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Chapter One

Pulling her purse off her shoulder, Margie rummaged for her account card. Looking down as she was, she didn't see the man rush through the front entrance of the bank and race toward the stairs. Actually, she never saw him at all until she bounced off his hard chest.

She sat where she landed on the tile floor. When the man scrambled next to her and began to claw at her bag, Margie misinterpreted his actions and squealed, "Get off, thief," while she flailed at him with her open palms.

"Here you," the receptionist shouted. "Stop you, you thug."

Realizing the mugger still clutched her bag, Margie got to her knees to yank at her purse with all her strength.

"You're choking...me," he coughed. "...You're choking..."

The receptionist, who had climbed atop her desk, heaved a solid candy dish that thumped the man square on the head. Once he lost consciousness, Margie saw that her purse strap wound tightly around his throat. Gingerly, she lifted the leather and let the man's head fall back against the receptionist's desk. The noise sounded like a hatchet to wood but Margie didn't have any sympathy for the thief. "That's what you get for trying to steal my purse."

* * *

Five seconds later Jack came to with his throat aflame. "You lassoed me!"

"What's he mumbling?" a woman's voice asked.

He tried to open his eyes but the sun streaming through a skylight felt like a knife to his brain. Rolling to his side, Jack growled, "I wasn't trying to steal your purse." His hand found the desk-edge and he pulled himself to his feet.

Now he confronted his assailant; he imagined a pro-wrestler dragged him down but standing before him was a petite girl no more than twenty-two or twenty-three years old. She looked slender in her blue pantsuit and high-heeled shoes. Golden hair cascaded past her tanned shoulders. Normally, Jack would have found the young woman attractive, beautiful even, but now that she had strangled all fascination for the opposite sex out of him, he saw her for what she really was: a high-fashion boa constrictor.

He watched her green eyes narrow. "You were trying to steal my purse. The strap of it was wrapped around your..."

"Neck...yes, it was around my neck."

Her brows scrunched in confusion.

A familiar voice came from their left. "What's going on here?" the bank manager demanded. Morris Bonaguide shepherded the girl away from Jack's direct view. "Are you all right? Has this scoundrel hurt you?"

Jack answered over the blonde's head, "Yes, but I'm all right now."

"Not you, man," Bonaguide bellowed, then bent to see the girl face to face. "Margie, what happened?"

"She tried to kill me. That's what happened."

The girl twisted around to blink at Jack. She caught him then, and for a moment he watched her too, completely mesmerized by her emerald eyes. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. She was a viperess enchanting her prey!

Bonaguide cleared his throat. "Do you have any idea who you've assaulted? This is Margie..."

"Is Brittany still here?" Jack interrupted.

The older man nodded. "That's who you are, you're with Brittany." He went red about the cheeks. "I'll have you know she gave no notice."

Jack didn't wait to hear the rest of the man's complaint. He turned toward the stairs and took them by twos.

* * *

Bonaguide's graying hairline raised a fraction and his dark blue eyes widened. "His manner is disgraceful."

"Who is he?" Margie asked, still watching the man climb the stairs. His thick and muscular arms protruded from the sleeveless plaid shirt he wore over a white ribbed tee. A gold crucifix swung from his neck and his longish brown hair flopped as he charged up the steps.

"I don't know his name but I've seen him here before. He visits one of our accountants." Mr. Bonaguide took Margie's elbow. "One of our former accountants. She quit this morning."

"Then he really wasn't trying to steal my purse?"

The manager paused. "Shall I call the police?"

"Oh, no," she stated. "He said I had lassoed him."

"Lassoed him? Why...?" he started to ask but then seemed to change his mind. "Do you have business I can help you with today?"

"I only meant to see one of your representatives. You needn't bother."

"I insist," he told her, pointing to a chair in front of his desk. "It's the least I can do after the way you've been treated in our lobby."

Margie looked for her account card again. "I've come for a financial report. I need a list of all my assets and share-holdings."

Bonaguide gave a genuine smile. "Then you and my son have decided to take my advice?" His thin and graying mustache twitched at the corners. "It's quite wise, you know? A prenuptial agreement insures everyone keeps what he started with."

"Yes, Tyler has convinced me to sign."

"You're a smart girl then. You recognize Tyler has money of his own. Now that he's running for Mayor he'll need to keep strict accounts." Pulling a keyboard from beneath his desk, Bonaguide typed Margie's account number. Suddenly, he frowned and took a fresh look at her. "I thought you already returned to school."

