Reckless Soul: A Protector Romance (A Surviving Love Novel Book 2) Read online

  Reckless Soul

  Brinda Berry

  Sweet Biscuit Publishing LLC

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/).

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Published By Sweet Biscuit Publishing LLC

  Edited by Lacey Thacker

  Reckless Soul (previously published as Tempting Fate)

  Cover design by Oh So Novel

  All Rights Are Reserved. Copyright © 2014 by Brinda Berry

  Contents

  1. Collin

  2. Veronica

  3. Collin

  4. Veronica

  5. Collin

  6. Veronica

  7. Collin

  8. Veronica

  9. Collin

  10. Veronica

  11. Collin

  12. Veronica

  13. Collin

  14. Veronica

  15. Collin

  16. Veronica

  17. Collin

  18. Veronica

  19. Collin

  20. Veronica

  21. Collin

  22. Veronica

  23. Collin

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  Also by Brinda Berry

  About the Author

  Thanks to my parents for buying me that subscription to Harlequin’s book club. Little did they know it would start all this.

  Chapter One

  Collin

  Call me the king of precaution. I’ve always taken meticulous care with relationships, my work—even the mundane tasks. But precautions are like vitamins. You can take them all you want, and you still might get the bird flu.

  It’s early Monday morning, and I am driving toward downtown St. Louis. The traffic requires all my defensive driving skills—watching the car in front of me for erratic braking, a blinker on too long, no blinker usage at all.

  Of course, precaution doesn’t matter when a car hits me from behind and delivers a morning cocktail of chaos and crunching metal.

  The sudden impact slams my car ten yards past the stop sign. My head whips back and the seatbelt clamps hard across my chest. Every muscle in my body seizes, a futile act to stop my moving car.

  My foot presses the brake like I’m stopping a train.

  I let off the brake, pull the car to the side of the road, and check the rearview. The other driver hasn’t moved. My hands shake as I unbuckle and get out.

  When I make it to the car behind me, I’m not a bit surprised to discover it’s a woman. My mother and ex-fiancé are both volatile multi-taskers and distracted-all-to-hell drivers. Casual collectors of traffic citations.

  The blonde chick stares through the glass, her clear blue eyes wary.

  “Are you okay?” I grab the door handle to find it’s locked.

  You can’t tell a book by its cover or, in this case, a driver by her clunker. She’s a real babe. Honey-blonde hair falls in loose waves around her heart-shaped face. Full cherry lips. Light tan skin with a faint smattering of freckles over her nose.

  Songs are written about faces like hers. And those foolish songwriters won’t discover the truth about women until it’s too late.

  “Are you hurt?” I yell to be heard above the obnoxious honking by a morning commuter rubbernecking at ten miles per hour. The driver deserves a one-fingered salute.

  The girl won’t get out of her car. “I’m calling to report it. “ I inch closer to her door. My finger rests on my cell touchscreen.

  “No, wait. Don’t call.”

  I glance up at the nervous jangle in her voice.

  She throws open her car door with a loud squeak of hinges, and the door bangs into my thighs, barely missing a full impact on my nuts.

  Sweat breaks out on my forehead. Thoughts of throttling this girl flash hot in my brain. She’s definitely dangerous to the unsuspecting commuter. I step back into the road to protect myself from this driving, walking, hot mess.

  “Don’t call the police.” She flashes a timid smile. “I’ll fix your car. I will. No problem.”

  “Yes, you will.” I nod, grinding my teeth. Do not be conned by this pretty face. “The cops will write a report and my insurance company will give yours a call.”

  “You can’t call it in,” she says.

  My finger’s poised on the phone’s 911 keys. I raise one eyebrow at her declaration. “Watch me.”

  Her blue eyes go wide. “Please. You can’t.”

  She snakes out a hand to my phone, as if she believes she can actually wrestle it away from me.

  I shake my head at the tremor in her voice. For the love of weak men everywhere, don’t cry. “Nope. Don’t even think about turning on the tears.”

  The morning sun beats down on my head, warning that today will be a scorcher. Between my rising blood pressure and the heat, I’ll be a sweaty mess at my morning meeting. I turn toward my vehicle and respond to the operator.

  The Audi is a college graduation present from dear old Dad. A bribe not-in-disguise. I’ve hated the car since the day I folded my fingers around the new, shiny keys. Maybe the angry scrape belongs on the bumper, a mar signifying how ugly the gift is to me.

  “Collin Cordova. I’ve been involved in an accident. A car rear—”

  The oily sputter of an engine starting behind me grabs my attention. The girl pulls her car from the shoulder and drives past me.

  I swear she mouths, “I’m sorry,” as a cloud of black smoke billows behind the car.

  “No way,” I mutter under my breath. “She did not drive off.”

  “Sir, are you still there?” The operator’s voice cuts through my haze of disbelief. “The lunatic drove away,” I say as much to myself as the operator. The license plate sports an inch of grime, making it impossible to read.

