“Do you need help?”
Veronica Johnson-Hamlin stared at the large man sitting astride a motorcycle. He removed a black shiny helmet, tucking it under one arm. “No thanks. I’ve already called road service.” Raising her right hand, she showed him her cellular telephone.
“How long have you been waiting?”
“Not too long.”
“How long is not too long?”
She glanced at her watch. “About twenty minutes.”
Kumi shook his head. “That’s a long time to be stranded here.”
His protective instincts had surfaced without warning. She was a lone female, stuck along a stretch of road that was not heavily trafficked, in an expensive vehicle.
Swinging a denim-covered leg over the bike, he pushed it off the road, propping it against a tree. Looping the strap of his helmet over one of the handlebars, he made his way around to the back of the Lexus SUV, peering into the cargo area before returning to the driver’s side again.
“Do you have a jack and a spare?”
Vertical lines appeared between Veronica’s large clear brown eyes. “I told you that I’ve called for road service.”
Kumi moved closer, staring directly at her for the first time. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until he felt tightness in his chest. The woman staring back at him had the most delicately feminine features he’d ever seen. A slender face claimed a pair of high cheekbones that afforded her an exotic appearance. Her slanting eyes, a light brown with flecks of amber-gold, were clear—clear enough for him to see his own reflection in their mysterious depths, and they were the perfect foil for her flawless umber-brown skin. Her nose was short, the bridge straight, the nostrils flaring slightly as she pressed her full, generously curved lips together. He wasn’t able to discern the color or texture of the hair concealed under a navy blue cotton bandana. His gaze slipped lower to a white man-tailored shirt she’d tucked into a pair of jeans.
“Do you have any perishable items in the back?” he asked, gesturing with his thumb.
Veronica’s eyelids fluttered. There was no doubt some of her frozen purchases had begun defrosting when she’d turned off the engine. She forced a smile. “They should keep until the service station sends someone.”
Kumi rested his hand on the door. “Look, miss, I’m just trying to help you. You’re stuck here in a very expensive truck. I’d hate to read about someone coming along and jacking you for your ride. And you’d be lucky if they only took your vehicle.”
She registered his warning as she studied his face—feature by feature. His black hair was cropped close to his scalp, and she suspected the stubble covering his perfectly shaped head was new growth from what recently had been a shaved dark brown pate. He had a strong face with prominent cheekbones, a bold nose and a lush full mouth. She couldn’t see his eyes behind his mirrored sunglasses, but she still felt their intense heat. He was tall, no doubt several inches above six feet, and built like a professional athlete. She estimated that he was somewhere in his mid-thirties. Her gaze lowered to his powerful arms. There was a small tattoo on the left bicep, but she couldn’t quite make out the design.
“What’s it going to be, miss? Do you want to wait here by yourself, or do you want me to fix your flat?”
Veronica took another glance at her watch. It was at least half an hour since she’d dialed the number to her automobile club. Reaching over, she removed the key.
“I have a spare and a jack in the cargo area.”
Kumi took the key from her outstretched fingers. By the time he’d rounded the truck and opened the rear door, she’d stepped out and stood alongside the Harley.
He glanced over at her, silently admiring the way her jeans clung to her curvy waist and hips. She wasn’t tall, but then she couldn’t be called short, either. There was a mature lushness about her body that epitomized her femininity. His sensitive nose caught a whiff of the perfume on her body and clothing and a muscle quivered in his jaw. The fragrance was perfect for her, reminding him of an overripe lush peach bursting with thick, sweet juice.
Moving several bags, he found the jack and spare tire. He bounced the tire on the asphalt, making certain it was inflated. Working quickly, Kumi removed the flat, replacing it with the spare. His biceps bulged under his suntanned skin as he tightened lug nuts. It had taken him less than fifteen minutes to change the tire and store the flat behind the front seats.
“I suggest you get this one repaired as soon as possible, because it’s not safe to ride around without a spare.”
Veronica nodded at the same time she reached into the front pocket of her jeans. She withdrew two twenties. “Thank you for your help.”
He stared at the money as if it were a venomous reptile. “I don’t want that.”
“It’s the least I can do,” she countered.
Turning on his heel, Kumi walked over to his bike and swung a leg over it. “I didn’t help you because I expected to be paid.”
A flush swept over her face. “If you won’t take any money, then how can I repay you?”
Behind his sunglasses, his gaze moved leisurely over her body. He smiled for the first time and displayed large, straight and startling white teeth. “How about a home-cooked meal?”
Veronica’s jaw dropped at the same time her eyes narrowed. “What?”