Margie cleared her throat. "The, the dean," she started, trying to make this sound as logical as she could, "thought it would be best if I waited and returned in the fall. That's when the cafeteria will be finished."

"Finished?"

"Being, ah, rebuilt."

Bonaguide looked at the ceiling, presumably to consider if he should pursue the subject, and then glanced at Margie again. "What happened to the old cafeteria?"

"It burned down."

"The dean accused you?"

"Well, I...I was holding the aerosol can." She might have explained she had only meant to spray Rave into her hair and not in the direction Theresa had lit her cigarette. The handheld blowtorch had lit the girl's synthetic ponytail on fire. Margie had tried to help but Theresa raced out of the lavatory leaving mass hysteria in her wake. One of the upper classmen had grabbed the flaming wig, wrapped it in a café curtain, but the draperies caught fire too...

There it was again, that funny little vein that popped out on Mr. Bonaguide's forehead. "Margie," he began and laced his fingers on top of his desk. "I hate to bring up an old subject, but as Power of Attorney over your grandparents' estate, must I consider withholding your inheritance?"

"You're already withholding my inheritance."

"Only until you turn twenty-five, dear." He tried to smile but didn't quite finish the expression. "Legally, I can hold your funds until you're thirty. It's all written down, you know."

"Unless I marry."

He shut his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, they were but narrow slits of dark blue ice. "If I need to speak to Tyler, I will. I approve of your engagement, of course, but I won't see my son's political career in chaos because you cannot rein in your calamitous nature."

"You would stop the marriage?"

"Delay," he responded in a patient voice. "Delay, Margie. Just like your money, marriage is an enormous responsibility. You must be willing to sacrifice for your husband. Perhaps you're not ready for such commitment."

"Of course I am," she answered, smiling at Uncle Bonny. It was the name she and her sister used to refer to Morris Bonaguide. There was no blood relation whatsoever, but Uncle Bonny was part of the family because he had been so close to Margie's grandparents.

Suddenly, Morris pushed his chair backward and stood. "I guess we'll see, won't we? I'll only be a moment," he told her and walked toward the door.

Margie got to her feet to wait. Crossing her arms, she watched the bank patrons through the glass partition. Her eyes lingered on the stairs and she wondered what happened to the man she had nearly strangled. Perhaps he still searched for his accountant--perhaps he searched for medical attention.

Uncle Bonny emerged from a back room and Margie observed him as he shuffled past the tellers. He was an intense man, always rushing back and forth. At the same time another man caught her attention. He stood five-deep in the teller line and wore a pinstripe suit of navy blue. What caught her eye was that he stood in a crooked fashion speaking on a cell-phone as he stared straight at Margie. He had very blue eyes, tight curly hair, and a double chin. He sort of reminded her of the actor John Candy, but he was thinner, and wore a mustache. He watched her for a moment and then slowly turned around again.

Bonaguide met Margie at the door. "Here you are," he told her, handing her several pages of a report. "I'm sorry we've had to have this little talk today. Will you try to stay out of trouble, dear?"

"Of course."

"Despite what you think, I really have no interest in keeping your money from you. I'm looking out for your best interests."

Margie nodded and smiled at Uncle Bonny. "Yes, I understand." Agreeing with him seemed the only way to escape the bank.

* * *

Margie enjoyed walking in the late morning sunshine. Tall buildings surrounded the landscape while many young oak trees emerged in planters all along Eighth Avenue. Red brick inlays dotted the concrete sidewalks.

Her cell phone rang and Margie answered it just as she passed a line forming at a street-side egg roll stand.

"I'm at the bakery," her sister Cat said on the other end of the line. "What sort of icing do you want on the wedding cake?"

"The sweet kind," Margie told her, stepping around a woman standing in the middle of the sidewalk.

"Butter Cream, Fondant, or Royal icing?"

"Fondant? What's that?"

Cat's voice sounded distant when she held the phone away to ask the clerk the same question. Then she came back with, "He said something about elasticity and smoothness and sugar paste. I don't know though, Margie. I haven't eaten paste since kindergarten."

"Royal icing sounds very stately."

"It has meringue in it. You know I don't like meringue."

Margie grimaced at the crossing signal. "Are you the one getting married?"

"I might as well be. I'm doing all the work."

"Order the Butter Cream," Margie firmly decided.

"Italian or Swiss?"

"What?"

Just then a man raced past Margie, charged through the red signal of the crosswalk, and then dashed straight into the traffic on Eighth Avenue. A horn blasted as a black Volvo skidded to a stop.

"What's going on?" Cat wanted to know.

