Love and Trust Page 2

  “Thanks.”

  He gave her a small nod of acknowledgment.

  She pointed to the old truck. “Shall we fix it?” Anything to get out of here and avoid walking home along the highway in her heels.

  “The lug nuts are rusted up. Can’t turn them.”

  Melanie stared at the old truck’s wheels, then at Tristen’s strong, yummy build. “I have an idea.”

  He glanced at her dress and winced. “I’m not sure I like ideas.”

  What was that supposed to mean?

  “You’ll like this one. Trust me.” She climbed up the bar’s steps again, Guns and Roses now blasting. The bartender was absent and Melanie glanced around before making her way back to her vacated seat, where she leaned over the bar and swept up a handful of lemon wedges. She could be debarred for stealing. Did this count as theft? She certainly hadn’t paid for them. Turning to go with her pilfered fruit, she paused for a half second. The biker with the massive beard was staring at her as though he knew her. She gave him a weak smile and hurried back outside.

  “You’re going to turn lemons into lemonade?” Tristen asked.

  “Something like that. First, here’s the deal.”

  He crossed his arms and leaned against the truck’s back fender. “I’m not interested in marriage.”

  She choked on her laughter.

  “What?” His brow furrowed in displeasure.

  “Do I look like I’m trolling for a husband?” She fluffed out her skirt. “Okay, yeah, maybe a bit, but I don’t usually dress like this. I’m more of a T-shirt and jeans kind of girl.”

  “That’s too bad. The look suits you. You have nice legs.”

  Melanie struggled to accept the compliment, but found she couldn’t, given the lump in her throat. She was a Sasquatch. Always had been, since the puberty fairy had sprinkled her with that evil, magical dust. Tristen didn’t seem to be walking with the aid of a white cane, so why the false compliments?

  “I already turned down one offer of sex this afternoon, I’ll turn down another.” She widened her stance. “Forcibly if need be.”

  A hint of color tinged Tristen’s cheeks. “That was a compliment. Ever get any of those, or does your quick offense usually cut them off?”

  She narrowed her eyes.

  “You are beautiful, you know. And just for the record, women are supposed to lap up compliments.”

  “I’m not a kitten at the milk bowl.” Melanie turned away. “All I want is a ride after I fix your truck.”

  “Deal.”

  She stole another quick glance at him. He was still in that sexy pose, arms crossed, one ankle hooked over the other, and watching her as though trying to figure her out.

  Desperate to put them on friendly terms again, she took the hand that wasn’t cupping the lemons and ran it over the truck’s curved hood. It was a classic 1960s Ford, with an almost vertical windshield. Not something she’d expect a man with supposed billions in his bank account to be driving. “How did you end up with a vehicle like this?”

  “I needed a truck during renovations and my neighbor had one for sale.”

  “I thought you had someone else do those for you?” That’s what the article had said.

  His shoulders tightened as he straightened up again, and his voice became formal, businesslike. “I’m at a disadvantage.” He met her eyes, slow and sure as he shook her hand. “I have the honor of meeting…?”

  “Melanie Summer.” She straightened her spine, tugging her hand from his grip. The way he’d held it, focusing all his attention on her after complimenting her, was doing strange things to her mind and body. If she didn’t know better, she’d think she’d sped straight from a developing crush to full on, unabridged lust.

  She obviously needed to get out more.

  “No relation to Daphne Summer, by chance?”

  Melanie held in her smile. Damn. He was a real estate developer. Of course he knew her youngest sister. He’d probably met her head-on, seeing as she was responsible for almost every protest against local land developments over the past few years. And there had been plenty.

  Melanie tipped up her chin. “She’s my kid sister.”

  “I have one of her paintings in my living room.”

  Melanie forced her gaping jaw shut. “Her paintings?” Lately, Daphne had started selling her artwork at local farmers markets to help foot her portion of the family’s overdue tax bill on their century-old cottage. First Maya’s fiancé had ended up with one of Daphne’s paintings, and now Tristen, too? This was getting weird. Although the two men were friends. Maybe it was a guy thing to shop for artwork together.

