Trust in Me (8 page)

"Ray." Kevin slapped a clipboard against the stock clerk's shoulder, cutting him off. "If you've got nothing better to do than hassle the cashiers, then start taking inventory in the chemical aisle."

Ray glared at him. "That's your job."

"Unless I delegate it to you, which I just did. Now, move it."

The teen didn't budge, but Kevin's distraction was enough to allow Claire to slip away and step around the counter. The pressure in Kevin's chest eased, knowing he'd met his main objective. Still, his gaze clashed with Ray's dark glower, and like a storm gathering on the horizon, he sensed a showdown with the teen was brewing, coming to a head. Then what? He already knew what happened when he let anger push him to react with violence and never wanted to repeat that humbling, guilt-burdening experience again. No, forsaking his non-violent ideals was untenable. And quitting his job when he had a mountain of debt would be foolish. Which left finding some way to impress upon Mr. Lowery the extent of his son's detrimental behavior.

With a growl of displeasure, Ray snatched the clipboard and stomped toward the chemical aisle. Kevin turned his attention to Claire, who was gathering the items she'd been learning with Lydia.

"That boy gets away with murder. Always has," Lydia groused. "Why, I remember when he was just a little kid the way he'd run up and down the center aisle at church." The older cashier folded her arms across her chest. "Knew then his parents' loose hand with him would mean misery for the rest of us. The big heathen!"

Kevin watched Claire, clanging tools as she loaded her arms. "You okay?"

"I'm fine." But her jerky movements as she collected the tools and tape in her arms contradicted her.

Concern for her rattled nerves spiraled through him. He itched to comfort her, to feel her body wrapped safely in his arms, but he fought the urge to pull her close and soothe her. Comforting beautiful employees was not in his job description, no matter how much he wanted it.

"Ow!" She dropped the items from her arms and studied the new tear in her manicured fingernail. "Dang it, I broke a nail."

Kevin stepped forward to assess the damage, and Lydia turned Claire's hand for her own examination. "Aw, honey, that's a pity. I bet those nails cost a fortune. Much as I hate to say it, they're all likely to see some wear working here." She wiggled her own fingers in front of Claire. "I finally gave up and chopped all mine off."

Claire pulled her hand away and frowned. "Do you have some scissors or a file so I can fix the tear?"

"Under the counter, in my purse. I'll put these away." Lydia carried the tools back to the shelves where they belonged while Claire rummaged under the counter.

Kevin stepped back to give her room to pull Lydia's purse out. "If Ray bothers you again—"

"He won't."

"He will. Didn't you hear Lydia? He's always been a troublemaker. I don't want him to hassle or upset you."

"If he's always been a problem, then what makes you think he'd make an exception for me?"

Recognizing the truth, Kevin sighed and dread tightened his gut. "He wouldn't. In fact, he'll pester you more than most folks because you're—" He hesitated.

"Because I'm what?"

"Well, you're a new target. And you're...pretty."
Understatement of the year
. Beautiful. Sexy. Tempting as sin was more like it.

Claire dropped Lydia's purse on the counter and tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. She flashed him a half grin. "Thank you." Her expression sobered. "But regardless of his reasons for singling me out, he's a problem I have to cope with on my own. Problematic people are a fact of life, and I'll never learn to deal with them if you and my father always charge in to clean up life's messes for me."

"Your father?"

"Yeah, he always rode to my rescue too. He coddled and shielded me from real life like I was some china doll. I know it was because he loved me, but it made me a wimp. I'm twenty-four years old, and I'm just now getting a taste of what the real world, having a job, and facing reality is like. I hate feeling so incompetent. I want to handle Ray on my own, Kevin. Please."

She bent her head to fish in Lydia's purse.

"I didn't mean to step on your toes. It just rubs me wrong to see him acting so rude toward someone like you."

Pulling the scissors from the purse, Claire lifted a suspicious gaze. "What do you mean 'someone like me'?"

Oops.

Kevin shoved his hands in his pockets and shifted his weight. "Um..."

"Someone naive and too stubborn to realize when she's in over her head?"

"No! I didn't mean anything like that. Just that I hate seeing women disrespected. Any woman."