"Someone ran headlong into traffic," Margie explained, watching the jaywalker as he slammed his hands on the hood of the car and yelled, "WATCH IT PAL."

"You watch it, you LUNATIC," the driver hollered right back.

The man wearing a plaid shirt didn't stay to argue with the driver and ran toward the opposite sidewalk. A stocky fellow near Margie got in on the exchange. "Where's the fire?" he wanted to know.

"There's a fire?" Cat asked on the other end.

"No, just a jaywalker. Hey, I think it's the fellow from the bank."

"Uncle Bonny?"

"No, the good looking one."

Cat responded, "There is no good-looking one at the bank."

"There was this morning. I lassoed him."

"Should I cancel the wedding cake?"

"Very funny," Margie told her. "Let me think about the icing."

* * *

After crossing with the light, Margie found her way to the parking garage. Dimmers lit the first floor. It seemed she was the only person there though she heard the squeal of tires on what had to be the fourth or fifth floor up. Slipping into the black Jaguar XKR Coupe, Margie buckled her seat belt and started the engine. With a swift glance in the rearview mirror, she reversed, and plowed backward into a passing jeep.

Wincing, she carefully opened the door.

"This is great," the other driver burst out. He had jumped from his seat using the roll bar and now stared at the tire and bumper of his vehicle. "This is just great." His long hair fell into his face as he bent to look beneath the tailpipe. When he stood again, he glared at Margie. "You again?"

"Hello," she responded in a sheepish voice.

He ignored her greeting and crouched beside the jeep.

Walking toward him, Margie stopped to look over his shoulder. "It doesn't look too bad," she consoled. "A hammer will bang that dent right out of there."

He jerked around to stare at her. "A hammer? What are you talking about?"

Margie straightened and used her hands to explain. "You know, a piece of wood with an anvil on one end to pound nails."

"I know what a hammer is, but I'm certainly not going to use one on the jeep."

"Well, it's not like anyone will notice," she pointed out, eyeing his transport. The jeep had no doors and the metal looked corroded around the gun rack. There was no top to it, just a roll bar, and it had to be the biggest bucket Margie had ever seen.

The man placed his hands on his hips, apparently offended by her blatant disdain for his coupe d'amaged. "Excuse me?"

"Oh," she answered, trying to cover and playing the moment. She offered her hand in distraction. "Margie..."

"The Tampa Strangler, I remember." He regarded her hand without taking it. "Well, Margie, let me thank you for RUINING MY LIFE."

"It's a dent."

He took a deep breath. "You have no idea what you've done. Pull your car forward so I can find out if the jeep will run."

"The proper thing to do is notify the authorities." Margie paused then. She sounded just like Uncle Bonny!

The man squinted. With a low voice, he suggested, "The proper thing to do is pull your car forward." He was sullen, big, and brawny, and she was mollifying, slender and puny, about the right size to fit nicely into the trunk of a car for a drive to the river, so--Margie pulled her car forward.

Out of the vehicle again, she heard him complaining, "I can't drive this. The axle is bent." He eyed Margie. "Hop into the jeep and steer while I push it out of the way."

Not that he would listen, but Margie objected, "I think we should leave it where it sits. How will the police know who's to blame for the accident?"

"YOU'RE TO BLAME."

Margie knew he had been speeding and actually took a breath to say so, but he wore such an impatient look that she changed her mind and climbed into the jeep.

"TAKE YOUR FOOT OFF THE BRAKE," he hollered from behind the jeep.

It seemed to Margie that he hollered a lot.

"My foot is not on the brake," she informed him and then glanced at her foot. "...Anymore."

After a good bit of heaving, the man stopped and then stood beside Margie, right at the door-less front seat, and he reached one muscular arm past her lap to yank the emergency brake. She waited for him to move away, but he didn't. He simply stood there watching her with those very dark brown eyes. In the low light of the garage his angular jaw appeared shadowed and humorless. A tiny scar creased his top lip. Under different circumstances she would have found him rather spectacular.

He leaned toward her. "I need you to drive me to the Port of Tampa."

Margie scrunched her brow. "What?"

"You owe me."

"No, I don't."

"You do." Narrowing his eyes, he took hold of her elbow. "You've destroyed my transportation."

"This battered thing? You weren't going to get far in it anyway..." His eyes grew wide with the effrontery and Margie squeaked her last bit, "...I'll call the police."

His expression softened then. "Margie; It is Margie, isn't it?" His dark eyes scanned her features. "Listen, I have to stop Brittany before she boards a ship. It is the most important thing I'll ever do in my life."