  “What?” Tristen gave her a puzzled smile, his eyebrows wrinkling in an endearing way that made Melanie want to run a finger over them to see if they’d smooth out. “It caught my eye. A man can buy things without it becoming a big deal, you know.”

  Wow. Defensive. The ex-wife had obviously helped provide him with a little touch-and-go baggage before they split up.

  He apologized under his breath.

  “Well, how about that?” Melanie teased. “You have taste.”

  “Mentioning your beauty earlier doesn’t prove that?” A hint of mischief flickered in his gaze and she crossed her arms over her chest, then remembered the lemons still in her left hand. All right, no more flirty games. She needed to get them out of here.

  “Okay. The deal is, if I fix your tire you’ll give me a ride to Port Carling. Will you do that?”

  “How terribly convenient.” Tristen resumed his casual stance, sizing her up in a way that she figured she wasn’t supposed to notice. “I’m heading that way myself.”

  “Don’t you live there?” she asked, tired of the games.

  “Stalking me, Ms. Summer?”

  “Newspapers.” She bit back a dig about keeping track of the billionaire jerks who might be in her neighborhood.

  “Don’t believe everything they tell you.”

  “So then you’re not divorced and hiding out in a cottage that you made into a year-rounder?” So much for keeping her digs to herself.

  Tristen’s face lost its playful expression. “Are you going to fix my truck or do I need to send you back into that bar, where the bikers can continue to undress you with their eyes? Because as much as you get under my skin, Melanie Summer, I’d like to think I’m gentleman enough to help a woman in distress. However, you are making that rather difficult.”

  Melanie sucked on one of the lemon wedges. “You don’t believe I can do this.”

  Tristen waved a hand at the flat tire. “Be my guest, lemon girl.”

  “Watch and learn.” She held the lemons over the lug nuts and squeezed, letting the juice run between them and the rim, hoping the acidic liquid would break the rust’s bond. Moments later she licked her fingers and placed the lemon rinds in Tristen’s hand. With a smile, she turned and walked over to the pile of scrap metal in the weedy yard next door, hoping she’d find what she needed and wouldn’t end up looking like a fool.

  She could feel Tristen watching as she poked through the scrap until she came across what she was looking for. She hefted the two-and-a-half-foot-long pipe and walked back to the truck.

  “You’re not going to whack me with that, are you?” he asked, pretending to cower. “I swear I’ll never compliment you again.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Hand me the wrench, please.”

  After whacking the lug nuts with the pipe to loosen anything she could, she fitted the X-shaped wrench over the first nut, then slipped the pipe over the wrench’s handle to give her more leverage. Praying the lemon juice had loosened the rust, she carefully applied her weight to the wrench and pipe extension, shifting her feet to add more pressure. Son of a gun. That really was stuck fast.

  “Troubles?” Tristen asked, his lips curving into a perfect grin, exposing a fine line of white teeth.

  Without a word, Melanie smiled back and turned to sit on the pipe, holding tight while she bounced up and down, hoping to budge
the nut. There was one thing a gal learned growing up in a household of women, and that was how to get creative in solving problems when there wasn’t a lot of cash around. Not that she was stellar at it, but still. She could hold her own. Usually.

  Sweat gathered on her brow when the bikers came out onto the sloped porch to have a cigarette while leaning over the railing to enjoy the show she was putting on. Another unsuccessful bounce. Tristen glanced toward the road as if hoping for the tow truck.

  Melanie bounced harder, giving the pipe and wrench a sudden jolt. The rust cracked and the nut turned, dumping her in a heap on the gravel.

  Tristen was at her side in a flash, cupping her elbow as he helped her up. “You okay?”

  “Fine.” She brushed off her skirt and smiled brightly. “One down. Four more to go.”

  The bikers chuckled, taking leisurely drags on their cigarettes. Melanie refrained from mentioning that they needed to maintain a nine meter radius from the building’s entrance to be compliant with the Smoke Free Ontario Act, and set about fitting the wrench over the next nut. Tristen handed her the pipe, which had slid off during her spill, but he refused to let go. She pressed her body close to his to show she wasn’t intimidated. “What?”

