Who says shit like that? He’s got to be joking. Or he’s crazy and planning to abduct me right off the side of the freeway. I grate my teeth and stare so fiercely any sane man would run away.
Apparently not this one. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his dress slacks and shrugs. “Puppies, then?”
I roll my eyes, a burst of nervous laughter escaping my lips. “Who doesn’t love puppies?”
“Oh, I have a treat for you.” He rubs his hands together, devious as his smirk.
I should be alarmed, but the look rather suits him. Shit. Zac Efron made Ted Bundy look real good. No matter how charming this man is, I can’t trust him. “I am not taking a ride from you.”
“Oh, come on.” He takes a causal step forward, closing the space between us.
I take a step backward. A horn blares, a rush of air practically knocking me on my ass. My body stiffens, realization coursing through my veins at how close that car came to hitting me or one of our vehicles.
He grabs my elbow and tugs me back towards the cement barrier wall. His gaze is sincere as he shouts above the traffic noise. “Get in the car and I’ll take you wherever you need to go. We’re sitting ducks out here.”
He’s not wrong. But I’m still warry. “You could be a murderer. A rapist. A psychopath.”
“You’re in luck.” His smile pulls wide. “I’m none of those.”
A scoff leaves my lips. “And I’m supposed to believe you?”
“Google me. Or text my contact info to your family members.” He shifts his weight to his side in a bored manner, nodding to where my cell is clenched in my hand. “Either way, we’re losing valuable time if you’re trying to get to Americana anytime soon.”
He’s right. God, I hate that he’s right. What option do I really have? I can wait for a tow, but I’ll miss the day of work. I’ll ruin any future opportunity of working with the director, and in this industry reputation is everything. People talk.
If I accept his offer, I could end up dead and buried in a shallow grave. Or I could get to work and come back to deal with Iron Maiden tonight. I’ll still have my job. I won’t burn any bridges. I can’t believe I’m actually considering this. It’s crazy, right?
I unlock my phone. “What’s your number?”
“Here.” He takes my phone and types on the screen. Seconds later his pocket rings. Satisfaction beams from his smug grin as he hands back my cell.
“What’s your name?” I lift my phone, snap a photo of his face, save the contact, and send it to my brother. It’s not a complete guarantee of my safety, but I’ve watched enough true crime documentaries to leave digital evidence of my last known whereabouts.
He laughs, and when I don’t move, his eyes lift in surprise. “Oh, right. You really don’t know. Jude. And you are . . .”
“Rachel.” I appraise his face, looking for something that shoots off warning bells or screams murderer, but come up empty. It isn’t until this moment that I appreciate his appearance. Really take him in. Hot damn. This man is heart stopping. His suit is tailored to what has to be a spectacular body. His deep, soulful brown eyes would be easy to get lost in. But it’s his hair that completely steals the show for me.
The length of his brown locks are long enough to tug on. They’re styled and slicked back with gel, but a few more inches and the man could rock a top knot. I’ve always wanted to be with a man with hair like that. My thighs clench with the possibility. My Thor obsession knows no bounds. God, I’m getting turned on over a stranger’s hair. No. No, ma’am. I am not allowed to be turned on by this stranger. The cocky, arrogant and infuriating man who reminds me all too well of every man I’ve ever dated. “What’s your last name, Jude?”
“Lawrence.”
I hold up a finger while I wait for my phone’s search engine to load. I don’t expect to find much, but to my utter shock, my browser fills with photos of him—Jude Lawrence—the man staring at my astonished face. My jaw drops open. “You’re famous.”
He shakes his head. “Hardly. I do happen to keep the company of some well-knowns in the entertainment industry.” He’s being modest. Downplaying his popularity completely. I know because I’m scrolling through dozens and dozens of gallery photos with his face. Timberlake. Pratt and his new wife. Musicians. Actors. Freaking Oprah. Jesus, does he know everyone?
“Breathe, Rachel. It’s not that big of a deal.”
My eyes widen as more photos load. He fraternizes with enough of the rich and famous to get invited to Grammy’s. Fuck, Emmy’s too. “You’re like really famous.” No wonder he’s such a cocky bastard.
“Something like that. Let’s go.” The muscles of his throat clench, his smile gone. He’s annoyed. Maybe embarrassed? But why? I don’t know him well enough to understand. Fuck me. He’s being mysterious. It’s a catnip I can’t deny. Like an addict, my body thrills in response to the hint of his drug.
I want him. I’m attracted to him. I don’t even know him, yet I imagine how good it’d feel to have his face between my legs. Shit. Is this how Stockholm syndrome begins? “Wait.” I turn to Iron Maiden.
“Come on, sugar.” Jude runs his hands through his hair. “Enough with the excuses.”
“It’s not that.” I walk to the back of my Buick and pop the trunk. I turn to his expectant gaze and pull out the first case of many. “My makeup.”
5
Jude
I’ve known women who couldn’t leave home without their toiletries—hell, once I dated a girl who insisted on packing a full suitcase every time she spent the night—but this is extreme. In fact, I’m a little scared. It can’t be healthy to haul this much crap around. I eye the pile of cases
