see his dad and have to listen to another lecture on getting his act together. If he told his father he was thinking of opening his own restaurant, the old man would have a stroke. No matter that Craig knew exactly what he had to do to make this work. “We don’t have time for that.”

“Sure we do. The wedding’s almost ten days away.”

He helped himself to more sausage. “Where is your family from?” he asked, anxious to change the subject.

“Dimmitt, Texas. Can you believe it? They’re all horrified that I’ve gone off to the big city to consort with politicians and lobbyists and other evil-doers.” Her eyes widened in mock horror and he laughed again. In fact, he’d laughed more in the past three hours than he had in the past three months.

“You have a nice smile,” she said, helping herself to a grape. “Much better than that scowl you showed up with this morning.”

“Yeah, well…” He looked away. “I guess I wasn’t looking forward to this trip much.”

“Because of me…or for some other reason?”

“For a lot of reasons, I guess.” He rolled his shoulders. “Bryan’s my last single buddy. Makes me feel…I don’t know. Out of step.”

“Yeah.” The wistfulness in her voice surprised him. He looked at her again. She rolled a grape back and forth between her palms, seemingly unaware of the movement. As if she felt him watching her, she looked up. “Are you seeing anyone? I mean, anyone special?”

Something in her voice sent a prickle of awareness down his spine. “No, you?” He held his breath, waiting for her answer.

She shook her head. “Nope.”

The atmosphere was charged like the air under a high-voltage line. Suddenly they weren’t only two people on a trip together, but a man and a woman. Both unattached. The word itself implied something unfinished. Two halves looking to be made whole.

Now where had that thought come from? He launched himself off the table, eager to put some distance between himself and these disturbing feelings. But she was right behind him, running past him to the creek, where she kicked off her shoes and began wading in the shallows.

He followed, the cool water lapping at his ankles, gravel massaging his toes. Holding her arms out like a tightrope walker, she picked her way across a half-submerged log toward the middle of the stream. “Careful,” he called.

She looked back over her shoulder, eyes bright, teasing. “Come on,” she called. “It’s fun.”

He shook his head. The log was green with moss. Probably slippery as hell.

She walked out farther, and struck a ballerina’s pose, balanced on one leg. His heart pounded as she teetered back and forth. He checked the water—it looked deep under where she stood. Did she know how to swim? Would he have time to save her in the swift current? “Come back before you fall,” he said, his voice gruff.

She laughed, a musical sound in harmony with the cadence of the tumbling water. Sunlight spotlighted her hair and touched her skin with gold. “Come and get me!” she called.

He told himself he wouldn’t let her bait him. He would turn around and go back to the car and wait for her to follow. They didn’t have time for silly games like this.

But the next thing he knew, he was taking one tentative step out onto the log, and then another. The moss was cool and slick beneath his feet, but he could feel the rougher bark beneath it. He kept his eyes on her, telling himself not to look down. She beckoned, like some wild water sprite. “We’d better go,” he said, even as he continued feeling his way toward her. “We have a lot of miles to cover.”

“We needed a break.” She turned her back on him and walked even farther out on the log.

He decided he really would turn around now. What did he think he was going to do when he reached her anyway? He’d already decided giving in to the desire she stirred in him was a bad idea.

He started to pivot to face the other direction, but as he did so, he felt the log shudder, and out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of windmilling arms.

In an instant, he lunged forward and caught her, steadying her against him even as he fought to stay upright himself. Heart pounding, breath coming in gasps, he clung to her until they were both still. The only sounds were the rasp of his own breathing and the gurgle of the creek as it slid beneath their makeshift bridge.

She smiled up at him, eyes wide, lips slightly parted. “Thanks,” she said. “I guess my sense of balance isn’t much better than my sense of direction.”

“You’re crazy, you know that?” he asked.

She nodded. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She had movie-star eyes, dark and impossibly luminous. Looking into them, he forgot all about the miles they had to cover or the disaster they’d narrowly avoided. All his senses were focused on the feel of her in his arms. She was the stuff of bedroom fantasies and early-morning dreams.

“Are you going to stand there staring, or are you going to kiss me?”

Her voice was breathy, as beckoning as her gestures had been moments before.

His lips were on hers before she’d finished speaking. She tasted like fresh fruit and peppery watercress. She rose on tiptoe, angling her lips more fully against his, opening to him, her tongue teasing across his teeth. He slipped both hands behind her neck, his fingers sliding up into her hair as he deepened the kiss, losing himself in the sheer pleasure of the moment.