Now Margie understood. He was in pursuit of love. How romantic. "I can't," she told him. As intriguing as it all sounded, Margie could only see Uncle Bonny's face and his index finger wagging disapprovingly at her.

The man still had her by the arm and now propelled her toward her car. "Drive me," he insisted, "or I'll drive myself." He gazed through the car window. "Ah, the keys are in the ignition."

Margie stepped in front of the door. "You cannot steal my car."

He smiled then, as though he enjoyed the challenge. "Oh, yes I can." He moved right, did a quick step when Margie blocked, and then grabbed the door handle on her left.

"No," she protested, pushing at his bare arm. "I'll drive!" Frustrated, she elbowed past him.

He took a step backward and beamed triumphantly. "You're very generous."

Margie tried to hit him with the car door when she yanked it open but he easily sidestepped and moved around the car to open the passenger door before she could lock it.

Blast it all.

"Where do you want to go again?"

He glanced at Margie while buckling his seat belt. "The Port of Tampa. I'll show you the way." Keeping his hands on his faded blue jeans, he tapped his fingers impatiently.

The Jaguar had little damage and started easily. Margie backed out of the parking space and then drove into the bright sunshine.

Neither of them saw the dark blue sedan pull out of the garage behind them.

"Go south on twenty-first and then make a right on Adamo." Her hijacker stayed silent thereafter except to tell her to change lanes to pass a slow-moving van. Margie glanced at him now and then. His long dark hair tossed in the breeze from the opened window. Thin sideburns grew the length of his ears. She would feel better about all this if she knew his name.

"Ivan," he told her without looking at her.

"Ivan? As in Ivan the Terrible? Ivanhoe?"

"As in Jack Ivan. Take a left at Channelside. We should start to see signs...there."

Parking in a space overlooking Tampa Bay, Margie unbuckled her seat belt and followed him. A dark blue sedan pulled in and parked next to the Jaguar. Margie didn't see the man, who looked very much like John Candy, step onto the pavement and flip open his videophone.

The Dolphin cruise ship hoisted anchor and started to slip away from the landing pier. In the brilliant sunlight well-wishers waved goodbye from shore. Twinkling sapphires reflected in the water. Margie squinted to see the travelers gathered on the deck of the ship.

Jack cupped his mouth and shouted, "BRITTANY."

Margie shielded her eyes from the sun's glare. "What does she look like?"

"She is dark-headed, well-proportioned...stunning."

In other words, Brittany looked nothing like Margie. A woman needed to be five-foot eight to be considered stunning. It was written down somewhere. Margie only stood five-foot-four, but she was well-proportioned, for a beanpole.

"Brittany," Jack shouted again and motioned to someone on deck.

Margie looked where he looked and saw a very beautiful girl turn toward the dock. When she saw Jack, Brittany removed her sunglasses to squint the distance between them. Suddenly, she lifted a hand to her lips, and blew a kiss goodbye.

Margie winced. With what little she knew about Jack Ivan, she couldn't imagine he would take such rejection lightly.

"I'm going to kill her," he spit out, confirming Margie's suspicions. "I'm going to choke her until she turns blue."

Margie thought to lose herself in the crowd. Maybe she could slink back toward her car, hopefully unnoticed by the bloodthirsty Jack Ivan.

Not nearly quick enough, she offered a feeble grin when Jack caught her elbow to spin Margie around to face him. "Come on. Let's find out where the next port of call..."

"Miami," she interrupted, trying to cut their relationship quickly.

He eyed her suspiciously. "How do you know?"

"I've sailed on cruise ships before and the boat always docks in Miami."

"Good," Jack responded. "Drive me there."

Margie eyed him like she would a mutant growth in a Tupperware bowl. "Absolutely not." She tried to walk around him.

Jack stepped in front of her. He still had her by the elbow and his dark eyes considered her face and hair. "I really need you to help me, Margie. It's too much to explain right now, but I've got to stop Brittany from marrying Andrew McDonald."

"Jack," she expressed patiently. "You've got to learn when a relationship is over."

"NOTHING IS OVER."

Margie pointed at the ship. "She just gave you the big kiss-off."

"It doesn't matter," he insisted, shaking his head, then with resolve, "Drive me to Miami."

"I don't even know you."

Jack frowned. "What's to know? This isn't a date. We're just going for a drive."

"No, we're not."

"Yes, we are."

