Flirting With Trouble Read online

  Amanda gazed out her window. Some backyard. They’d landed at a truck stop with a convenience store and a McDonald’s.

  “Fairlane!” the driver announced.

  Amanda gathered her purse and jacket and scooted up the aisle. “Where is the bus depot?”

  The young male driver looked amused. “Isn’t one. The buses pull off here on this turnabout. Most of us usually gas up at the pumps and allow our passengers time for a Big Mac.” Watching Amanda’s pained expression, he asked if anyone was meeting her.

  “Not exactly. Not out here. I hoped to take a taxi from the depot—to a motel.”

  He rose and escorted her off the bus. Amanda stared into the sunny distance as he retrieved her bag from the storage compartment. There were two motels on the frontage road beyond the truck stop, surely the ones Ivy had mentioned. She’d called them decent. They looked like rambler shacks to Amanda. One was weathered cedar, the other a dirty tan stucco.

  Setting the giant wheeled bag beside her, the driver pointed to the smaller cedar place on the left. “The Fair-weather isn’t a bad spot,” he told her kindly. “I’ve stayed there a couple of times myself. I’m afraid you’ll have to walk the rest of the way though.”

  “I see. Well, thank you.” She pushed a folded bill into his hand.

  He glanced at the fifty dollar tip with pleasure. “Thanks very much!”

  His appreciation lifted her spirits. Fifty bucks didn’t impress many these days. As she leaned over to grasp the handle of her giant roller case, her hat fell off and blond hair tumbled to her shoulders.

  The driver’s gaze turned to wonder, making her nervous. “What are you looking at?” she snapped.

  He was sincerely taken aback. “Just a beautiful girl.” Pocketing her tip, he politely plucked her hat from the blacktop and held it while she knotted her hair again.

  “Oh. Why, thanks.” She realized she had overreacted. Which, if she did it too often, could do more to blow her cover than any newspaper coverage. With a hat readjustment and a fortifying sigh, she began to plod across the blacktop along a row of parked semis.

  AMANDA TACKLED the Fair-weather with a puff and a clatter. Bracing open the glass entrance door with her hip, she impatiently attempted to navigate her giant suitcase over the threshold while balancing her tote bag on her shoulder. She wasn’t accustomed to sweating outside the spa and didn’t care for the way her slacks and blouse now clung to her clammy skin. Even worse, she wasn’t accustomed to males of any age or temperament standing by offering no assistance. After finally winning her wrestling match with her suitcase and the narrow entrance, she realized a man had stood idly behind the counter through her whole ordeal! He was a strange-looking fellow of about fifty, small and painfully thin, with a beak nose and dark, narrow-set eyes. His skin had the color and texture of brown leather.

  Convinced he must be comatose, she marched up to the wooden reservations counter and hit the button of a service bell.

  The little man jumped. “The bell is for when I’m away from my post,” he explained patiently. “As you can see, I’m right here.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.”

  “Can I help you?”

  “That remains to be seen, Sir Galahad.”

  His egg-shaped forehead wrinkled. “The name’s not Galahad, it’s Geller. You musta misheard somebody.”

  She pulled a tight smile. “Yes, that must be it.”

  “You lookin’ for a room?”

  “Very perceptive, Mr. Geller.”

  “You can call me Fritz. Everybody does. ’Cept my wife.”

  “What does she call you?”

  “Nothin’. Met her maker about six years ago. Before that, she had a pet name for me that I don’t care to tell you. Too personal.”

  Amanda tugged a tissue from her pants’ pocket and dabbed her moist forehead. “About that room, Fritz—”

  “How long will you be stayin’?”

  Amanda gave an exasperated cry. “I don’t know! Does it matter?”

  He reared. “Just wonderin’.” He set a short registration form on the counter with a pen and turned to snatch a key from a maze of cubbyholes. Turning back, he watched her fill in the form. “I can put you in number ten right now, Miss Smythe. It’s around the back of the building, facing the parking lot. You payin’ by credit card?”

  She pushed the form and pen back at him. “Cash.”

  “You sure, little lady? It’s thirty-nine dollars a night. Plus tax. We all owe Uncle Sam his due.”