The sound of a car door slamming shattered the spell she’d cast over him. He flinched, and braced one foot behind him on the log to keep from falling. Marlee opened her eyes and blinked. Voices were approaching. “Looks like we have company,” he said.

She nodded, and slipped out of his arms, avoiding his gaze. A blush stained her cheeks the color of ripe strawberries. Still clutching her hand, he led the way off the log, but she broke away from him as soon as they were on land again, and headed for the picnic table, where she began gathering the remains of their lunch.

He stopped to collect their shoes from the bank, then followed more slowly, letting himself cool down a little. What exactly had happened back there, other than the closest thing he’d ever known to spontaneous combustion?

3

WITH SHAKING HANDS, Marlee gathered up the left-overs from their lunch and stashed them in her bag. What had she been thinking, practically jumping Craig’s bones there on that log? Sure, he was a hottie and yummy as a hot fudge sundae, but what kind of a woman throws herself at a man she’s known all of three hours? He’d think she was desperate, or cheap—or both.

She headed for the car and he came up behind her as she was arranging things in the back seat. “About what happened just now…” he began.

She whirled to face him, her face hot with embarrassment. “It didn’t mean anything,” she blurted. “I mean…it just happened. And it shouldn’t have.” She stared at the ground. This was coming out badly.

“Yeah, uh, I guess we both got a little carried away.”

She risked a glance at him and saw that he had his head down, his hands shoved in his pockets. She relaxed a little. He didn’t look like a guy who’d gotten the wrong idea. He dug a trench in the gravel with the toe of his shoe. “Look, not that it’s an excuse or anything, but it’s been a while for me and…” He shook his head. “I don’t want you to think that because I’m giving you a ride, I think you owe me anything. Because I don’t. Think that. I mean, I’m not like that.”

Something in her melted right then. It was all she could do not to throw her arms around him again. For a guy who had come on this morning like Mr. Macho, she liked this version even better. Call him Mr. Decent. How many of those did you meet anymore? “It’s okay,” she said. “I guess….” She shrugged. “I guess we could say we both did what came naturally. But that doesn’t mean it meant anything.” Except she’d been on plenty of nature walks, camping trips and day hikes before and fresh air had never affected her this way.

“Right.” He nodded and took his hands out of his pockets. Their eyes met, then they both looked away, as if afraid to focus too closely on each other just yet. “So, we both agree we’ll go on like before. As if nothing happened.”

“Right.” Should she warn him that at various times she’d also sworn off chocolate, coffee and ice cream, and hadn’t managed to stay away from any of those temptations longer than a week? But then, a week was all she needed, right?

“So, I guess we’d better hit the road if we’re going to make it to Kingsport by dark.”

He started around the car to the driver’s side, but she stopped him. “Let me drive for a while. You can take a nap.”

He shook his head. “That’s okay.”

“Oh, come on. We’ll make better time and be more alert if we take turns driving.” Besides, this was another way to keep things even between them. Not that she didn’t believe what he’d said about her not owing him any “special” favors for agreeing to give her a lift, but she didn’t want any room for doubt.

He frowned. “I thought you didn’t have a license.”

A picky detail. “Yes, but that was just bad luck. I’m not a bad driver, really.”

He shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll pass.”

“Come on. We’re out in the middle of nowhere.” She spread her arms wide. “It’s a nice, straight road. What could happen?”

He stifled a yawn.

“See, you are tired!” She took a step toward him. He started to back up and bumped into the car. “I’m the only one who’s ever driven this car and I think it should stay that way.” He put his hand on the side panel, a protective gesture.

“I get it now. You’re worried I’ll hurt your precious car.”

He looked uncomfortable, but she saw she’d scored a bull’s-eye. What was it with men and their cars, anyway? “Look, if you’re tired, don’t you think the chances are greater that you’ll have an accident? Whereas I’ve already had a nap and I’m fresh and alert.” She leaned closer, almost but not quite touching him. “I promise I won’t let anything happen to your precious car.”

Confronted by her in such close quarters, he apparently decided to relent. “Okay, okay. You can drive. But only for a little while.” He held out the keys. “And no speeding. Be careful.”

She traced an X over her heart. “I promise. I’ll take it nice and easy. And you can get some rest.”

They got in the car and he pushed the seat back and reclined it slightly. She slipped on her sandals then started the engine. “See, this was a good idea,” she said.

He nodded. “Maybe you’re right. I mean, how much trouble could anybody get into way out here?”

MARLEE GRIPPED the steering wheel so tightly her fingers were practically fused to the leather. She gnawed her lower lip and tried to think calming thoughts. Deep breaths, she reminded herself. Take deep breaths. There’s no need to panic.

