The woman in the sexy little red convertible looked perky from behind. Her glossy long hair was pulled up in a careless pony tail and swayed from side to side like a cobra charmed by an Indian flute, as she bopped to the music from the car radio.
Even at a car's length away, the driver behind her thought this was the sort of hair a man could run his fingers through and grasp playfully… He wished now he was piloting his own expensive roadster, rather than the sedate brown sedan he'd rented especially for this trip. His own car was the sort that would impress the kind of girl who drove a bright red convertible with the top down on a windy spring day.
He imagined himself overtaking her, seeing her look over at him, her eyes widening in admiration as she took in his expensive ride and wealthy, groomed good looks.
Then she'd remember him and smile…
He gunned the accelerator, and with a disdainful purr the rental spurted forward, pulling alongside her. He glanced over, hoping to catch her eye. But she stared straight ahead, singing along to some mindless muzak and oblivious to his look of longing.
He didn't matter to her. She didn't remember. She didn't smile.
Irritated now, he jabbed the accelerator and zoomed past her. He knew that soon they'd meet again.
Then he'd refresh her memory.
* * *
Maggie Kendall was just leaving Fried Heaven, two cups of the café’s delicious coffee balanced in her hands, when a tall, dark-haired stranger pushed open the door so suddenly that it caught her and hot coffee sloshed wetly down the front of her white silk shirt.
“I am so sorry!” His handsome face flushed with embarrassment as he grabbed a wad of paper napkins from a dispenser on the nearest table and began to mop at the spill. His touch on her upper breasts was electric—it sizzled all the way down to her toes, leaving her breathless.
Brushing his hands away, she snapped, “It's okay, really, I'm fine. My office is just across the road and I can clean up there.”
The man snatched back his hand as he realised the inappropriate intimacy of his touch. Blushing, he jammed the offending hands into his suit pants pockets. “I—at least let me pay for your dry cleaning,” he stammered, but Maggie was already halfway out the door.
“It's nothing, don’t worry about it,” she muttered, avoiding his gaze. A second later, she was gone.
* * *
Josh Tyler blinked, staring as the door slammed behind her. He'd been intent on cleaning up the spilled coffee mess and had acted without thinking. Now his fingers telegraphed the sensation of the warm, soft femininity, and his embarrassment deepened. He hadn't felt this awkward since high school.
“Don't pay any attention to her,” a plump teenager behind the counter said. “That's Maggie Kendall, she's from the city.” She made the words sound like an accusation rather than a statement, and Tyler bit back a smile.
“Now, Alicia, Ms. Kendall's a nice enough woman and she's worked wonders with The Gazette since she bought out old Dan Warrington,” an older woman sitting by the electronic till said in a warning voice.
“Yes, but she's strange. People say she sees things…like, a second sight.”
“Alicia! That's enough. Now, serve the gentleman and then get back into the kitchen and help Sam with the clean-up.”
Tyler wanted to ask more questions but was pretty sure the eagle-eyed cashier would slap him down, so he ordered coffee and a Danish to go, paid, and left the store.
Outside on the broad sidewalk, his eye was caught by the large sign on one of the offices across the road: The Woeful Creek Gazette. Maggie Kendall was an attractive woman, even if maybe a bit highly strung. But he'd no wish to get close to any member of the Press—and certainly not to someone with a reputation for 'seeing things'.
Reporters and psychics were, in his experience, about equal in the charlatan stakes.