  “Cash is my offer. And I’d like to run a tab for the time being.”

  “Never done that.”

  She shrugged. “It is a pretty progressive system, for the trendy.”

  “Oh, we can do it, I suppose. I’m one to keep up with trends.”

  “Great.” Near exhaustion, Amanda snatched the key from his hand and trudged to the door to wrestle her suitcase back outside.

  “Let me know if you need anything!” he called after her. “Friendly service is our motto.”

  The room proved a cramped eyesore. Insulated gold drapes were sagging on a bent rod, and the white bedspread showed signs of wear. Amanda tiptoed across the worn shag carpet gingerly, feeling like she’d landed in foreign and destitute territory. The closet was the size of a phone booth and the bathroom not much bigger. The latter held an ancient toilet, sink and shower stall, all tinged with rust. She’d always wondered what comprised a one-star motel. Well, now she knew.

  After all the luxury suites she and Ivy had shared on the party circuit, Amanda could not believe her old friend had steered her here.

  Not trusting even her luggage on the dingy shag carpet, she set the case and tote on the dresser top. She dug out her hair dye and fresh underwear, and headed for the bathroom for a shower.

  An hour later, Amanda stepped into the bright sunshine of the parking lot clad in white capris, a yellow blouse knotted under her ribs and strappy gold sandals. With her hair tinted auburn and tied in a floppy topknot against the heat, she felt reasonably comfortable.

  Fritz Geller was still on duty at the counter. He admired her with open appreciation, looking her up and down.

  “I’d like to catch a taxi to town, Fritz.”

  “Sure, I s’pose you could take a cab.” He scratched his small chin. “If we had a cab for the takin’. But there are only two of ’em in Fairlane and they’re busy on Sundays, especially ’round this time. The ladies auxiliary always ties them up with their card parties and flower shows and the like.”

  “You have any other kinds of transportation?”

  “Well, you could take one of the motel bicycles.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Why, no, Miss Smythe, I ain’t.”

  Amanda pondered grumpily. “How far is it to the center of town?”

  “Not too far. Two miles or so.”

  “Fine. Show me your bikes.”

  “Would like a deposit…”

  “Fritz, all I’m carrying is my room key.” She patted her pants’ pocket.

  “The tab then?”

  “Yes, the tab.”

  He led her back around the building to a large garage. Hoisting the wide door, he showed her three rusty eyesores. “Take your pick.”

  Amanda chose a girl’s three-speed. “Now about air for the tires—”

  He flashed a boastful smile. “Free of charge, miss. Free of charge.”

  “Wonderful. Can I have some?”

  “Pump’s over there near the lawn mower. Help yourself.”

  “Aren’t you going to help me?”

  “For that, little lady, there will be an extra charge.”

  “How about five bucks?”

  “Why, sure. It’ll go right on the tab.”

  Ten minutes later Amanda was swinging onto the seat and aware that Fritz was eyeing her with some hesitation.

  “Something the matter?”

  “It’s just your choice of clothes.”

  “I think I look rather nice
.”

  “Why, sure you do. But that little outfit is hardly right for bicycling. The pants are tight and the shoes all stringy. Won’t be good for pedaling.”

  Since it had been a good fifteen years since Amanda had done any riding, she could not remember what she’d worn. But whatever it was, she didn’t have it along. “Just tell me how to get to the center of town.”

  “You take this alley behind the garage here and turn left.”

  “And then?”

  “Ride two miles.”

  “What’s the name of the main street—with all the shops?”

  “Main Street.” With a fluid shrug, he sauntered off.

  Fritz proved right about her outfit. As she pedaled along on the creaky frame her feet slid around in her sandals and her tight pants constricted her movement. But she was managing to keep her balance, which proved more important than gaining speed. The rising heat of the afternoon sun wasn’t energizing her, either. Why adults deliberately bicycled was beyond her comprehension.

  Up for any adventure, however, she tried to forget her discomfort by focusing on the picture-book-like terrain. Fairlane was the antithesis of bustling Manhattan, where she kept a Park Avenue apartment and spent most of her time. The streets here were wide with deep yards boasting old, well-tended homes and colorful gardens. Children played on some of these streets, contending with only the occasional car. Adults tending yards and strolling along sidewalks actually waved. Everything was so peaceful and clean.