Except that she didn’t have a clue where she was, or even if she was headed in the right direction. She glanced over at Craig. Head back, mouth open, he snored softly. Thank God he wasn’t awake to see her predicament. Though if he was, he might be able to get them out of this mess.

She’d done fine for the first hour or so, cruising along at a nice safe speed, humming in harmony with Bonnie Rait on the stereo, enjoying the beautiful spring day.

Then one of those nasty orange signs had popped up on the side of the road. One that said Road Construction Ahead. And then an even nastier sign had appeared. Detour.

She’d sat up a little straighter in the seat and told herself she could handle it. All she had to do was follow the signs and she’d end up back on the highway, traveling in the same direction. No problem.

Except she must have missed one of the signs, or maybe they’d forgotten to put one out. She made two or three turns and by that time she was so confused, she couldn’t have said which way was the right way to go.

So she guessed. A dangerous proposition, but the only other alternative was to wake Craig and ask for help. What self-respecting woman wanted to do that? Especially one who had made such a big deal about driving?

She shifted in the seat, trying to get more comfortable, and stared down the road, hoping for a road sign or a billboard or anything to tell her where she was and where she needed to go. But all she saw were empty fields and distant trees. No houses, no people and no signs.

Keep driving, she told herself. You’re bound to come to a town eventually. That’s what roads do. They connect towns.

She glanced at Craig again. His hair was ruffled and dark beard stubble showed along his jaw. She imagined he’d look like this first thing in the morning.

Her imagination quickly stripped him of his shirt, and painted a picture of him reaching for her across the rumpled sheets….

Stop that! She jerked her gaze back to the road, and tried to ignore the very different kind of heat scorching through her body. This was insane. She didn’t usually behave this way with the men she dated. And she had to travel three thousand miles with Craig. She couldn’t keep looking at him like a dieter contemplating the dessert of the day. She was an adult. She ought to be able to control these…these urges, and relate to Craig like another adult. A friend. A very sexy, very male friend.

She stifled a groan and clutched the steering wheel even more tightly. Why couldn’t they have met back in Washington? Gotten to know each other over a few weeks? Then they could fall into bed guilt-free. But not on a cross-country trip when they were still practically strangers.

What did it matter? He obviously wasn’t interested. Oh, his body was, but you couldn’t trust a man’s physical reactions. They could get turned on by pictures in magazines or random hints of certain perfumes. So when she’d come on to Craig back there by the creek, she would have been amazed if he hadn’t responded.

His mind wasn’t interested, though. He’d made that clear up front. He didn’t want any “complications.” Which she figured was a polite way of saying he didn’t want her. Mr. Strictly Business wasn’t interested in Ms. Anything Goes. What else was new?

She passed a house, and then another. A small billboard urged her to shop at Dave’s Auto Parts in Downieville. Half a mile farther a green sign announced that she was entering Downieville, population thirteen hundred. And three. Relief flooded her. She’d stop at a gas station or grocery store in Downieville and ask for directions. She checked Craig. He still slept soundly. With any luck, she could find out what she needed to know and head back in the right direction before he ever realized what was going on.

As she guided the car down the two-lane through the center of town, nostalgia overwhelmed her. Downieville reminded her of Dimmitt, with its mom-and-pop stores, signs in the windows celebrating the accomplishments of the local school teams and flower boxes along the sidewalks. It looked like the kind of place that would be fun to poke around in, if they had more time.

The town was small, but busy for a Saturday afternoon. People filled the sidewalks in front of the neat rows of shops, and traffic was heavy. Cars, trucks, even a fire engine clogged the street up ahead. Had there been an accident? Or maybe there was a big game.

She followed the stream of cars, inching past sidewalks lined with people. Some had even brought lawn chairs and sat down to watch. Some of them waved to her, and she waved back. She rolled down a window, intending to ask a passerby what was going on. Just then, a band started up, trumpets and a big bass drum loud in her ears.

She looked behind her and indeed, a high-school band, complete with a trio of twirlers in leotards, marched in formation behind her car. Beyond them, she could see a truck pulling a trailer decorated with crêpe-paper flowers. Facing forward again, she saw two clowns skipping ahead of her, bunches of balloons in their hands.

The band let out another loud fanfare. “Huh? Wha—?” Craig sat up, rubbing his eyes. He looked around, blinking. “Where are we? What’s going on?”

