Chapter One

Isabelle

“Fuckin' jerk,” I muttered to myself as I slammed my foot down on the gas pedal.

My BMW rocketed down the road and the engine screamed as it took me as fast as it would go. I tapped my well-manicured fingers against the steering wheel, impatient to get through this desolate stretch of land and find some semblance of civilization. This place was the fucking land that time forgot.

I kept my foot on the gas, my speed nearing a hundred. I wanted to put as much distance between me and that animal as humanly—and as quickly—as possible. Checking the rearview mirror to make sure I was still alone on this lonely, seemingly never-ending, two lane highway, I caught a glimpse of the purple peeking out from underneath my concealer. I knew I was going to need to touch that up to avoid any unwanted notice—or questions when I stopped for gas.

Tears welled in my eyes as I looked at the pitiful woman staring back at me. How could I have been so stupid as to fall for a man like Scott? Yes, he'd seemed so charming and kind at first, which was exactly why, against my better judgment, I'd moved all the way out to Palm Springs to be with him. A nice place, but after all was said and done, I’d been sold a lie.

“I Hate Everything About You,” rang out in the car, barely recognizable as Three Days Grace.

My anger surged over the drumbeat. “No way, fuckwad,” I snarled to the ringtone as if my ex could somehow hear me through the phone. No way was I answering his call.

The song ended and immediately started up again. He was obviously going to keep trying until I answered. Yeah, right. I gave the phone the finger before grabbing it and stabbing the End Call button to silence that stupid song. There was no way in hell I was going to talk to him. Not now—not ever. Asshole.

And then the song blasted in my ears again. And to make matters worse—as if they could get any worse—Scott's smiling face popped up on the screen. You know, just in case I didn’t recognize him by that stupid ass ringtone –I had to see his stupid ass face as well. As soon as I saw that stupid ass grin on that stupid ass face, I grunted in disgust and tossed the phone onto the seat next to me.

Or at least, that's what I’d intended to do.

Instead of my iPhone landing on the seat, it went sailing – right out the open passenger side window. I gaped at it for a minute and then barked a sad laugh. Well, there was no way Scott was going to get through to me now.

Apparently, no one was.

“Shit!” I cried out to the blistering sun. Fuck my life and my shitty luck.

I hit the brakes, pulled over and stepped out of my car, my head pounding and my rage rolling over me in waves.

I walked back to where I'd tossed the phone, just in case some small miracle had salvaged it—not that I was holding my breath. That wasn't how my luck ran lately. I started down the quiet highway in the middle of nowhere, in the high desert of California, praying for that miracle. I needed my phone.

The sun beat down on the asphalt, and I literally felt like I was melting. Even with the windows down, it had been brutally hot in the car. Standing out in the direct sunlight was even worse. It reminded me that I’d hated everything about living out here. Maybe if Scott and I had set up housekeeping near LA or San Diego, things would have been better. Cooler air, cooler tempers. That’s what I’d been expecting when I pulled up roots and followed him out west.

But Palm Springs turned out to be about as far away from the beautiful California coast he’d promised me as one could get. I might as well have been living back in Missouri. You’d think I would’ve looked up Palm Springs on a map. But that’s how love struck I was.

I'd moved out here to start a new life, with a man even my parents eventually believed was the one for me. That’s how good of a salesman Scotty was. We all bought into his charm. Well, until he made a visit and the gorgeous cut abs and chiseled bone structure that killed me on line showed up on my doorstep. He’d brought roses and a bottle of champagne for me, imported chocolates for my mom, and a Cuban cigar for my dad.

I wasn’t exactly a hick when I left home. I came from a small town but daddy owned half of it. He did a background check – he wasn’t going to hand over his little girl to just anybody – and his people told him Scott was so squeaky clean he would have gotten a clearance from the FBI. So much for going to the right schools and owning your own “software company.”

Scott whisked me away with suitcases full of designer labels and promises to pamper me like a princess, a lie that lasted until we crossed over the Nevada line into the California desert. Thereafter, I lived under the boot of a man who believed a woman was born to do his bidding. Or else.

Well, maybe I was stupid and naive when I moved out here, believing in fairy tales about romance, sunshine, and ocean front homes. But I’d learned my lesson. Never again.

Now If could just find my phone.

And here it was, a few yards down the road from my car, lying in the middle of the road looking like a fresh piece of road kill. The screen was shattered and the front and back were about a foot apart.

But hell, at least that jerk’s face was gone. There was that.

I considered trying to patch it together, but then realized that the phone was like my doomed relationship. Shattered. Why bother?

