The Princess Bride. Diana Palmer
of her life. She hurt in ways she’d never realized she could. She only wanted to get away, to escape.
He started the car and stood down on the accelerator. Tiffany had her window down, letting the breeze whip through her hair. She deliberately pulled out the diamond hairpins and tucked them into her purse, letting her long, black hair free and fly on the wind. The champagne she’d had to drink was beginning to take effect and was making her feel very good indeed. The speed of the elegant little car added to her false euphoria. Why, she didn’t care about King’s indifference. She didn’t care at all!
“What a car!” Wyatt breathed, wheeling it out onto the main road.
“Isn’t it, though?” she laughed. She leaned back and closed her eyes. She wouldn’t think about King. “Go faster, Wyatt, we’re positively crawling! I love speed, don’t you?”
Of course he did. And he didn’t need a second prompting. He put the accelerator peddle to the floor, and twelve cylinders jumped into play as the elegant vehicle shot forward like its sleek and dangerous namesake.
She laughed, silvery bells in the darkness, enjoying the unbridled speed, the fury of motion. Yes, this would blow away all the cobwebs, all the hurt, this would…!
The sound of sirens behind them brought her to her senses. She glanced over the seat and saw blue bubbles spinning around, atop a police car.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, where did he come from!” she gasped. “I never saw the car. They must parachute down from treetops,” she muttered, and then giggled at her own remark.
Wyatt slowed the car and pulled onto the shoulder, his face rapidly becoming the color of his hair. He glanced at Tiffany. “Gosh, I’m sorry. And on your birthday, too!”
“I don’t care. I told you to do it,” she reminded him.
A tall policeman came to the side of the car and watched Wyatt fumble to power the window down.
“Good God. Wyatt?” the officer gasped.
“That’s right, Bill,” Wyatt sighed, producing his driver’s license. “Tiffany Blair, this is Bill Harris. He’s one of our newest local policemen and a cousin of mine.”
“Nice to meet you, officer—although I wish it was under better circumstances,” Tiffany said with a weak smile. “I should get the ticket, not Wyatt. It’s my car, and I asked him to go faster.”
“I clocked you at eighty-five, you know,” he told Wyatt gently. “I sure do hate to do this, Wyatt. Mr. Clark is going to be pretty sore at you. He just had a mouthful to say about speeders.”
“The mayor hates me anyway,” Wyatt groaned.
“I won’t tell him you got a ticket if you don’t.” Bill grinned.
“Want to bet he’ll find out anyway? Just wait.”
“It’s all my fault,” Tiffany muttered. “And it’s my birthday…!”
A sleek, new black European sports car slid in behind the police car and came to a smooth, instant stop. A minute later, King got out and came along to join the small group.
“What’s the trouble, Bill?” he asked the policeman.
“They were speeding, Mr. Marshall,” the officer said. “I’ll have to give him a ticket. He was mortally flying.”
“I can guess why,” King mused, staring past Wyatt at a pale Tiffany.
“Nobody held a gun on me,” Wyatt said gently. “It’s my own fault. I could have refused.”
“The first lesson of responsibility,” King agreed. “Learning to say no. Come on, Tiffany. You’ve caused enough trouble for one night. I’ll drop you off on my way out.”
“I won’t go one step with you, King…!” she began furiously.
He went around to the passenger side of the Jag, opened the door, and tugged her out. His lean, steely fingers on her bare arm raised chills of excitement where they touched. “I don’t have time to argue. You’ve managed to get Wyatt in enough trouble.” He turned to Wyatt. “If you’ll bring the Jag back, I think your cousin is ready to leave. Sorry to spoil your evening.”
“It wasn’t spoiled at all, Mr. Marshall,” Wyatt said with a smile at Tiffany. “Except for the speeding ticket, I enjoyed every minute of it!”
“I did, too, Wyatt,” Tiffany said. “I…King, will you stop dragging me?”
“No. Good night, Wyatt. Bill.”
A chorus of good-nights broke the silence as King led an unwilling, sullen Tiffany back to his own leathertrimmed sports car. He helped her inside, got in under the wheel and started the powerful engine.
“I hate you, King,” she ground out as he pulled onto the highway.
“Which is no reason at all for making a criminal of Wyatt.”
She glared at him hotly through the darkness. “I did not make him a criminal! I only offered to let him drive the Jaguar.”
“And told him how fast to go?”
“He wasn’t complaining!”
He glanced sideways at her. Despite the rigid set of her body, and the temper on that lovely face, she excited him. One diamanté strap was halfway down a silky smooth arm, revealing more than a little of a tip-tilted breast. The silk fabric outlined every curve of her body, and he could smell the floral perfume that wafted around her like a seductive cloud. She put his teeth on edge, and it irritated him beyond all reason.
He lit a cigarette that he didn’t even want, and abruptly put it out, remembering belatedly that he’d quit smoking just last week. And he was driving faster than he normally did. “I don’t know why in hell you invited me over here,” he said curtly, “if you planned to spend the whole evening with the damned city clerk.”
“Assistant city clerk,” she mumbled. She darted a glance at him and pressed a strand of long hair away from her mouth. He looked irritated. His face was harder than usual, and he was driving just as fast as Wyatt had been.
“Whatever the hell he is.”
“I didn’t realize you’d even noticed what I was doing, King,” she replied sweetly, “what with Wyatt’s pretty little cousin wrapped around you like a ribbon.”
His eyebrows arched. “Wrapped around me?”
“Wasn’t she?” she asked, averting her face. “Sorry. It seemed like it to me.”
He pulled the car onto the side of the road and turned toward her, letting the engine idle. The hand holding the steering wheel clenched, but his dark eyes were steady on hers; she could see them in the light from the instrument panel.
“Were you jealous, honey?” he taunted, in a tone she’d never heard him use. It was deep and smooth and low-pitched. It made her young body tingle in the oddest way.
“I thought you were supposed to be my guest, that’s all,” she faltered.
“That’s what I thought, too, until you started vamping Wyatt whats-his-name.”
His finger toyed with the diamanté strap that had fallen onto her arm. She reached to tug it up, but his lean, hard fingers were suddenly there, preventing her.
Her eyes levered up to meet his quizzically, and in the silence of the car, she could hear her own heartbeat, like a faint drum.
The lean forefinger traced the strap from back to front, softly brushing skin that had never known a man’s touch before. She stiffened a little, to feel it so lightly tracing the slope of her breast.
“They…they’ll miss us,” she said in a voice that sounded wildly high-pitched and frightened.
“Think so?”
He