  Amanda hoped she wouldn’t collapse in boredom before reaching her destination.

  Despite Fritz’s topnotch directions, a flagging Amanda eventually paused at a boulevard stop sign to ask a friendly couple for the shortest direct route to Main Street. They guided her left down Simpson to Geranium Parkway. A right turn there would give her a straight shot.

  Simpson was set on a slight incline, so Amanda was forced to pump a little harder to keep her momentum. By the time she made Geranium, her front wheel was on the wobble. She rounded the corner, picking up speed on the sloping parkway.

  She would have been all right if she hadn’t allowed herself to be drawn to the second house on the right.

  Images hit her fast and hard.

  A grand old Victorian home of deep blue with plum trim.

  A gorgeous man with jet-black hair, high on a ladder leaning over to wash a second-story window.

  Shirtless. Suntanned skin over rippling muscles.

  A blinding pinpoint of sunlight against a windshield.

  A crash. A flight. A landing.

  Half stunned, Amanda realized she was laid out flat on the cool, moist earth. She wiggled her fingers and bare legs to feel freshly cut lawn beneath her.

  If the celebrity columnist were to write her own headline it would have read, Bike Meets Fender, Girl Meets Grass.

  Ever so slowly she opened her eyes to the sunlit afternoon. Shadows clustered ’round overhead, bringing relief from the brilliant sunshine. Excited murmurs blended in crescendo, “Hurt” and “Help” and “Not my fault” among them. Then there was a call for a doctor from a loud, assured female voice. “Doc Handsome! Hurry! Quickly!”

  “On my way, Della.”

  Suddenly the bobbing shadows parted and a large, dark, commanding silhouette stepped center stage. It was the same natural wonder she’d spotted on the ladder! Amanda blinked several times in amazement. Against the deep blue sky and golden sunshine, he was nothing short of celestial.

  Senses spinning, Amanda opened her parched mouth to speak. “Doc Handsome?”

  Her soft croak brought an unexpected round of chuckles. Amanda turned her head to discover the owner of the hearty voice was a middle-aged woman with graying blond hair. She was kneeling nearby now, her face wreathed in a gentle smile. “My name’s Della, dear. As for him, he’s Doc Hanson. Dr. Brett Hanson.”

  Chapter Three

  “Not that Doc isn’t handsome. In fact, the name Doc Handsome fits him quite nicely.”

  “Knock it off, Della.” Brett slanted an impatient look at his landlady and made a shooing motion to everyone else. “Please! Step back!”

  Sometimes the citizens of the fairest Fairlane—as Della Scherer called the town—made Brett claustrophobic.

  “But, Doc, is she all right?”

  “Doc can fix her up.”

  “Wonder who she is…”

  “You gonna ask her who she is, Doc?”

  Brett shook his head. The young woman on the ground was doomed in a way. Not only was she a stranger in town but she was a beautiful stranger who’d arrived quite dramatically. She would be subject to instant celebrity among fifteen hundred or so nosy inhabitants.

  To Brett, instant celebrity was neither a plus nor a privilege.

  Brett pressed fingers to her wrist to take her pulse. Understandably, it was jumpy. As she struggled to sit up, he put a hand on her shoulder. “Settle back and tell me where it hurts.”

  Her response was a soft moan. “My ankle. The left one.”

  Brett checked it for swelling. “Wiggle your toes for me. Good.”

  “I didn’t mean to hit her, Doc.”

  “We all know it,” Della assured Martin, whose car the cyclist had hit. “I saw the whole thing. She was eyeballin’ the doc and rammed straight into you.”

  As Brett held his patient’s face in his hands to examine her pupils, she studied him with green eyes that reminded him of exquisitely cut emeralds. “What’s happening?” she murmured.

  Absently, he grazed her cheeks with his thumbs. Blindfolded, he’d have sworn he was touching baby’s skin. “You’re up for charges of reckless driving.”

  Her eyes widened. “Really?”

