Cautiously, she opened her door and stepped out into the snow. She shivered as she inspected her car where it had slammed into the guardrail. The guardrail was twisted and bent, but it had stopped her car from going over the edge.
Good guardrail.
“That was close,” a deep male voice said from behind her. “You alright?”
“I think so,” she answered, swaying a bit as she turned around. A man was walking towards her, his big SUV parked just behind her car, his headlamps on high beams to illuminate the highway shoulder. “Just shaken up more than anything.”
The man walked past her, took a look at the guardrail and crushed hood, before returning. “That guardrail saved you.”
“I know.”
“What happened?”
“The truck in front of me slammed on its brakes, and I had nowhere to go.”
“You were following it too closely?”
“I didn’t even know it was there.”
He nodded. “It’s bad. Total white out conditions. None of us should be on the road.”
“I just wanted to get home.”
“Where were you heading?”
“Marietta.”
“That’s where I’m going. Let me give you a ride.”
Taylor glanced back at his big black SUV with the headlights shining on them. It looked like a new car, and expensive. She gave him the same once-over. He looked expensive, too. Clean cut. Attractive, with black hair, smooth hard jaw, strong, classic features. “Are you safe?” she asked, only half joking.
“Safer than the storm.”
“Not sure that’s hugely reassuring.”
He laughed, the sound deep, warm as well as very confident. “Sorry. Let me introduce myself.” He stuck out a hand and smiled down on her, white teeth glinting, and creases fanning at the corners of his eyes. “I’m Troy Sheenan.”
Chapter Two
Of course he was, Taylor thought, adjusting the seatbelt across her lap, and then crossing her leg at the knee, trying to make herself comfortable in the big black SUV’s passenger seat.
And of course it would be Troy Sheenan who’d plucked her from the side of the road, as if he were a gallant knight, instead of an errant knight.
A playboy.
A rake.
It felt satisfying to silently hurl names at him, but it wasn’t helping make her more comfortable. She couldn’t relax. Couldn’t catch her breath.
It was his fault. Troy Sheenan.
Taylor’s fingers curled into her palms. She stared blindly out the windshield into the night with the thick swirling snow, her chest tight, aching with bottled air.
Of all people to stop...
Of all people to offer to help.
Why did it have to be him?
And worse, why couldn’t he be arrogant, and rude, and absolutely despicable? Dislikable? Why did he have to be almost... charming?
Nice.
She shuddered inwardly, thinking that he might even be quite nice, if he weren’t, well, so impossibly, ridiculously good looking.
Because he was.
Tall, handsome, black hair, blue eyes, chiseled jaw, dimples.
A man with all those attributes couldn’t be nice. Truly handsome men were never nice. They were spoiled, overly confident, insincere. They were accustomed to women falling to their feet and throwing themselves at men, bosoms heaving... and so forth.
Taylor’s lips compressed and she lifted her chin a fraction.
She couldn’t place all the blame on handsome men. Women had to accept some responsibility for their behavior. Just because a man was gorgeous and charming it didn’t mean a woman needed to fall for him...
Taylor would never fall for someone like Troy Sheenan.
At least, she’d never fall for someone like Troy Sheenan again.
Back in graduate school she’d fallen for a Mr. Charming, and it had broken her heart and damaged her confidence and self-esteem. She’d vowed to never go down that destructive, confusing path again. And she hadn’t.
She wouldn’t.
She pushed up her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose, suddenly grateful she’d worn them to work today, feeling protected by the big dark frames and the too-thick-to-be-sexy lenses.
She wasn’t a plaything, or an intellectual lightweight. Yes, she loved historical romances, and had ever since she’d first read Jane Austen in high school, and then found a Georgette Heyer novel in the local library during her summer vacation. By the time Taylor had graduated with a Masters in Library Science, she’d read everything Heyer wrote, including a biography just published on the English novelist, and Heyer’s intelligence and drive made an indelible impression on Taylor. If Heyer could support her family with her writing in the 1920’s and 30’s, then Taylor could support her brother with her work.