At least you told him what you really wanted. You finally trusted someone else enough to tell, and that alone counts for something, doesn’t it? He just couldn’t go there with you.

But I’d felt so shamed. So exposed. I’d confessed my deepest fantasies to Geordie, hoping he’d play along, and instead he’d freaked out. Oh, he tried to be sympathetic, all “But why do you think you feel this way?” That’s what I pay my therapist for. What I needed from him was something a whole lot dirtier. A whole lot scarier. And gentle, funny Geordie couldn’t give it to me.

Maybe I was being the rigid one. I figured I shouldn’t condemn a guy for not getting off on the idea of forcing a woman. So I reminded myself, Geordie gets to have limits too—

The steering wheel jerked in my hands. I managed to keep my Civic from spinning out, but barely. It wobbled violently, pulling hard to one side as I guided it onto the shoulder. The hum of tires against highway gave way to jagged pops of gravel under my car. Once I’d cleared the road, I put the car in park, turned the key, and sat there for a moment, one hand held over my wildly thumping heart.

Shit. I’ve blown a tire.

I stepped out of my car, my sandals crunching in the roadside grit, as I inspected the damage. As I’d thought, the passenger-side front tire was completely blown out; strips of blackened rubber had peeled away, and it was already completely deflated against the ground.

Biting my lower lip, I glanced up and down the highway. I hadn’t quite made it as far as Giddings, which was the closest thing to a real town in this part of Texas. The next outpost of civilization was probably at least half an hour’s walk from here . . . in the dark, without even a streetlamp to guide me. Why hadn’t I brought the stupid car charger? I’d have given a lot to have my cell phone with me so I could call for help. I could’ve bought another one in any gas station along the way; it wasn’t like they were expensive. But I hadn’t. So I was alone, in the dark, totally on my own.

Of course, as a modern, independent woman, I’d learned how to change a flat tire. I’d practiced so I’d be able to do it in a crisis. Except that the last time I practiced was eight years earlier, when I was a junior in high school.

I squared my shoulders. Okay, Vivienne. You can do this. Let’s make it happen.

As I took the jack from the trunk, I decided to ditch the little cardigan I wore over my red sundress. In Texas in August, the weather was too warm to work hard while wearing extra layers, even this late at night. Besides, I didn’t want to get grease all over my entire outfit if I could help it.

A truck’s headlights appeared on the horizon, heading toward me. I was torn. Wave for help or duck behind the car, so the driver doesn’t see that I’m a woman out here alone?

My fantasies were one thing. Reality was another. I wanted help really badly, but I walked behind the car.

Not that it mattered—the eighteen-wheeler barreled past me so fast my compact car rocked in its wake. The breeze blew my hair in my face and whipped the skirt of my sundress. Once the truck was well ahead of me, I took off my cardigan and tossed it into the front seat, then got down to business.

Okay. Obviously the first step was jacking up the car. I knelt beside the flat tire, angled the jack—and heard another car driving toward me.

Slowing down.

And stopping.

Headlights bathed me in their brilliance. I held up one hand, unable to see for the glare. Fear prickled along my skin. I took the lug wrench firmly in my fist as I stood, still holding my other hand against the light, and tried to keep my voice steady as I called, “Hello?”

“Looks like you’ve got trouble.”

The driver stepped forward, the headlights silhouetting his tall, masculine form. As my eyes adjusted to the brightness, I could finally see his face.

Oh, my God.

All the adrenaline in my bloodstream changed. The fear was still there, sharper as I saw how broad his shoulders were, and the muscles in his arms—but now that fear was matched by excitement, raw and primal. This man . . .

He was tall, a couple inches over six feet. His jeans were slung beneath his almost impossibly tapered waist, which only exaggerated how muscular his thighs were. His black T-shirt clung to him tightly. Stubble shadowed his angular jaw, and his dark hair was cut almost military-short in a way that emphasized the strong lines of his face. His gray eyes raked over me, as I remembered why I’d worn the cardigan to begin with—my sundress was low-cut, and his gaze made it clear he’d noticed.

My hand tightened around the wrench.

“What seems to be the problem?” He took a step closer.

“It’s just a flat tire. I’ve got a spare.” I sounded breathless. Afraid. Would that encourage him to help me, or make it clear just how much power he had over me at this moment?

One of his eyebrows lifted. Clearly he’d picked up on the fact that I was nervous. It seemed to amuse him. “Can you change a flat?”

“Of course.” That was possibly not the entire truth, but I figured I could manage if I had to.

“Do you have any help on the way? Triple A?” His gray eyes met mine again, but it was difficult for me to make out his expression with his headlights shining in my eyes. “A boyfriend?”

Is he trying to find out if I’m single, or trying to find out if anybody would know if something happened to me?

No one would.

I tried to smile; I probably failed. “Yeah. Triple A said they’d be here in—oh, another fifteen minutes or so.” My voice sounded sharp, borderline rude, but I couldn’t worry about that. All I could think was, Why did I say that? Fifteen minutes was too long. Fifteen minutes is more than enough time for him to . . .

His smile was a quick flash in the darkness, as hard-edged as a straight razor. “I can change that flat in five. That is—if you’re not too proud to ask for help.”

“Proud?” This guy had pulled over next to me in the dead of night, started interrogating me, and wanted to lecture me on my attitude? Fuck being afraid; I got mad. “Listen, if you think it’s funny that I’d be worried about a stranger in this situation, I’m afraid you don’t understand some very basic, sad facts of life.”

He drew back, his gray eyes narrowing, almost like I’d slapped him. Had he taken my fear as an insult? Maybe it was one; I’d as good as said I thought he couldn’t be trusted. However, when he spoke again, his deep voice was gentler. Meant to soothe. “I wasn’t thinking. Here. Let me take care of this for you and get you on your way.”

He held out his hand for the wrench. Obviously he’d need it to change my flat. But it was also the only potential weapon I had.

Do I trust this guy?

I took one step closer to him, squinting to see. Now his body blocked the headlights a little more, and I could examine his face more carefully. Strong brow. Firm, straight nose like a slash through his perfectly symmetrical face. A surprisingly full lower lip. He looked powerfully, almost aggressively masculine. Like someone who took what he wanted. And yet his eyes never glanced away from mine, as though he had nothing to hide—

Even though I wanted to trust those eyes, I couldn’t. This man was a total stranger. What it boiled down to was this: If he was a good guy, then I could rely on him. If he was a bad guy, he could probably get the lug wrench away from me any time he wanted.

I hesitated one instant longer, then handed him the wrench.

He took it and stepped past me to get to work.

During the next few minutes, while he worked in silence except for the clanking of metal, I stood awkwardly in front of his dark sedan. Even now I found it difficult to relax around this guy. What if he was just toying with me? Trying to get me off my guard?