I walked back to my car, carefully picking my way in my Jimmy Choo strappy crystal sandals. I tried not to catch the stiletto heels in any potholes, or get them stuck in asphalt that was almost melting in the 115-degree heat.

I had no idea where I was or where I was going, for that matter. I'd left our to-die-for house on the outskirts of Palm Springs and just drove, putting as much pavement as I could between my old life and what I’d hoped would be a new one.

With no destination in mind and no phone to guide me, I climbed back into my BMW—windows up this time and the air conditioning blasting on high. I prayed the next town I came to would have a bed and breakfast—or somewhere I could sleep—assuming I actually came to a town at some point. After all, it had been a long ass time since I'd seen a town of any sort, and that made me nervous. I squinted into the mirages melting on the long stretch of road ahead of me. Nothing but dry, brown earth as far as the eye could see.

***

Five miles from where I'd tossed my phone steam began to pour from under the hood of my car and the needle on one of the gauges on the dashboard started spinning in circles. I squinted, hoping my eyes were playing tricks on me. Then something stunk inside the car. Before I knew it, my entire car had filled with smoke. It was coming in through all the vents, from underneath the hood—anywhere it could sneak into the car. The smoke was so thick, I couldn't see a damn thing. I started coughing and choking on the noxious fumes until I could hardly breathe. I hit the brakes and pulled over, hoping I didn't hit anything. Not that I needed to worry too much about it since there was nothing but desert on this desolate road.

As soon as I managed to stop, I jumped out of the car and tried to catch my breath as I rubbed my raw, stinging eyes. Eventually, I could see—and breathe—again, and I surveyed the damage.

There was no fire, thankfully. But something wasn't right. The engine was ticking, and every now and then a small puff of smoke would escape from under the hood. It didn't look good, but I tried to remain hopeful. Mostly because I was absolutely screwed if the problem was as serious as it appeared to be.

I waited for the smoke to clear before climbing back into the car and trying to start it back up. I turned the key and—nothing. Not even a sputter. I fell forward, my forehead banging on the steering wheel. This was it. This was how I was going to die. Out here in this dried-up miserable highway to hell.

Years from now—which was about how long it would probably take for somebody, maybe an old prospector, to come along this god forbidden stretch of road—they were going to find me in the driver's seat, dried out and shriveled up with nothing left but dust, bones, and my Jimmy Choo’s.

Oh, the locals would have a field day about this, I was sure.

I had a half-empty bottle of water—that was it in terms of provisions. Yep, I was going to die.

“Why me?” I said, wiping the tears—and sweat—from my eyes.

I also managed to wipe away the concealer that was hiding that ugly purple bruise. Thank God there was no one around. No one around for miles and miles. Nobody to see what that asshole had done to me.

On the road up ahead, there was a sign—but I couldn't read it from where I sat in my very expensive oven. Once I'd managed to stop the pity party going on in my head and pull my shit together, I straightened myself up, climbed out of the car and walked toward it.

It was hard walking that chewed up road in heels and a pencil skirt. I had to keep pulling my skirt down to keep from showing my ass, not that there was anybody around to see it. Maybe I strutted down the road like I was on a fashion runway, but it felt more like a perp walk. My crime – Stupidity in the First Degree, for leaving the security of my safe but boring life in Missouri.

So much for my high tech pipe dream. As I limped closer I could see it was a garden variety road sign, two weathered slats nailed together pointing to a place called Milling. Ten freakin’ miles away.

“Jesus Christ,” I said, wiping the sweat from my brow. Ten miles in this heat might as well be a hundred. I pulled my hairband off and gathered my dripping, red hair into a ponytail, just to get them off my neck. I stood there, sweating, trying to muster some optimism about my situation as I calculated how long it’d take to walk ten miles when, in the distance, I heard a sound.

The rumble of a motorcycle.

And it was heading my way.

Relief washed over me, but it didn't last long as paranoia and fear set in. I had no idea who might be coming my way, and a current of outright terror made an express run to my stomach. I wasn't the type of woman who took rides from strangers or hitchhiked—that was just asking for trouble. And I could find enough of that on my own without some hotshot on a Harley offering me a bag of crap on a platter, thank you very much. Even though that might be my only hope right now.

Far off in the distance, I saw the dirt and gravel kicked up by a motorcycle barreling down the dusty road. I watched as he slowed and then did a wheelie before pulling to a stop right beside my car, stirring up a plume of dirt that coated the roof and hood of my sorry assed Beemer.