The ship's horn blared at the mouth of Tampa Bay. Plainly Jack thought he had wasted time arguing and switched to blackmail. "If you won't drive me to Miami then I'll call the police and my attorney concerning the damage done to my jeep. I'm sure a lawyer can get a little jingle out of a girl who drives a hundred-thousand dollar sports car."

Margie narrowed her eyes. "That's extortion."

"I'm a desperate man," he seethed and then released her arm to stand his full height. "If you'll agree to drive me to Miami then I will pound out the bumper of my jeep with a hammer and we'll call everything equal." He waited for her answer with half-closed, sparkling eyes. "Five hours there and five hours back. Or, five million in damages."

Margie laughed at such boldness. "You know, Mr. Ivan, I thought you were mildly attractive when I first saw you."

He smiled at her confession and shrugged modestly as though she spoke truth and not sarcasm.

"But, I was wrong. You are a mean and ugly man."

Her assessment seemed to surprise him and he shifted his weight.

"You would blackmail me after all I've done for you?"

"What have you done for me besides get in my way?"

"I drove you here," she reminded him and walked toward her car. She pulled the keys from her purse.

Jack followed her. Coming around her left shoulder, he accused, "You only drove me because I threatened to take your car."

She stopped to stare at him. "Right." With puckered brow, she declared, "I don't blame the girl for leaving you, Jack. Any woman in her right mind would leave you."

"You don't know anything about it."

"And I don't want to," she told him, walking around him. "I've got other things to do, you know? I need to find out the difference between Swiss and Italian Butter Cream. My life cannot be put on hold just to drive you to Miami."

Jack trailed her, passed her, and reached the Jaguar first. He blocked the keyhole with his hand. "Margie--Margie," he cooed, trying to catch her eye. "You know I need your help."

She stopped trying to fit her key past his fingers. "I don't want to drive you anywhere, Jack. I don't like you."

He looked wounded then. Grabbing his heart, he proclaimed, "That hurt." Then he straightened. "Okay, I'm over it." He still blocked her path. "So, have you made up your mind about driving me to Miami?"

"I just told you, NO."

Jack leaned closer and dropped his voice. "Then I'll see you in court."

She lifted her eyes and saw his intent. He seriously meant to sue her. Uncle Bonny would burst an artery if she had to seek legal help to keep five million dollars in the bank. Taking a deep breath, Margie spit out, "All right, all right, ALL RIGHT."

Jack grinned showing white teeth. His brown eyes glittered with victory. He moved toward the passenger side before she could change her mind.

Watching him, Margie pointed her keys in a threatening gesture. "Be warned, Jack Ivan. When we reach Miami, you can jump out of the car, because I won't slow down long enough for you to shut the door." She didn't care that he frowned disapprovingly at her outburst. If Jack thought she cared one whit about his curdling love affair with Brianna or Brittany or whatever the girl's name was, then he was sorely mistaken.

Tossing her purse onto the back seat, Margie reached for the cell phone lying on the console. She held it between her shoulder and chin while she dropped into the driver's seat.

The answering machine picked up on the third ring. Margie said, "Hey, it's me. I'm going to Miami for the evening. I have the cell phone if you need to reach me. Love you." Flipping the phone shut with one hand, she tossed it toward her purse, and then looked at Jack while starting the car. She shoved the stick in reverse but braked when she saw someone crossing behind the Jaguar. The man looked similar to John Candy in blue jean shorts and flip-flops.

Jack asked, "You've learned to look before backing your car? It's a little late for that."

"Don't aggravate me while I'm driving," Margie told him, backing and then shoving the stick into first gear. "I need to concentrate."

"Now you're concentrating?"

She tossed him a placid look. "What are you, a detective? Why do you ask so many annoying questions?"

Jack laughed and then sat back to get comfortable in the white leather seat. "No one has ever accused me of annoying them."

"That's amazing, really, that's unbelievable." When he didn't reply, Margie asked, "Well, what do you do for a living, besides stalk women?"

He never lost his derisive grin. "I'm a rancher."

Margie drove over railroad tracks on a road leaning to Highway 41. "Jack Ivan the rancher," she tried on for size. "I've never seen a ranch in downtown Tampa."

"I live outside of Tampa. I only came to Brittany's office after she called me to tell me her intentions."

"And when you discovered her gone, you rushed into the street, and were nearly crushed by a Volvo."

Jack twisted round to look at her. "Where were you?"

"Just a stranger in the crowd," she told him, keeping her eyes on the road. "We all talked about you after you tore off. You were jaywalking... jay-running actually."

"No kidding?"

