Page 3 of The Reality of Us
What was she on about? Then he realised his phone was pointed at her.
“I’m not … Did you break down? Why would I be filming you?”
“I’m fine.” She tossed her head.
“Then why’s your bonnet up?”
The woman rubbed her hands up and down her arms. “Are you a murderer?”
A laugh caught in his throat. “Do you think murderers introduce themselves as murderers?”
Her eyes narrowed, and her chin jutted forward. One perfectly shaped eyebrow lifted. She probably flattened people daily with the ferocity of her glare. “Whatever.”
Owen edged forward until he was only a few metres away. Her face was red, the skin under her eyes dark, almost bruised.
Oh, shit. Now he couldn’t leave until he knew she was safely on her way to wherever she was heading, and he was pretty sure he knew where that was.
He held his phone up again, the camera pointed at him this time. “I’ve got the number for Kathleen’s Place. You can ring them. They’ll vouch for me, and I can give you a lift if you’d like.”
The woman’s brows pulled together, and she stood up even taller. “Whose place?”
The community home his great-grandmother had started in the sixties had a long official name, but it had always been called Kathleen’s Place. Owen’s fingers clenched around his phone. If he ever caught the bastard who’d hurt her, he’d … add them to the long list of assholes who deserved what they had coming to them. But Owen wasn’t a vigilante; he was a lawyer who drank too much coffee and tried to notch up a few wins for the good guys. At least, that was the plan now he was his own boss. His way of righting the ledger after too many years of helping the wrong people.
“Isn’t that where you’re headed?” He took a tentative step forward, pausing when she backed away. “They can help you with …” He didn’t want to embarrass her by pointing out he’d noticed her bruises.
The woman’s arms dropped to her side, eyes flashing. “Why does everyone always assume I need help?”
“Because you’re standing by the side of the road …”
She pushed away from her car. “Is that illegal?”
Was he in a parallel universe or something? This was why he didn’t date. Who had the time for all this drama?
“Listen, I can’t leave you out here. It’s not safe, and it looks like you need”—he contemplated the best word to use—“assistance. This road doesn’t get much traffic at night.”
Her eyes darted around, the red on her cheeks deepening as she surveyed the surrounding darkness. When her shoulders slumped, his followed, relief coursing through his body because he wouldn’t have to … what? Drag a strange woman to the community home? The whole town would know before he’d even get home. Keeping a secret out here was like trying to stop a sieve from leaking.
“Who are you again?” she asked.
“Owen. I live in Wattle Junction.”
“You don’t look like a local.”
Owen glanced down. He’d left his tie on the passenger seat, and his navy suit and white business shirt were rumpled. Old habits died hard, and he still tended to wear his suits when working, even if his short, dark blond hair was no longer neatly combed and his jaw was covered in stubble, something he never would have allowed in his old life. Besides, she could hardly talk. Her outfit screamed big city, not country town.
“I’ve come from a meeting,” he said.
Her gaze lingered on his face, and she sucked her bottom lip into her mouth. Her eyes narrowed, and a rush of heat crept up his spine.
“I think it’s the battery.” She hitched one shoulder towards her car.
The problem-solving part of Owen roared to life. “I’ve got jumper leads.”
She nodded. Added a small “thank you” like it was an afterthought.
Owen swiftly manoeuvred his 4WD, parking it nose to nose with hers. “What’s your name?” he asked, lifting the hood prop into place and attaching the jumper leads.
She pushed a few strands of loose hair away from what he could now see were deep blue eyes framed with thick lashes. “It’s, um, Marguerite.”