  “Need help?”

  “I’ll finish the job, thanks.”

  She repeated her earlier actions—without being dumped on the ground—and the bikers cheered with each freed nut. Melanie curtsied for her audience when the new tire was finally in place, and thanked her lucky stars that her idea had worked. She was hot and dusty, but pleased.

  “A round of whiskey for the pretty lady,” one biker hollered.

  “I think you’re one of them now,” Tristen whispered. Melanie watched as he put the wrench and jack away. “You want to go in,” he noted in surprise.

  She shrugged. She kind of did, and not just because she was thirsty.

  “I can wait to drive you home, if you want.” His voice was gentle, caring. Almost big-brotherly. But it wasn’t fully platonic; there was a certain possessiveness in the way he held himself. Closer than a brother would stand. He watched her for a moment, maintaining eye contact long enough that she thought he might actually be interested. And not just in her safety.

  “Better cancel that tow truck.” Melanie slipped past him, hoping the free drinks would cure her hands of their Tristen-induced palsy.

  * * *

  Wow. The biker had been serious about providing a whiskey for her troubles. She finished the drink quickly, happy to see it was curing her trembling hands. But just as she pried her elbows off the sticky bar to excuse herself, the second biker, the man with the long, tangled beard, stepped up with another. He took the free spot beside her, which had been vacated by his buddy, Kane.

  Seated on her other side, Tristen bristled. So far he had remained silent, avoiding the revelry, but now he laid a gentle hand on her arm. “Are you ready to go?”

  Of course she wasn’t. She had male attention, and the bikers were buying her drinks. She was the only game in town and she’d judged these men wrongly. She had to make it up to them by absorbing their surprisingly kind, almost fatherly tributes. It was a sensation she hadn’t felt in over a decade, and it was good. Really good.

  “To think. With a few wedges of lemon she could do what that man with the big arms couldn’t,” laughed Kane, nodding at Tristen, who inhaled slowly, his grip tightening around his truck keys.

  The bartender leaned over the bar, palm outstretched to Melanie. “I think you owe me some lemon wedges, miss.”

  All eyes turned to her. She had relayed her story of her date abandoning her, drawing a suitably aghast response from her audience. Everyone knew she had no money on her.

  Tristen shifted, leaning to one side to get the wallet out of his back pocket.

  “He’s kidding,” she said lightly, hoping she was correct. Tristen smoothed a five dollar bill on the bar as the others broke into guffaws.

  “Just trying to help,” he muttered. “Can we go now?”

  Melanie bumped her shoulder against his, the two shots warming her gut. “Aw, it’s okay. They’re just giving me a hard time. Thanks, though. I appreciate it.” She met his eyes and smiled, reaching over to give his chin a gentle squeeze.

  The bikers began discussing engine repairs, and Melanie hoped they wouldn’t ask her to fix something. While she’d been driving a motorcycle for the past few months as a way to save money, it would be a stretch to say she knew much about them.

  “Sure can hold a drink,” Ezra, the bearded biker, remarked as he purchased another round. His silver skull rings shone in the light as he slid a glass her way.

  “Don’t ask me to walk a line!” Melanie said, raising her third whiskey in the air. The men lifted theirs in turn, with crooked grins. “I hope nobody is driving.” She let out a giggle. They were in the middle of nowhere on an old Ontario backwoods highway. Of course they were driving.

  “Order of rings, Scar,” Ezra said, and the bartender disappeared into the back room.

  “Why do you call him Scar?” She hadn’t noticed any marks on the man’s smooth olive skin.

  “The Lion King is his favorite movie. He likes to think he’s tough, so we call him Scar, after Simba’s evil uncle.”

  “No scars?”

  “Only of the emotional variety,” snorted Kane, his eyes slitted in a glare that didn’t match his tone. Bikers were a strange lot. All kittens on the inside.

  Melanie placed her empty glass on the bar.

  “Ready?” asked Tristen.

