Maybe not, but this man was as out of place on the High Street as a yak at a PTA meeting. What was he doing in town? She glanced at his car. Expensive. And at his shoes—cowboy boots? But they were top quality, judging by the tooling—and he had very big feet, big hands too. While her makeup was probably running down her face in stripes. Unattractively.
And now horns had started blaring.
She glanced around to see he'd abandoned his car where she'd thumped on the hood, and he seemed oblivious to the line of traffic building up behind it. He was more interested in painstakingly retrieving every single piece of shopping she'd dropped. Now she felt bad. She'd caused the problem, but the drivers were yelling at him.
Straightening up, he stared at her with a look that made those neglected parts spring to life again. "Climb in and I'll give you a lift home," he suggested, curving a grin.
"Thank you, but I've got my own car," she said primly.
Complete lie. Husband Harold had sold her battered old car for scrap last week. They didn't need two cars, he'd said. "And anyway," Harold had added, "Our house is on a bus route."
She wouldn't have minded, but she had bought Harold's car, along with everything else he owned, ate, drank, or wore, right down to the custom–made shirt on his back. She should have gotten control of things years ago, Arabella told herself with frustration as Sir Galahad eased onto one tight hip.
"At least let me take you to your car," he said.
Her invisible car?
As he angled his chin to stare down at her, the look in his eyes made her smile for some reason, and then she laughed as he lifted his collar and icy rain tipped down his neck. He laughed too, when Harold would have hit the roof—just before he hit her. Harold blamed her for everything, including inciting him to violence, but this man seemed different. He had a sense of humor for a start, and had taken the dousing well—
The blare of car horns reached fever pitch.
"Thanks for the offer of a lift," she said politely, knowing it was time to move on.
"But?" he pressed, dipping his head to stare into her eyes.
"But it's not necessary," she explained. "My car is just around the corner—" Well, it was around someone's corner.
"I still say there's no need for us both to get wet," he insisted in the same attractive drawl.
"I'm already wet," she pointed out.
The look he gave her made her cheeks flush red. He was just another aggressive male driver who thought he owned the road, she told herself firmly. She refused to be wooed by his expensively curated charm—though, admittedly, she softened slightly when he handed back her shopping. "Thank you."
"Don't mention it."
His slanting smile was so appealing she couldn't be angry with him for long. Concern from a man was such a refreshing change. Flagging down the bus, she ran to catch it.
"I could offer you a lift somewhere?"
"Are you still here?" she demanded, frowning up at him.
"Seems so," he agreed wryly.
Staring
up only made her realize how much smaller than him she was. He was a lot younger too—
Think of all that vigor.
She didn't have to. Her body had already registered that fact. She could supply the rest: he was brutally masculine, and dark enough to be described as saturnine, with thick, wavy black hair and sharp black stubble that made him look like a pirate. He definitely saw more sun than she did, and his dark blue eyes were laughing in a way that made her heart leap.
He was dangerously charming.
Flattening her lips before her traitorous body could smile any more than it was already, she turned her attention to the old lady and saw her safely on board the bus. Jumping on the running board behind her, she left Sir Galahad in a street full of furious drivers. She did not need any more trouble in her life—not that Sir Galahad would be interested...
She turned to see if he was still there.
Oblivious to the fists being raised at him, her white knight was standing in the middle of the road staring after her. What were the chances of that?