I was standing about fifty feet from my car, and he had to have seen me as he threw a leg over the gas tank and slid off his seat like some stud in a beer commercial. He yanked his helmet off, the hot desert wind picking up his dark hair and blowing them around a nicely chiseled jaw. He adjusted his sleeveless leather vest, giving me a long view of rows of solid muscle and heavily tatted arms, gang signals I was sure. I didn’t hang with motorcycle clubs at home. Prep school girls were groomed to snag nice boys, meaning boys with pedigrees. Spelled M-O-N-E-Y. I’d spent my summers lounging around the pool at the country club. They wouldn’t have let this guy in to park their cars. I have to admit, though, from the way some of the girls in my college sorority used to talk about biker dudes, I wouldn’t have minded a taste. I heard they were pretty good in bed. If they ever made it to the bed.

But not today.

I walked toward him cautiously, and tried to look menacing just in case he might have the wrong idea about me being an easy target.

As I got closer his gaze fell on me, and a smile crossed his lips. Yes, it was a predatory grin, but I could see he liked what he saw as he gawked at me up and down—like I was a piece of meat. But it was not the look of some guy who was going to skin me and hang me up in his refrigerator. For some odd reason, I didn't think he was a real threat. I was basing that on nothing but instinct and maybe a solid dose of hope. If he did turn out to be a chainsaw-wielding murderer, there wasn't much I could do about it now.

“Car trouble?” he shouted as I was still a good twenty feet away, keeping my distance in case I had to take off running. As if. Where would I go?

I had no fucking clue.

“Yeah, I think it overheated.”

“Looks like it.” The guy opened my car door and fumbled for the latch. He walked to the front of the car and lifted the hood, then he leaned back as the car unleashed a huge cloud of smoke. “Looks like you blew your engine.”

Crap. Just what I needed. He looked over his shoulders at me and for some stupid reason, I noticed he had gorgeous eyes. A light blue that contrasted with his otherwise dark features. “You gonna stand back there all day? I'm not going to bite, I swear.”

I wasn’t ready to believe him even though a grin curled around the corners of his mouth. I glimpsed gleaming white teeth through his tentative smile. Good genes, I guessed. From his scuffed up boots and oily jeans, he certainly didn’t look like he could bankroll prime dental work.

I hesitated, unsure of my options at the moment. Honestly, even if I stayed back where I was, if he wanted to kill me, he wouldn't have too much trouble doing just that. He looked to be in great shape—strong and fit. The type of guy who worked out. No way I could outrun him, even if I'd wanted—or needed—to. The car keys were in my hand, so I anchored them between my fingers, my only weapon, but I was ready to strike if necessary. I wasn't going to be a victim again. Not twice in one day. If he was going to kill me, he was going to get a fight.

I walked toward him as he continued tinkering with stuff under my hood, not even bothering to look at me again as I approached. My gaze fell on his nice, tight ass as he bent over the hood of my car. His jeans hugged it perfectly, really accentuating his positives. What could I say? I was a warm-blooded woman and I couldn't help but look. Although, I was a bit horrified with myself for doing it—given the current situation and all.

“So uhm . . . what's your name?” I asked, sauntering up beside him. “I'm Isabelle.”

He turned around and wiped his hands on the front of his dark jeans before pushing his long, scraggly hair from his face. I looked him over—not too bad on the eyes. Not bad at all.

“Jameson. Jameson O’Leary,” he said, extending a hand.

I gave it a hard look. Jameson hadn’t shaved recently and no telling when he’d bathed last. Was it safe to touch him? What the hell. I screwed up my nerve and gave him a quick handshake and immediately wished I had some hand purifier.

Then he placed his hands in his back pockets and just stood there looking at me with a cocky expression on his face that said he was waiting for me to ask him for help—which I desperately needed in that moment.

“Well, Jameson O’Leary, do you happen to have a phone I could use? Maybe to call a tow truck or something?”

“A pretty girl like you, all by yourself, and you don't have a phone?” he asked, shaking his head. “Sorry. Phone died awhile back, haven't been able to replace it.”

“Mine sort of died, too,” I said, biting my lip. “On the side of the highway, that is. Just like my car.”

Jameson let out a low whistle and shook his head. “Sure sounds like someone's having a shitty day.”

“You can say that again,” I muttered.

“I'm guessing you need a ride, sunshine?”