Claire lowered her gaze and chewed her bottom lip while she staring at her fingers. Then she attacked her torn fingernail with the scissors.
Attacked
. She didn't just trim the torn piece, she whacked the whole nail off at the quick. And the assault didn't stop there. She kept cutting until all ten of her salon-perfect nails were lopped back to nubs.

Kevin stared, stunned at her drastic measures. "Claire?"

She raised her chin with a satisfied grin. "Well, if I'm going to work here, I might as well keep my nails trimmed. I can't let vanity keep me from doing my job well."

The woman continued to surprise and impress him with her spunk. If he were a betting man, he'd put his money on this princess to make a go of it in the peasants' world. She had tenacity and grit on her side. He'd have to be careful he didn't appear to be fighting her battles for her. Easier said than done, since all she had to do was look at him with her honey-colored eyes and every caveman, macho protective instinct in him went on full alert.

A few minutes later, when Mr. Lowery arrived, Kevin escorted the owner back to the manager's office for a serious discussion of inventory, new orders—and Ray.

***

That night, Claire listened with a sinking heart as her BMW's engine sputtered and died when she turned the key. She'd stayed late to help Kevin finish an inventory of the store that Mr. Lowery had requested during his visit to the store that afternoon. Kevin had asked for volunteers to work overtime in order to meet the store owner's deadline. Since she had been late a few mornings before, thanks to her temperamental BMW, and since she knew Lydia had a family to care for, Claire figured she was the logical choice to stay and help Kevin. Especially when Ray clocked out at five, telling Kevin he had Friday night plans and couldn't be bothered with overtime.

Frustrated by her unreliable car, Claire gritted her teeth and turned the key again, muttering encouragement to the engine under her breath. Nothing.

"Sounds like the battery's dead."

She gasped and jerked her head up when she heard Kevin's voice at her window. "You startled me. I didn't see you coming."

"I was just locking the front door when I heard the trouble you were having. Nice car by the way."

"I hate it. What good's a car that won't start? I don't even like BMWs, but my father insisted. Since he was paying for it, I didn't argue. But it's not what I really wanted." With a little catch in her chest, she realized how her complaint must have sounded. Recalled to her manners, she flashed him an embarrassed grin. "But thank you anyway."

Kevin opened her door and stood back for her to get out. "What kind of car did you want?"

"I wanted a VW Beetle, but my dad—" Claire hesitated. Why was she telling Kevin this? Maybe because to her the BMW represented a lifetime of having her wishes discounted under her father's tyranny, a thorn in her side when she needed to make a clean break. Talking about it helped her put things in perspective.

Even in the rapidly fading twilight, she saw Kevin's eyebrow arch. "You wanted a Bug?"

"One of the redesigned ones. They just look fun. A BMW is fine for my dad, but I wanted..." She sighed. Never mind what she wanted. With her father, she always got what
he
felt was best for her, regardless. Sighing, she stepped out of the car and glowered at the stubborn vehicle. Stubborn, like her father.

"I take it your father didn't like Beetles for some reason." Kevin closed her door and stuck his hands in his pockets.

She tried not to notice how the motion pulled his shirt taut across his chest. After seeing him without his shirt the other day, she now knew exactly how wide and hard that chest really was. "He said Beetles were for hippies and flower children and below my dignity."

Kevin laughed.

She propped her hands on her hips. "What's so funny?"

"My mom used to drive a Bug."

Claire pressed a hand to her mouth. "Oh, Kevin, I didn't mean to insult her or–"

He touched her arm, and she forgot what she was going to say. The image of his bare, sweaty chest and broad shoulders still burned in her memory, and his hand sent heat through her skin straight to her bones. He met her gaze with his dark chocolate eyes, and her insides melted like ice cream exposed to hot fudge.

"Actually, my mother
was
a hippie wannabe. I still have her Bob Dylan cassettes and retro 'Make love not war' T-shirt to prove it. So she kinda supported your dad's theory."

She rolled her eyes. "Glad he's not here to hear that." She kicked her front tire and frowned. "The battery, huh? So what do I do to get that fixed? Call a tow truck?"

He shook his head. "Nah. Tomorrow morning when Lydia gets here, I'll jump you off her car."