  “Sir, if you’ll tell me your location, I’ll send an officer over so you can file a report.” The operator’s monotone voice hints at boredom.

  In the distance, black exhaust continues to pour from the lunatic’s car, and I might be able to follow the smoke signals to hunt her down, but it’s not worth it.

  I take another glance at my watch. “You know what? I need to be somewhere. Thank you.” I hang up on the operator and stare at the retreating car in the distance.

  I silently wish a load of karma on people like her.

  Three hours later, I leave my meeting at the Baldore building in downtown St. Louis in a much better mood. I make a turn onto a less traveled highway heading toward the house I rent with a couple of guys, Jordy and Dylan. I’m driving along a deserted strip of road. This part of my commute is between an interstate and the next section of the suburbs. There’s not a gas station or house for miles.

  I see a woman on the side of the road. A person walking is an unusual sight this far from the city. She’s wearing tight, faded jeans and a tighter red T-shirt. My brain clicks with a recognition that ignites my dormant temper.

  I drive past and gawk. It’s the driver from this morning. She’s got a hitchhiker’s thumb out. I glare into my rearview mirror. She’s now trying to hitch a ride. Doesn’t she realize how dangerous that is? I quickly swerve to the shoulder of the road, spraying gravel in my wake.

  I wonder if she’ll turn and make a run for it when she realizes it’s me. She’s still walking, her head slightly turned down as if she’s watching her feet. Five, four, three, two … and then she lifts her head. Her stride falters.

  I step out of the car and wait, arms folded, as she stares at me.

  “Well, we meet again.” I recline against my car door. “Run out of gas? Run over some other poor, unsuspecting commuter?”

  She doesn’t answer, but begins walking again—not in the opposite direction as I’d predicted—but toward me. Her head lifts a little higher and she’s within a few yards of me when she speaks. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “I suspect not. You’re the hit-and-run type, so I doubt there’s much that bothers you.”

  Her lips thin and her eyes harden in challenge before she takes in a long draw of breath. “I need your help.”

  I don’t have a clue why this doesn’t surprise me. “Sure. Go for broke. You dented my bumper, now you’d like … what? To steal my car?” I unfold my arms and wait for her response. This has got to be good.

  “I need a ride.”

  Is she even going to apologize for ramming into me this morning? “Is that all? Want to empty my bank account while you’re at it?” I raise a brow.

  “Or directions. You don’t have to give me a ride. How far are we from the bus station?” Her voice is low but steady.

  “Where’s your car?
”

  “I had to leave it.”

  Her total confidence and lack of remorse at hitting my car brings out the smart-ass in me. “You hit somebody else after plowing into me?”

  She looks behind her and back to me, and then shakes her head. “No. It’s not going to make it. Engine’s blown. Listen, can I have a ride or not? If you won’t give me a ride…”

  I hesitate. There are dark shadows under her eyes and a harried urgency to her request. There’s something haunted about this girl. Something on an emotional level I recognize.

  “Forget it.” She blinks, hitches a bag strap over one shoulder, and turns without another word.

  The girl is several yards away before I realize she intends to walk to town. The highway is in the middle of an undeveloped area and she’s far from a bus station. Her long hair lifts in the wind and blows forward. She uses both hands to hold it off her face. Dark clouds move overhead and a storm brews, amplifying the heat of the summer day.

  It’s mid-morning and the road is deserted with the nine-to-fivers at their jobs. The girl has walked so quickly, she’s a mere speck in the distance.

  A boom of thunder brings my attention back to the sky. The wind sweeps the long grass along the ditch and the smell of impending rain hits me. Lightening spikes in the east and another startling clap of thunder sounds. In an instant, it’s like Mother Nature tips a bucket of water from the sky.

  The girl stops in the distance and turns to look back.

  I shake my head once and hop into my car, make a U-turn in the middle of the highway, and drive her direction. The rain is pounding on the roof as I pull to the side of the road. The girl doesn’t stop marching. I press the horn lightly to get her attention.

  Damn if she doesn’t jump back like I’ve shot her. She wobbles for a second and loses her balance. There’s a deep ditch with a metal culvert on her side and she disappears down the incline like she’s on a slip-and-slide.

  My gut takes a hit like being sucker punched.

  I hit the brakes and jump out, water sluicing down my face and into my eyes. The rain drives into the earth and fills the bottom of the already waterlogged ditch. The girl turns my direction, scrabbling up the incline on her hands and knees.

  “Take my hand.” I yell over the storm’s orchestra of wind and water.

  She reaches out and I grab her slick fingers, hauling her up to more level ground. She drags her duffel bag with her.

  Blonde hair hangs in clumps over her face and she’s coughing. We’re both drenched as we stand near the shoulder of the road. I swing the car door open, attempting to get her inside the car. “Get in,” I yell over the storm.

