“Gibson?” he questioned. Might as well know if some asshole was hiding in the weeds.
She stared at him for a long moment and then glanced around the interior of the cruiser. The lack of shock or disorientation gave him the impression she knew where she was and how she’d gotten there.
“My guitar.” Her voice vibrated over him, raising the hairs on his forearms as effectively as if she’d whispered in his ear. She volunteered nothing more, but flags of color unfurled across her cheeks. Apparently, she wasn’t accustomed to regaining consciousness in the back of a police cruiser with an officer of the law looming over her.
Accustomed or not, she pulled herself into an upright position. He allowed it, backing off to let her swing her legs down and gritting his teeth against the flashes of lace afforded by the gaping T-shirt. When her boots hit the floorboard, he waved her over and took the space next to her. “Your guitar is in the trunk, along with your bag.”
With quick, absent moves, she rearranged the chain around her neck so the guitar pick nestled between her breasts then flicked her arm and sent the bracelets tumbling to her wrist. Beneath her lashes, she gave him the side-eye. “Are you taking me into custody, Officer…?”
“Donovan. That depends. Have you done something illegal?”
“Of course not.” The words came out fast, but her gaze skidded past him like a prisoner making a break for freedom.
“Aside from hitchhiking,” he added, “which, for the record, is illegal in the entire state of Kentucky.”
Her eyes darted to his, wide and anxious. “I didn’t know, but I was stranded and kind of out of options. Isn’t there some leeway under the law for special circumstances?”
He resisted the pull of those big, pleading eyes. “I’m just guessing at this point, Ms. Goodhart, but something tells me you’re a walking, talking set of special circumstances.”
She huffed out a breath and stared into the gloom again, seemingly captivated by the sun’s fight to break through the thinning edges of the clouds. After a few seconds, she asked, “How do you know my name?”
“From the APB.”
The words brought her attention back to him, and she swallowed so hard he heard her throat contract. “An APB on me? Are you serious?”
Quite the poker face, this one. “No. I got your name from your bag.”
“Oh.”
The exchange didn’t exactly incriminate her, but it cemented his decision to run her for warrants. Replacing his hat, he said, “I don’t suppose you have any ID to back it up?”
“My wallet is in my bag.”
She definitely sounded hesitant, which supported his suspicion she had something to hide. “Rain’s stopped. Let’s go around to the trunk and have a look.”
He stepped out before she could reply and offered his hand to her in a way that didn’t really give her a choice. Still, she managed to avoid his outstretched arm and exit the vehicle on her own. He closed his fingers around her elbow as they walked to the trunk. Yes, her color was back, and she appeared stable, but a head-rush could change her status quickly. He didn’t want any harm coming to her on his watch. Any additional harm, he corrected, noting she favored her right foot with every stride.
“Ms. Goodhart, did you hurt yourself when you fainted?”
She slid him a sidelong glance but kept walking. Make that limping. “Everyone calls me Roxy. And I’m okay. It’s just these boots. I have a little hot spot on my heel.”
He looked at her boots. Not new, but not designed for long walks in the rain. He’d check the damage after he checked her ID.
They reached the back of the cruiser, and he popped the trunk. She took a second to bundle her hair into a knot, treating him to another view of red lace through the gaps in her shirt. With her hair under control, she unzipped the duffel and started digging. Bracelets jangled as she searched.
Jumbles of clothes, lingerie—it was hard to tell the difference—tumbled from the bag. Within seconds, it looked like a Fredrick’s of Hollywood had exploded in his trunk. He rescued a red cowboy boot before it hit the pavement, but not in time to catch the crumpled pack of cigarettes that fell out. Lovely. He picked them up and slid them into his shirt pocket.
“Bingo!” She tore the Velcro flap of a red nylon wallet emblazoned with grinning silver skulls and spent another few seconds rifling through overstuffed slots meant to organize credit cards, pictures, and whatnot. Finally, she held up a photo ID as if she’d retrieved a map to the universe.
He tossed the boot into the duffel. She held out a hand for the cigarettes, but he shook his head. “Let’s see the ID,” he said and plucked the card from between her fingers. Roxy stared back at him from a Texas driver’s license, instantly recognizable despite a spiky fringe of platinum bangs obscuring her unmistakable eyes.
According to the vital stats, Roxanne Belle Goodhart had called Austin home at the time the license was issued. She claimed five feet four inches of height—he called bullshit on that—weighed one hundred and ten pounds, and had recently celebrated twenty-two years of decorating the planet with her presence.
“Five-four?”
She re-zipped her duffel and pulled herself up to full height. “On the nose.”
Maybe in the shit-kickers. He committed her driver’s license details to memory. “You’re a long way from Austin.”
She shrugged, but the casual gesture didn’t dissipate the nerves humming off her like electricity from a high-voltage line. “I’ve been traveling for a while. Going where the opportunities take me.”
He handed the ID to her. “You know this license is expired, right?”
“I planned to renew it when I got home. I just…” She trailed off and shrugged again. Now she looked a little lost. “I haven’t figured out where that is yet. I have a passport. Somewhere.” She gestured toward the duffel.
“Later. Right now, Roxy, I want you to take a seat in the