"Jump me? What does that mean?"

"I'll recharge your battery from hers. But you should look into buying a new one if this one's giving you trouble. You don't want to get stranded somewhere."

"Like I am now you mean?" She blew a fallen wisp of hair out of her eyes with a puff.

"You're not stranded. I'll take you home."

A soothing warmth washed through her. Reassurance. Relief. Gratitude.

"Thanks." She glanced around the parking lot, but didn't see any other cars. "Where are you parked?"

"Around back. Wait here, and I'll come around to pick you up." Kevin jogged back toward the store, and she leaned against her BMW with a sigh.

A little voice reminded her Kevin was coming to her rescue again, that she should protest the need for his help and get home on her own. But it was late. She was tired and hungry, and, for tonight, making a show of her independence didn't matter as much as getting home safely. She'd worry about fixing her BMW tomorrow. Or else...

You should look into buying a new one if this one's giving you trouble
.

Kevin was right. She'd get a new car. She'd trade the BMW for what she had wanted all along. A symbolic display of her new independence. She wanted a VW Beetle, and she would get one, by God!

Her decision brought a smile to her face and lifted her flagging spirits. While she waited for Kevin, her thoughts returned to the evening she'd spent taking inventory with him. The time alone with Kevin in the deserted store felt disturbingly intimate. Many times she caught herself staring at her boss and wondering about things she had no business wondering. How he looked in the morning still rumpled from sleep, his favorite foods, his personal quirks and foibles. And the story behind the reference Mrs. Proctor made to a woman who'd apparently broken his heart.
He's got gold in him
.

Blaine, on the other hand had been fool's gold. He'd seemed perfect for her, even if the relationship had lacked passion. But in truth, Blaine had been perfect for her father, for his business, for the multi-company merger in the works. And perfect for the aerobics instructor at the country club.

Claire swallowed hard, forcing down the knot of pain that rose in her throat. Blaine was the past, and she wouldn't look back. The future was hers to make what she wanted of her life, to spread her wings and...

The rumble of a loud engine called her out of her thoughts and to the motorcycle rounding the building. She squinted through the darkness at the rider. Kevin?

Her heart executed a flawless forward roll. Kevin planned to take her home on a motorcycle?

He pulled up next to her and killed the engine. Tugging off the helmet, he extended it toward her. "Here, you wear this. I only have one, and I'd rather you wear it."

She gaped at him a moment, unmoving, numb with trepidation.

"A m-motorcycle?"

His chestnut eyebrows whipped together. "Is that a problem? I guess I should have explained...I don't have a car."

"Is it safe?"

He grinned. "As long as we don't crash."

Her pulse jumped, sending adrenaline scampering through her blood. Her face must have reflected her doubts, because Kevin sobered quickly and raised a hand toward her. "Sorry, I guess I shouldn't joke about it. I'll drive slowly, and you'll be safe. I promise."

The warmth and concern in his gaze reached deep inside her, calming her nerves more than his words could. Her soul seemed to know instinctively to trust Kevin. She accepted the helmet with a trembling hand and drew a slow breath for courage. Pulling the helmet on, she fastened the chinstrap and lifted her gaze to Kevin for assurance she'd put the protective gear on correctly.

He grinned then slapped the seat behind him. "Swing a leg over and hold tight to me. On turns, lean with me."

She nodded and took another deep breath, inhaling the aroma of sweat, leather and soap inside the helmet. The intoxicating blend of scents spun her senses in new directions, all centered around Kevin. She clambered onto the motorcycle, self-conscious over her lack of finesse. If Kevin noticed her fumbling, he had the courtesy not to comment. Thank goodness she'd worn slacks today, a concession to comfort her mother would have never approved of, but which now proved a good choice.

Kevin started the engine, and Claire wrapped her arms around his chest, pressing herself close to his broad back. The rumbling engine echoed the thrum of her pulse, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

As he prepared to drive away, Kevin shifted his weight, and the bike rocked. She gasped and clutched his shirt tighter.

Placing a hand on her leg, he gave her knee a quick squeeze and turned his head toward her. "You can trust me, you know. I'd never let you fall."