"No kidding. I stood next to the guy who hollered, where's the fire?"

Jack snorted a laugh. "I remember that."

Margie nodded. "If we were in a movie, he would've had the great line and I stood right next to him. I could've been on the big screen. I could've been somebody."

"You could've been a contender," Jack rallied, recognizing the movie line she recited. "Instead of a bum, which is what I am, let's face it."

Margie grinned. "Pacino."

"Brando."

"It was Pacino. Hand me my cell phone and I'll prove it to you."

Jack reached into the back seat. "Who will you call?"

"I know people," she explained. "I know lots of people."

"Do you know Marlon Brando?"

"Someone better," she said and pushed a button on the phone pad. When Cat answered, Margie asked, "Who said, I could've been somebody. I could've been a contender...who?" She switched the phone to the other ear. "All right, thanks." She rang off and shoved the phone between the seats. "On the Waterfront starred Marlon Brando." When Jack rose a brow in an I told you so expression, Margie stated, "Well, that's one for me."

"You said Pacino."

"Brando."

Jack turned in his seat. "You said Pacino."

"Why are you talking to me while I'm driving?"

He sat back again. "I'm stuck in a car with Lucille Ball."

"Hey, this was your big idea."

Chapter Two

They stopped at a Shell station off old exit 29. While Jack pumped gas Margie used the ladies' room. She found him five minutes later buying a hotdog in the mini-mart. He hadn't seen her walk toward him. When he did look up, he took a double take and then smiled at Margie. "Want one?"

"I don't eat pig," she told him. "If the farmer doesn't want him, I don't either." Now she looked at the older man behind the counter. "Your ladies' room could use a good mopping. My sandals kept sticking to the floor."

The clerk replied by handing Jack his food.

Jack said, "You're in a gas station, not The Four Seasons."

"It smelled like wet dog in there."

He pulled his wallet from his hip pocket. "Do you want something to eat?"

Margie scanned the selections behind the glass case on the counter. "Certainly not any of this." Then she asked the clerk, "Do you have veggie burgers or bee products of any sort?"

Jack snorted his disapproval. "Bee products?"

"If you want to die that way, die that way," she told him, frowning at his hotdog. "You'll never reach forty."

"And you'll never reach twenty-five the way you're going." He handed the clerk money for gas and food and then headed toward the exit.

She didn't know what he meant by that last statement so Margie followed Jack and asked what he meant by that last statement.

"You mean no one has ever had a major melt down in your presence and made a grab at you?" He held the door open for her.

Margie thought about it on the sidewalk. "No, but my sister tried to strangle me once in the school lunch line. I think she was kidding."

"Maybe," Jack told her with a mouthful of hotdog. He stepped toward the driver's side of the car.

Margie headed toward the passenger side, and then paused. "Hey look," she said, nodding at a dark blue sedan. "Doesn't that guy remind you of John Candy?"

Jack's eyes followed her nod. "Who?"

"You don't see the fellow over there who is leaning on the car and looking at his cell phone?"

"I see him. Who's John Candy?"

Margie gaped at Jack. "John Candy...he was a comedian...Trains, Planes, and Automobiles...Uncle Buck..."

She tossed the keys to Jack and he caught them to his chest. "A comedian?" He opened the door. "He should ride along with us. I could use a good laugh." He finished his food in one last bite and climbed into the Jaguar.

* * *

Behind the wheel now, Jack drove fast. He seemed to try to make up for the time spent buying gas by traveling 175 miles per hour--or so it seemed.

"You're speeding," Margie accused, holding onto the grip above the passenger-side door.

"I'm going the same speed as everyone else," he explained. "See the blue car behind us? He's keeping up." He adjusted the mirror. "I want to reach Miami before the ship docks."

"If you plow off the road, we won't get to Miami at all. We'll be like the teenager who drove off a cliff and no one found him for eight days." She thought for a moment. "Bears almost ate him."

"There are no cliffs in Florida," Jack reminded her, keeping the same speed. "And I've never seen a bear."

"Well, what about alligators?"

"What about them?"

Margie stared out the windshield and adjusted her seat belt. "There are about a hundred ways I don't want to die. Right at the top of the list is being eaten by an alligator."

"What are we talking about?" Jack took his eyes off the road to scowl at her.

A bottle in the middle of the road caught Margie's attention. "Watch out for the glass."

Jack tried to miss it but the back tire nailed the soda bottle full force. He manhandled the steering wheel beautifully but the Jaguar swerved violently, skidded in the breakdown lane, and then glided into the grass.