I looked at the bike then back at him. He gave me a smirk that told me he was the kind of guy who got what he wanted. I’d just had a double helping of that with a side of ass-kicking. “Uhm . . . I don't think so. But thanks. I just need to call an Uber or something”

Jameson shrugged, scratching the stubble on his chin, laughing softly. “Uber?” he said, trying unsuccessfully to suppress a grin.

“You know the car service?”

“Oh, I know what Uber is. We’re in the sticks out here, but the Pony Express comes through every once in a while and gives us word from the outside world. Last time we got a news flash about Uber.”

I rolled my eyes and if there was any door I could have slammed in his face, I’d have been all over it. He wasn’t finished, but now his voice dropped to a serious note.

“It doesn’t look like you have too many options, considering Milling is a good ten miles down the road. And trust me, they don't have Uber.”

He had a point. Dammit.

I stared back at the bike, continuing to shake my head, which made my hastily assembled ponytail fall apart. I pulled the band out and felt my damp hair fall around my shoulders. I pulled it up over my neck and closed my eyes for a moment feeling a hint of a breeze flowing across my skin. Granted 115-degree breeze, but at least it was moving air. And then, because at that moment I had no shame, I gave him my best, full eyelash batting, kittenish begging, pretty please, don’t leave me stranded in the desert baby face. “Could you maybe just run into town and get me a tow truck?” I said, all but drooling over him.

“And let you wait out here? By yourself—in the middle of the desert?”

“Sure, why not? It wouldn't take you long—”

“Have you ever been to Milling, Isabelle?”

“Nope, can't say that I have.”

“Didn't think so,” he said.

He leaned up against the hood of my car and pulled something from his front pocket. Lighting up a cigarette, he took a long, deep drag before exhaling a thick plume of smoke at me. I stepped away, grimacing. If he noticed my disgust, he ignored it.

“Milling is a town of about oh . . . five hundred people,” he said. “At most.”

“So?” I said.

“So? There's not a whole lot there. And there definitely are no tow trucks in Milling, sweetheart—”

“Don't call me, sweetheart.”

He snorted, obviously amused by me. He took another drag from his cigarette and exhaled again before continuing.

“So, there's no trucks in Milling. The nearest town with a tow truck is probably an hour away. I mean, you're welcome to wait out here all by your lonesome. But just know, it's Sunday and most businesses don't operate on Sundays around these parts. So your wait out here all alone might be a hell of a lot longer than you were banking on.”

“Dammit,” I said, kicking the rocks at my feet. “What a great day to—”

“A great day to do what?” he asked me.

“To go for a drive,” I muttered.

I looked over at Jameson's bike and realized my options were very, very limited. He was starting to look like my only option.

“Is there even a place to stay in Milling?” I asked. “Like a bed and breakfast? A hotel? Because there's no way I'm staying—”

Jameson shrugged. “There's a motel. A shitty one, but it should have rooms available.” He took one last long drag before stomping out his smoke under his boot. “But my place is cozier—”

“You wish!” I replied, hands on my hips, my chin raised defiantly. “I'm not that type of girl.”

“Suit yourself, Isabelle.” He walked toward his motorcycle. When he got to his bike and mounted up, he turned to me and asked, “Are you comin' or not? I'd hate to see you stranded out here for a few more hours until some trucker happens by. Hell, they probably won't be as nice as I am either. Some guys will expect a little somethin' for the effort, if you know what I mean.”

Reluctantly, I had to admit that I needed something cold to drink, and sitting out there for several more hours—or possibly even overnight—didn't sound like much of an option.

“Fine,” I grumbled. “Let me just lock up my car really quick.”

Jameson put on his helmet and waited for me. When I reached his bike, he helped me climb on and instructed me to wrap my hands around his body—to which I strongly objected.

“You wanna fall off?”

“Of course not,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Then hold onto me,” he demanded. “Because once I take off, you'll go flying right off the back if you don’t.”

“Fine,” I grumbled.

I placed my arms around him awkwardly and held on for dear life. My pencil skirt rode up so my panties were pressing against him, which only made things more awkward and embarrassing for me. But before I could stress about it too much, the bike roared to life, thrumming with vibrations beneath me.

I screeched as the bike took off down the road, feeling like my heart jumped into my throat. Squeezing my eyes shut and gritting my teeth, I prayed I wouldn't die out here. My parents would be so ashamed if they heard their daughter was killed while riding on the back of a motorcycle with a tatted-up thug. I’d rather die in the car with the buzzards circling.

Hell, I'd be ashamed of myself. I wasn't that type of girl, but desperate times call for desperate measures. My chances on his bike were better than a night on the side of the road, so I held on for dear life as we drove the ten hot miles into town.