  The crowd erupted in laughter. Brett stood. “Get out of here. Everybody. Right now.” Slowly the group began to disperse. Brett enjoyed having such authority. In a small town like this with one lone medical clinic, doctors were treated with great respect, obeyed far more often than the chief of police. With grim satisfaction he squatted back beside Della and his newest patient.

  “What are you going to do?” Della asked under her breath.

  “I don’t think she’s injured too badly. Let’s take her over to the clinic.”

  Suddenly there was a burst of patter on the sidewalk, and Brett felt a pair of small arms around his waist. “Oh, Daddy, what’s goin’ on here?

  “Is the lady hurt, Daddy? Did she fall off her bike?” The child pushed a lock of jet-black hair out of her eyes and regarded the victim with concern.

  “Yes, Tess. She had an accident.”

  “What’s her name?” Tess peeped.

  “I don’t know yet. But that’s a good question to ask. To see if she has her wits about her,” he added, giving the patient’s impractical outfit a dubious inspection. If midriff blouses showing smooth tanned bellies were in fashion, they’d yet to hit Fairlane. Ditto for the loosened topknot tickling his forearm, the unique shade of a brilliant autumn leaf.

  “I’m…Ama…Mandy,” his new patient said.

  “Mandy,” Tess chirped. “That’s pretty, like her gold shoes.”

  Shoes that should be burned from a doctor’s point of view. Unsuitable for bicycling or even walking. Sexy shoes, though, made to display manicured toes like hers. The tiny nails were painted coral, a match for her perfectly shaped fingernails. All in all, she reminded Brett of one of Tess’s larger lifelike dolls with her pampered body, vivid hair color and huge, expressive eyes. Her lovely features were actually in perfect balance—which was more than he could say for her riding skills!

  Frustrated by his fascination for Mandy, Brett untangled Tess’s arms from his waist. “Baby, go find Frank. He’s in the basement washing screens. Tell him to haul this bike up on the porch and call Rochelle for me. Rochelle should meet me at the clinic to help me with a patient, okay?”

  “Okay, Daddy.” Planting a big kiss on his cheek, Tess started across the grass.

  “You want me to bring my station wagon around front, Doc?” Dell
a asked.

  “Guess that would work better than my Corvette. Thanks, Della. Oh, and grab me a shirt and my medical bag.”

  Fairlane’s only medical facility was a low, red-brick building located in a small industrial park. Fairlane still took to heart the tradition that Sunday was a day of rest, so the entire park was quiet. And deserted, save for Rochelle Owens’s green Cutlass sitting in the clinic lot. Brett noted it with relief from the back window of Della’s old Chevy wagon as Della wheeled into his designated spot. The clinic’s head nurse had arrived quickly.

  “We’ll have that girl inside in a jiffy.” Della shifted into park and shut off the engine. Climbing out of the driver’s seat with a large white purse dangling on her arm, she yanked open the back door where Brett sat beside his reclining patient. “Should I run in and get a wheelchair?”

  “No, just hold open the doors for me.”

  Brett edged out of the car then turned to scoop Mandy up in his arms. After getting a good grip on her, he made long, steady strides to the entrance. She wasn’t especially heavy, surely weighing little more than a hundred pounds. But Brett suspected she could be a tremendous burden if she put her mind to it. Even now, bruised and barely conscious, she was grumbling about no good men.

  Rochelle was on hand to greet them in the waiting room. She was dressed in a snug plaid blouse and beige hiphuggers that set off her lush curves. Her red hair was loose.

  “Thanks for coming, Rochelle.”

  “I was just off to the movies. Lucky thing Frank Scherer caught me.”

  “Hope I didn’t spoil a date.”

  “Forget it. I’ll always come for you, Brett.”

  Della arched a grayish brow at the coy remark. “Yes, Rochelle, one can always count on you to be on the spot and professional with Dr. Hanson.”

  Rochelle shifted away from Della. “What happened, Brett?”

  “Just a little fender bender.”

  “She have any identification?”

  Brett was taken aback by the unnecessary question. “Well, I know her name is Mandy.”

  “How about an insurance card?”

  “All she had in her pocket was a key to the Fair-weather Motel.” He struggled to control his impatience. “Look, you know I don’t give a damn about such details—especially in the middle of a crisis.”