Margie glared at Jack. "There, you see that?"

"What do I see?" he asked, opening his door. "It's a blow-out."

She scrambled out of the car too. "Bad things happen when you drive too fast." She stood beside him at the trunk of the car. "Do you know it's possible to drive right through the middle of a Laundromat and emerge out the back exit with your car still in one piece? Of course you then have to deal with someone else's boxers on your antennae. And try explaining that one to Uncle Bonny who wants to know why someone is suing you over their Fruit of the Loom getting ripped out of their hands."

Jack blinked slowly at her.

"I'm just saying bad things can happen."

He opened the trunk and rummaged inside. Suddenly, he frowned at Margie. "Where's the spare tire?"

She bit the inside of her lip. "I didn't replace it yet."

"You didn't replace it?"

Didn't she already say that? Did he want it in writing?

Jack slammed the truck and leaned against the car. Margie could see the muscle on his jaw work as he fought to keep his temper. "Where's the cell phone?"

Margie brightened. "Oh, good idea." Just when she thought all was doomed, Jack remembered the obvious. "You're very smart," she told him, grinning. When she emerged from the backseat, she saw his slanderous expression. "What?" she asked, holding the phone out to him. "I saw you roll your eyes. Are you implying that you're smart and I'm not?" When he didn't answer, only held out his hand for the phone, Margie declared, "I'll have you know I'm remarkably clever. I have a gift for languages and mathematics."

"Yeah, fascinating."

She gasped and then challenged, "Well, what can you do?"

Jack held the phone to his ear. "I can call for a tow truck if you'll leave me alone for a minute."

"Well, la-te-da," Margie mumbled and propped herself against the Jag to wait. She supposed she could stick out her thumb and hitch a ride to the nearest Tire Kingdom but most of the traffic was in the westbound lane. One car passed them heading east but the driver of the sedan seemed to have trouble of his own because he pulled onto the shoulder too, about a half-mile up the road. Margie could see the blue glint of the paint in the sunshine.

Jack flipped the phone shut. "It will be a half-hour before the tow-truck gets here." He gazed at the azure sky and the five o'clock sun. "It's getting late."

Margie glanced at her bangle wristwatch. "We can still make Miami by six or six-thirty."

Jack leaned against the car and crossed one boot over the other. He crossed his bare arms too and Margie could see the swelled veins running along his toned biceps. His hair tossed in the light breeze and he kept his eyes cast toward the pavement. Jack looked very sad just then and she felt a rush of sympathy for him. He must truly love Brittany to pursue her with such passion. It's what caused him to act so cantankerously and Margie instantly forgave him for, well, kidnapping her, blackmailing her, and not acting interested in her happy chit-chat.

Jack Ivan was an arduous man, and a determined man, and he wasn't afraid to go after what he wanted no matter what sort of fool it made him look like. A girl had to have a grudging respect for that.

And what about Tyler Bonaguide? Would he chase after Margie if she ran off with another man?

Well, Margie had, hadn't she?

And where was Tyler now?; lunching with supporters who financed his bid for mayor, that's where. What would Tyler think if he knew Margie was with a cowboy who was dark, handsome, and powerfully built?

"What's wrong Margie?" Jack asked, interrupting her thoughts.

Caught mooning, she covered with, "I'm sorry, what?"

"You're looking at me as though my ears slid down my neck." He watched her closely now with those dark brown eyes.

Thinking to cheer his broken heart, Margie spoke candidly. "I was just thinking you're an attractive man."

His brow lifted. "Really?"

"Yes, and life will go on for you if you miss Brittany's boat, Jack. Floods of women will fall at your feet when you're ready to start over."

Jack twisted to face her. "Including you?"

"Of course not, but other women will, just you wait and see."

He looked puzzled and then asked, "Are you coming on to me?"

"I would never..."

"I'm not complaining," he told her, straightening to his full height.

She shook her head in bewilderment. "I'm happily engaged, thank you, and I was not coming on to you."

"Engaged?"

"Yes."

Unexpectedly, Jack reached out and seized Margie's wrist. Dragging her toward him, he lifted her left hand toward the sun. Then he bent to examine the stone on her pinkie finger. "This is your engagement ring?"

She tried to pull her wrist away but Jack twisted around, tucked her arm beneath his, and squeezed effectively enough to keep her still. His big fingers manipulated the small stone.

"That is not my engagement ring," she exclaimed. "Don't you think it's on the wrong finger?" She pushed hard on his shoulder to free her arm.

"What I think," he answered, releasing her, and facing Margie again, "is that you're a funny little prude."