She watched one of the clowns hand a balloon to a giggling toddler. “I think we’re in a parade.” Ahead of them in the traffic, she could make out a red convertible, with a tiara-clad young woman perched on the back seat. She tossed out candy, and the children scrambled for it.

“A parade! Are you crazy?”

“Look in my tote and get that bag of hard candy, will you?”

“What?”

“Just do it.” She smiled and gave her best Miss America wave to the passing crowd.

Craig handed her the candy. “How did we end up in a parade?”

Ignoring him, she ripped open the bag and tossed a handful of candy out the window. It landed short of the sidewalk and children rushed to gather it up. “Smile,” she told him. “Everyone’s watching.”

He looked around, scowl still firmly in place. “I can’t believe this.”

“Here. Throw some on your side.” She shoved candy into his hand. “It’s fun.”

Looking doubtful, he rolled down the window on his side and threw out a handful of candy. One of the clowns strolled over and handed him a balloon. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he asked, but the clown had already moved on to the car ahead of them.

“How sweet!” Marlee laughed at a boy and his dog who watched the parade from the back of a pickup parked at the curb. “Do you need more candy?”

“What I need is to know how we got into this mess,” he said.

“Maybe I thought it would be fun to visit the strawberry festival.” She pointed to the banner stretched across the street in front of them. Downieville Strawberry Festival! it proclaimed.

“Downieville’s not on our route. And we don’t have time for this. We’re already behind schedule.”

“Oh, stuff your schedule!” She spoke without rancor, still smiling and waving to the crowd. All the cars and trucks and floats turned in beneath the sign, which appeared to be the entrance to the local high school.

As Marlee pulled into a parking space and shut off the engine, a round, crinkly-faced man with straw-blond hair and bright blue eyes rushed up to them. “Welcome to Downieville,” he said, thrusting his hand in the open driver’s-side window. “I’m Ed Hoskins, the mayor. I saw you folks get caught up in our parade. Thanks for getting into the spirit of things.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mayor Hoskins. I’m Marlee and this is Craig. You have a wonderful little town.”

“Glad to meet you. And thank you.” He shook both their hands, though Craig continued to frown. “We think Downieville’s a special place. Now y’all come inside and join in the festivities. We’ve got all kinds of craft and food booths. Games. Fun for everyone.” He opened the door and ushered Marlee out.

Craig joined them. “Sir, I—” he began.

“Ed, we’ve got a problem!” A harried-looking older woman rushed up to them. She gave Marlee and Craig a brief smile. “Sorry to interrupt, but I need the mayor’s help here.”

“Nancy, what is it?” the mayor asked.

“Doc Nelson had to leave to deliver Sue Nicholson’s baby, and he was supposed to judge the bake-off. Now we’re a judge short.”

“I’m sure we can find someone who won’t mind tasting all those delicious pies and cakes for a good cause.” The mayor turned back to Marlee and Craig. “You’ll want to stick around for this, folks. After the judging, the goodies are sold by the slice. The money goes to our summer youth program.”

“Craig can be your judge,” Marlee said. “He’s a famous Washington, D.C., chef.”

“I don’t think I—”

Craig started to back away, but she caught hold of his arm. “You’d be perfect,” she said. “And we’d be helping these nice people out of a jam.”

“A jam! Strawberry jam! We have that, too.” The mayor put his arm around Craig’s shoulder and led them toward the high-school gym. “A famous chef. Imagine that! Wait until I tell the committee.”

Craig looked back over his shoulder and glared at Marlee. She pretended not to notice. So what if this wasn’t exactly part of their planned itinerary? Craig worried too much about things like schedules and plans. He needed to learn to relax more. To slow down and smell the roses. Or the strawberries.

CRAIG SPENT the next hour sampling strawberry pies, strawberry cakes, strawberry cookies and muffins. Women and men of all shapes and sizes presented their creations with attitudes ranging from great solemnity to open flirtation. “I know you’re going to love this,” cooed one buxom blonde. “It’s my specialty.”

“Stop wasting the man’s time, Victoria.” An older woman with a face like a bulldog shoved the blonde out of the way and fixed Craig with a stern stare. “Young man, if you’re really a famous chef, then you’ll recognize my award-winning strawberry pie as the best in the state. I developed the recipe myself and it’s never failed to win a ribbon.” The words held a definite threat.

Craig managed to keep a smile on his face as he picked up his fork. “I’m sure it’s delicious.” He gave an equally friendly smile to the blonde. “As I’m sure yours is, too.” Who knew judging a small-town baking contest would be so rife with intrigue and danger?

