The combine driver leaped from the machine and Lauren jerked the wheel left, crossed the road, bounced the car into the field. Her sense of direction was nearly always wrong and she was counting on that, heading opposite of what felt right to get to Kansas City. For over ten years, the darkness of LA clubs had replaced the open sky bordered by glistening grain, beauty she still hoped to reclaim.
Paolo turned. “Shit!”
Her lip curled and trembled. “You’re the one insisted on coming.”
“I saved your ass!”
She clenched her jaw and checked the road. No car on the hill. Ahead, one hope for cover, a sloping barn against the blue.
What had she been thinking? After two years of marriage, watching Jimmy’s drug money grow and keeping her Kansas roots secret, she’d sacrificed her lead time. Her little farm, the herb garden, dogs, chickens, the pot-bellied pig . . . all her dreams traded for a one night stand. Now up to three nights. If she’d known that Jimmy was so well-connected—but no, it was her stupid drinking that got her into trouble again.
She glanced out the side window. The other car still hadn’t crested the hill. Christ, yes! A few more seconds! She glared at Mr. Smooth-face-square-jaw, his wide eyes shifting between barn and highway—what the hell was his last name? She should be sick of those thick lashes and muscular lips, finished with all six foot three of him, but she still felt the warm sting, making her want it again—if only she could find the fucking highway.