  She pulls back and takes two backward steps onto the blacktop.

  A semi appears in the distance. She’s not going to get out of the road. The rain hammers the asphalt. I hold my breath and adrenaline shoots straight to my heart. It’s one of those times I’ve read about where everything is in slow motion. Life flashes before my eyes but not with any of those happy moments.

  I see the girl’s frightened face as she tried to grab hold of my hand earlier.

  In seconds, I have both her upper arms and drag her to the car. The trucker honks and never slows his speed. She’s shaking.

  Kaboom. Kaboom. My heart rivals the pounding rain and the booming thunder. I see the news headline: Man Dies From Mainlining Adrenaline.

  “Are you nuts? You’re going to get yourself killed.”

  “I didn’t see him. I didn’t.”

  “I tried to get you in the car so I could give you a ride. You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

  I open the passenger door and nod to the seat. She finally gets in the car. The cream seat is now a massive, dark water stain. I run around to my own side, as if running will make a difference at this point, and slide into the driver’s seat. The windows are fogged up and I wipe water from my eyes.

  “This day has gone from an incredibly bad commute to Weather Channel hell in a couple of hours. What a record.”

  We both sit staring at the onslaught of rain on the windshield. I’m positive my seats will need a restoration professional after this.

  I hand her a kindergarten-sized Kleenex from the console and she stares at it. “I, umm…” She gingerly takes it with two fingers and rubs it across her forehead.

  “What’s your name?” The car moves under the force of the wind sweeping around us. I turn the radio on to see if we are in the middle of a tornado. Welcome to Oz.

  “Veronica.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Collin.” I extend a hand. Instead of taking mine to shake, she places the soggy tissue in my hand.

  “Where did you say you need to go? Bus station?”

  She stares ahead. Her tennis shoes make squeaky sounds as she moves her feet.

  “Veronica? Where can I take you?”

  She’s silent until she shifts uncomfortably. The sound of her water-soaked tennis shoes draw my gaze and I see red dripping onto my car mats.

  “You’re bleeding,” I say. “Are you hurt?”

  She bends and tugs her jeans up. There’s a deep gash in her ankle and blood streams down over the bone and onto the white canvas tennis shoe.

  “I’m fine,” she answers with a shrug. “Sorry about getting it on your car.” She doesn’t make eye contact but instead scans the cup holder. “Do you have more tissues?”

  I shake my head and turn the car back onto the road. “We’re not far from my house. I’ll run in and get something for your ankle.”

  Hail begins to ping down on top of the car. Awesome. Add hail damage to the bumper scrape on my new vehicle. I’m more amused than upset over this.

  Veronica gives a little gasp. “Do you think we’re safe in here?”

  I don’t look at her. Instead I concentrate on the road and drive the three miles to my place. Mother Nature is definitely in league with the disaster of a girl seated in my car.

  My roommates and I live in a three bedroom we rent from a builder who gave up on selling it. It’s nice and spacious—not your usual rental. The three-car garage sits empty. I pull inside and glance over at Veronica. “I’ll be back in a second.”

  I grab my keys, jump out, and run to the door. My clothes are plastered to me, and I’m chilled now due to the air conditioning we keep at arctic levels. I try to visualize where I’d be if I were a first aid kit. Yep. We probably don’t own one.

  In the upstairs bathroom, I rummage through the drawers in hopes of finding a bandage. I grab hydrogen peroxide and a washcloth. I’m down the stairs and going to the door when I realize I didn’t shut it completely.

  “Hey, Guy?” Veronica stands in the partially open doorway. She looks vulnerable—hair plastered to her head and wet clothes molded to her body. “Can I use your bathroom? I wouldn’t ask, but I really need to go.”

  It’s no longer hailing, but the rain and wind continue. I hesitate for a second. She’s a seemingly helpless girl, but I’m certain there’s been a show on Dateline that covers not letting crazy girls you’ve picked up on the side of the road into your house.

  “Sure.” I point to a narrow hallway beside the stairs.

  She makes her way inside, halts on the ceramic tile entry, and points at the washcloth. “You have a paper towel? I don’t want to ruin your stuff.”

  I jog to the kitchen and grab a handful of paper towels. “Here.”

  She bends down to swab her ankle and I notice her arms. Purple bruises dot the outsides, and there’s one on her upper arm that looks as if it was left by three fingers.

  Veronica lifts her head and catches my gaze. Her mouth tightens into a small, mad circle, daring me to call her on it. “What are you looking at?”

  “Nothing,” I say. Her reaction tells me more than words ever could.

  She gives me a poisonous glare through her wet strands of hair. Her lips part and her eyes shoot daggers. It’s like she wants me to say something. If looks could kill, hers would have sliced me open and let my intestines hang out. Finally, she drops her gaze. “I’ll be a second,” she mutters.