When the women moved on, shooed away by one of the bake-off organizers, Craig looked around the crowded gym for Marlee. He spotted her over by a face-painting booth. Dressed in an oversize red apron, she was painting a butterfly on a little girl’s cheek. Marlee had a strawberry painted on her own face. Her hair was tousled and she looked like a kid herself, and every bit as happy.

He didn’t buy her story about wanting to stop off at the Strawberry Festival. She must have gotten lost because there was no Downieville listed on his route plan for their trip. Amazing. How could a person get lost on a straight highway?

“Mr. Brinkman? It’s time to announce our winners.” Nancy, the gray-haired women in charge of the bake-off, led him to the small stage at one end of the gym. While she alerted the crowd that it was time to discover the winners of the contest, he shuffled through the notes he’d made on index cards. One advantage of being a stranger here was that he had no idea who had baked the winning entry, so he could be sure he’d judged fairly. He only hoped the losers wouldn’t come after him with a lynch rope.

He looked out at the crowd gathering around him and felt transported back to the junior-high talent show he’d entered when he was thirteen. He’d spent weeks rehearsing his act, but when he’d taken the stage in a gymnasium very much like this one, he’d been paralyzed with fear and had made a mess of things. When he’d heard everyone laughing, he’d run off the stage and vowed never to put himself in that position again.

“And now, our special celebrity judge, Chef Craig Brinkman, from Washington, D.C., will announce our winners.”

The sound of his name brought him out of his trance. He stepped forward, clutching his stack of index cards, and cleared his throat. “The first runner-up is the strawberry pound cake, um, number seventeen.”

Squeals erupted to the left of the platform and a teenage girl rushed forward, pausing every few feet to embrace an enthusiastic friend. She accepted her purple ribbon from Craig, then turned to beam at the crowd while a woman who must have been her mother snapped half a dozen photos. For all her excitement, you’d have thought the girl had won the Pillsbury bake-off. Here in Downieville, the Strawberry Festival was apparently just as big.

He waited for the commotion to die down, then consulted his next card. “Third place goes to the chocolate strawberry cake. Number twenty-seven.”

Laughter greeted this announcement. After a pause, a burly young man wearing a letter jacket from the local high school shuffled to the platform. The group of high-school girls giggled and whispered behind their hands as he approached. Apparently things hadn’t changed all that much since Craig’s school days. A boy who cooked was still something of a novelty.

“What’s your name, son?” he asked as he shook the young man’s hand.

“Uh, it’s Mike. Mike Brewster.”

“Congratulations, Mike. You might make a great chef someday.”

Mike looked uncertain, then grinned. “Thanks. I guess that’s pretty cool, huh?”

“I always thought so.”

As Mike returned to his place at the back of the crowd, he walked with an extra swagger, his shoulders straight. “Did you hear what he said?” He showed the ribbon to his friends. “He said I could be a great chef—like him.”

“Second place goes to the strawberry tart. Number forty-eight.”

The sour-faced woman who’d confronted him earlier made her way to the platform with much dignity. She accepted the second-place ribbon without a smile. “I’ll have you know this is the first time my strawberry tart has failed to take first place,” she said. “That’s what happens when you bring in outside judges. All that fancy nouveau cuisine has obviously ruined your tastebuds for good, American cooking.”

He tried not to cringe, and reminded himself that he would in all likelihood never have to see this woman again. Thank God for that.

“And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for.” Now that he’d been up here a while, he wasn’t so nervous. “I have to say, this was a really tough choice. Most of the entries were excellent and you are all to be commended.”

“Just tell us who won!” a man shouted from the back.

“Right.” He double-checked his notes. “The winner is the strawberry cream tart, number forty-seven.”

A woman squealed and the next thing he knew the buxom blonde was on stage beside him, her arms wrapped around him. “I told you you’d love it,” she exclaimed, and kissed him soundly, to the laughter and hooting of the crowd.

Somehow he managed to extricate himself from her grip while Nancy distracted her with the trophy. He took out his handkerchief to wipe lipstick off his face. As kisses went, this had been nothing spectacular.

Now his kiss by the creek with Marlee—that had been a spectacular kiss. A woman who could kiss like that didn’t need to know how to cook. It made him wonder what other “special talents” she might possess.

Don’t go there, he told himself. That kiss had been a mistake. He couldn’t imagine what had come over him. Maybe the watercress he’d picked was some wild hybrid, with hallucinogenic properties. How else to explain his sudden attraction to a woman who was so far from his ideal match it was ludicrous? No sense wasting their time with each other. The thing to do was to get back on the road and get to the wedding as quickly as possible.

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