  She wanted to tell him to take a chill pill. But seeing as he was the only one in the bar not drunk, since he’d declined every offered shot, and the only one who had offered her a ride—not that she didn’t think she could snag a weaving, incredibly fast and blurry lift back to town on the back of a Harley—he was her safest bet at the moment.

  And safety was her middle name. Melanie Safety Summer. Had a certain ring to it, didn’t it?

  “This was a wonderful way to top off my afternoon, boys,” Melanie said, wondering if it was wise to call bikers “boys”. If she wasn’t careful she might hit a hot button and break the little bubble of harmony that made her feel she was one of them, and end up with an angry duo on her tail. And she really didn’t think Tristen’s old truck could outrace or outlast these bikers and their hogs. “I enjoyed talking to you.”

  “What do you do for a living, Melanie?” asked Ezra, turning to face her. His eyebrows were as out of control as his beard, practically hiding his eyes as he lowered them to peer at her.

  Ezra wasn’t fierce—he was shy! That was so incredibly sweet.

  “I’m a lawyer,” she said, trying to own the fact, but knowing that it likely wasn’t a favored occupation here in the Steel Barrel. Or anywhere on planet earth.

  “I knew you were a smart one!” called Kane, slapping his buddy on the back so hard that Ezra turned to glare at him, fist raised. “Didn’t I say she was smart?”

  “Anyone who uses lemons to save a man like Mr. City here is smart, you dumb-ass,” Ezra growled.

  There was a muscle flickering in Tristen’s jaw.

  “Aw, come on, guys,” Melanie said with a laugh. “He’s lived out here for a few years. He barely even looks like a city slicker now.”

  They all stared at Tristen, who sat up taller, straighter. Okay, so maybe the neatly rolled up sleeves of his shirt kind of said “city.” That and his current posture.

  “Okay then? So? Anyone have a good story to share?” Melanie asked, breaking the silence. They couldn’t leave on that note.

  Ezra turned his crystalline eyes to her, his bushy brows low again, his voice quiet. “You a divorce lawyer?”

  “Aw.” She gave him a light nudge with her elbow. “Hung out with me for less than an hour and already looking to ditch the old lady?” The whiskey was loosening her tongue.

  Tristen’s fingers tightened around her elbow. Time to go, yeah. Not a bad idea. Melanie glanced at Ezra, but instead
of murdering her and tossing her body in the bush out back, he let out a good-natured laugh, then gave her chin a none-too-gentle chuck with his fist.

  Okay, he needed to stop wearing so many funky rings if he planned to do that to townies.

  Tristen edged closer.

  “Ezra here’s an accountant,” Kane said. Melanie tried to mask her surprise. “But he can’t figure a way to leave the marriage with his nuts intact.”

  Tristen muttered, “Good luck, pal.”

  “What was that?” Ezra leaned across Melanie, his odor surprisingly fresh and clean, which was nice after all that whiskey and the heat. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to handle the smell of greasy hair and BO. He dropped his cocktail napkin, which he’d neatly folded into a square.

  “The woman always wins, so why waste your time and energy fighting her?” Tristen muttered. “Just roll over and play dead.”

  “Not my style.” Ezra gave him a hard look, but Tristen surprised Melanie by holding his ground and making the biker break eye contact first. Tristen’s fingers closed into a fist and she feared he must be battling something big inside, and for her sake, holding on to a very short and slippery rein.

  She turned back to Ezra, blocking his view of Mr. About to Blow His Top. “Come by the office and we’ll get you sorted out. Main Street, Bracebridge.” Melanie slid off her stool, the floor seeming incredibly far away from her feet. They hit after at least a foot or two of free fall she hadn’t expected, and she stumbled slightly, Ezra and Tristen steadying her at the same moment. A possessive charge crackled between the two and Melanie finally got why women went to the bother of getting dressed up.

  She might just become a dress gal, after all.

  “Thank you. It was fun meeting you,” she said to the bikers. “Say goodbye to Scar for me.”

  “Come back again, Lemonade.” Kane winked.

  “You ride?” Ezra called to her as she headed out.

  “I have a bike, but it’s not… I’m not…”

  “What kind?”

  “A Suzuki.”

  “What model?”