His smile widened. “I’ve been out of the country for ten years, and what I’ve missed most is a home-cooked Southern meal.”
She arched dark eyebrows. “What if I can’t cook?”
It was his turn to lift his eyebrows. “You sure bought a lot of food for someone who can’t cook.”
She smiled, her eyes crinkling attractively. Veronica didn’t know why, but there was some thing quite charming about the young man sitting on the Harley. He had gone out of his way to help her. If he hadn’t come along, she still would be waiting for road service.
He angled his head. “Well?”
“Well what?” The two words were layered with a thread of annoyance.
“Are you going to fix that meal?”
What Veronica wanted to do was jump in her truck, drive away and leave him sitting on his bike watching her taillights.
“What do you want?”
His gaze shifted to her Georgia license plate. “Surprise me, Miss Georgia Peach.”
“What if I met you at a restaurant?”
Kumi wagged a finger. “No fair. I want home-cooked.”
Her temper flared without warning. “If you think I’m going to invite you—a stranger to my home—then you’re crazy.”
Folding massive arms over a broad chest, he glared at her behind the lenses of his sunglasses. “What do you think I’m going to do to you? Rape you? If I was going to assault you I would’ve done that already.”
Heat stole into her cheeks. “Don’t put words in my mouth! I didn’t say anything about rape.”
“Speaking of mouths—I still want a home-cooked meal.”
Folding her hands on her hips, Veronica glared back at him. “Do you ride around looking for hapless women to rescue in exchange for food?”
Throwing back his head, Kumi laughed loudly, the sound coming deep from within his wide chest. “I kind of like that idea.”
“Look, Mr….”
“Walker,” he supplied. “The name is Kumi Walker.”
“Mr. Walker.”
“Yes, miss?” He lifted his thick black curving eyebrows in a questioning expression.
“It’s Ms. Johnson.” She’d given him her maiden name. “Okay,” she said, deciding to concede.
What harm would there be in cooking a meal for him? And he was right about attacking her. If he’d wanted to attack her and take her vehicle, he could’ve done it easily.
Kumi flashed a victorious grin. “How about Sunday around four?”
“Sunday at four,” she repeated, holding out her hand. “I need my key.”
He removed the car key from the back pocket of his jeans and dangled it in front of her. “Where do you live?” She grabbed for the key, but he pulled it away from her grasp. “Your address, Ms. Johnson.”
Swallowing back the curses threatening to spill from her lips, Veronica counted slowly to three. “Do you know Trace Road?” He nodded. “I live at the top of the hill.” She held out her hand, palm upward. “Now give me my damn key.”
Kumi dropped the key in her hand, then picked up his helmet and placed it on his head. He waited, watching the gentle sway of her hips as she walked over to the SUV and got into the driver’s seat. He was still waiting when she slammed the door to the Lexus, started up the engine and sped away. As she disappeared from view he glanced at his watch. He would have to exceed the speed limit if he were to make it back to his cottage to shower and change his clothes in time.
Twenty minutes later he stood under the spray of a cool shower, recalling his interaction with Ms. Johnson. He didn’t know what had drawn him to her, but he intended to find out.
It wasn’t until later that night when he lay in bed that he thought perhaps there could be a Mr. Johnson. Even though she hadn’t worn a ring, he knew instinctively she would’ve mentioned a husband—if he did indeed exist.
Closing his eyes, Kumi tried recalling her incredible face and body, and much to his chagrin he couldn’t.
Veronica left the warmth of her bed, walking across the smooth, hardwood parquet floor on bare feet to a set of double French doors. Daybreak had begun to breathe a blush over the night sky, depositing feathery streaks of pinks, blues, violet and mauve. Rays from the rising sun cut a widening swath across the navy blue canvas, as ribbons of light crisscrossed the Great Smoky Mountains and painted the verdant valley with delicate hues from a painter’s palette. With a trained eye, Veronica witnessed the breathtaking splendor.
Opening the doors, she stepped out onto the second-story veranda and leaned against the waist-high wooden railing. She closed her eyes, shivering slightly against the early morning chill sweeping over her exposed flesh. Her revealing nightgown was better suited for sultry Atlanta, not the cooler temperatures of the western North Carolina mountain region. Despite the softly blowing wind molding the delicate silken garment to her curvy body, she felt the invisible healing fingers massaging the tension in her temples, dissolving the lump under her heart and easing the tight muscles in her neck and shoulders.
Breathing in the crisp mountain air, she watched the sun inch higher—high above the haze rising from the deep gorges. The sight was more calming and healing than any prescribed tranquilizer.
Why had it taken her so long to return to this mountain retreat? Why hadn’t she returned after burying her husband Dr. Bramwell Hamlin? Why had she lingered in Atlanta, Georgia, a year after defending her legal claim to his estate?
She knew the answers even before she’d formed the questions in her mind. She hadn’t wanted to leave Atlanta—leave a way of life that had become as necessary to her as breathing. It was where she’d been born, raised and had set up a successfully thriving art gallery; it was also where she’d married and had been widowed.
It hadn’t mattered that Bram had been old enough to be her father. In fact, he’d been several years older than her own father, but she’d come to love him—not as a father figure but as a husband. She’d married Bram at thirty-four, was widowed at forty and now at forty-two had to determine whether she truly wanted to leave the glamour of Atlanta and relocate to her vacation retreat in the North Carolina mountains.
Pushing away from the railing, she stepped back into the bedroom and closed the doors. It was Sunday and she had to decide what she was going to prepare for dinner. It was the first time in two years that she would cook for a man. Cooking dinner for Kumi Walker would be a unique and singular experience. After she fed the arrogant young man his requested home-cooked meal, she would show him the door. And that was certain to be an easy task, because since becoming a wealthy widow, she had become quite adept at rejecting men.
Easing the narrow straps of the nightgown off her shoulders, she let it float to the floor. She stepped out of it, bending down and picking up the black silk garment. Straightening gracefully, she headed for the bathroom.
The sun had shifted behind the house, leaving the kitchen cooler. Overhead track lighting cast a warm gold glow on stark white cabinets and black-hued appliances. Veronica had adjusted the air conditioner to counter the buildup of heat from the oven. She’d spent nearly four hours preparing oven-fried chicken, smothered cabbage with pieces of smoked turkey, candied sweet potatoes, savory white rice, cornbread and a flavorful chicken giblet gravy. Dessert was homemade strawberry shortcake.
Glancing up at the clock on the built-in microwave oven, she noted the time. Kumi was expected to arrive within forty-five minutes. All she had to do was set the table in the dining area off the kitchen, take another shower and select something appropriate to wear.
Kumi hung his jacket on a hook behind his seat and placed a bouquet of flowers on the passenger seat alongside a bottle of champagne. Slipping behind the wheel of his brother-in-law’s car, he turned the key in the ignition and headed in the direction of Trace Road.
Warm air flowing through the open vents feathered over his freshly shaven face. He wanted to enjoy the smell of his home state. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed Asheville and North Carolina until he’d sat on the bike and rode through towns and cities he’d remembered from his childhood. Memories—good and bad—had assailed him.
He’d left the States at twenty-two, returning a decade later as a stranger.
He’d been back for eight days, yet had not seen or spoken to his two older brothers or his parents. His sister Deborah had disclosed that the elder Walkers were vacationing abroad, and were expected to return to the States for the Memorial Day weekend. And that meant he had ten days before he would come face-to-face with his father—Dr. Lawrence Walker—a man who was as tyrannical as he was unforgiving. A man who’d hung up on him whenever he called home. A man who had symbolically buried his last-born because Kumi would not follow his edict. After a while, Kumi had stopped calling.
Concentrating on his driving, he turned off the local road and onto a narrowed one identified by a sign as Trace. He reached the top of the hill, slowing and searching for Ms. Johnson’s house. He saw one house, and then another.
He swallowed an expletive. He hadn’t asked her the house number. His frustration escalated as he steered with one hand, driving slowly, while peering to his right at structures set several hundred feet back from the winding road. There were a total of six along the half-mile stretch of Trace Road. He drove another quarter of a mile into a wooded area before reversing direction. As soon as the houses came into view again, he saw her Lexus.
Kumi turned into the driveway behind her SUV, shifted into park and turned off the engine. He retrieved his jacket, the flowers and the champagne.
He felt her presence seconds before he saw her, and when he turned to stare at the woman who’d promised to cook for him, he almost dropped the flowers and the wine.
She stood in the open doorway dressed in off-white. His gaze was fused to the outline of her body in a sheer organdy blouse she’d paired with tailored linen slacks. A delicate lacy camisole dotted with tiny pearls showed through the fabric of the airy shirt. Her feet were pushed into a pair of low-heeled mules in a matching pale linenlike fabric covering.
Kumi forced himself to place one foot in front of the other as he approached her, mouth gaping. Her hair—it was thick, chemically straightened, and worn in a blunt-cut pageboy that curved under her delicate jawline. It wasn’t the style that held his rapt attention, but the color. It was completely gray! A shimmering silver that blended perfectly with her flawless golden-brown face.