"Prude?"

"Yes, prude. You and your bee products and your," he waved his hand in the air, "I can't use this bathroom because my one thousand dollar sandals stick to the floor attitude."

Well, he was just crazy. She would never pay a thousand dollars for shoes--unless she really needed them for a special occasion. And this occasion was turning out to be nothing special!

Jack leaned against the car again. "So who are you engaged to anyway? Wally Cleaver?"

Margie cringed. Jack Ivan was nothing but sarcasm stuffed into blue jeans and a plaid shirt. "It's none of your business, did you know that? If I were you, I would worry about my own coagulating romance."

Mocking concern crossed his tanned features. "Did you just use the word coagulating?"

"Yes, I did," she bantered stiffly and then ticked off, "Coagulating, souring, and/or mildewing."

"Prude."

* * *

It took the mechanic little time to hook the Jag to his lift. Margie sat in the front seat of the truck wedged between Jack and the driver. Old newspapers filled the grimy cab. She moved the front page of the Miami Sun to sit.

"I use the paper to cover the holes in the leather," the driver told them while starting the engine. His nametag read Marcus Sanchez. Marcus explained, "This truck is nearly thirty years old and though the engine is holding up, the furniture isn't." He glanced at Margie. "I hope you don't get anything on the pretty outfit you're wearing. I usually don't have someone in the cab with me besides Buddy. Buddy is my bulldog."

Margie smiled and nodded and then eyed Jack with renewed annoyance. She blamed him for this predicament. If he had driven slower, he could've seen the glass in the road, they wouldn't have had a blow out, and now she wouldn't sit in saliva-stained plastic seating snagging her four-hundred dollar pantsuit. Dog hair clung to the flared bottom of her pant leg.

It didn't take long for the service station attendant to plug and repair the tire while Margie and Jack waited in the snack shop. The entire process cost nearly one hundred and fifty dollars. The attendant asked, "How long have you owned your car?"

"I don't know, three years, I think. Why?"

"You should let us check the battery. When I pulled the car around just now, the engine dragged when I started it."

"I'll wait, thanks," she told the man, aware of Jack's eagerness to get on the road again. The sun looked much lower in the sky when they stepped out of the service office. Dark clouds piled up to the east of them.

Margie still picked dog hair from her pantsuit. "Do you see any stains on my clothes?" She held out her hands so Jack could see the entire front of her suit and then she twirled for him to see the back of it.

"It all looks good to me, Sweetheart," he told her before climbing into the passenger seat.

"Never mind," she snapped, sitting too. "I still smell like a dog, or is that you?"

He chuckled and sat back to get comfortable. "My scent is called, Wolf."

"Wolf?" Margie asked, starting the engine. "Then you smell like hot bologna at a picnic."

He ignored her last comment and slapped a rhythm on his thighs. "All right. Let's go, let's go. Quit picking hairs and let's go."

* * *

It took another forty-five minutes to reach Miami. Once there, Margie didn't know what to do or where to go. Jack consulted the map he had purchased at the service station. "You're on 395; turn off at the Biscayne Boulevard exit." He sat back, relaxed at this point with his elbow on the windowsill and his hand massaging his bottom lip. Suddenly, he sat up. "Get over into the left lane. You have to turn left."

"I can't get over. There's too much traffic."

"Be aggressive."

Margie swerved into the center lane while letting out a shriek about the same octave as the blasting horns around them.

"Pull over," Jack instructed. "Pull over now."

"I can't..."

"YOU MISSED IT."

She drove on for a minute until she could get into the right lane again and she took the next exit off the interstate. "Turn here," Jack told her, clearly aggrieved by her performance behind the wheel. "We'll have to circle again and try to take the exit once more."

Margie saw a gas station, parked, and opened the driver's side door.

"What are you doing?"

"You drive," she told him. "But don't wreck my car, Jack Ivan."

"Why not?" he asked while passing her at the trunk of the car. "You wrecked mine."

"Oh, forget it," she told him, turning around to head for the driver's side again. She tried to slide back into the bucket seat but Jack fought for it. She pushed forward until he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her out of the way.

Now he sat triumphantly in the driver's seat. "Hurry and get in," he called up to her. "We're running out of time."

Margie marched around the car and fell into the passenger seat. "Be careful."

He sat very close in the tight quarters. His white teeth flashed a smile. "I'm always careful, Margie. Now shut the door. This rocket is ready to burn."

Back on the highway, Jack missed the exit too. Margie grinned. "You missed it."

"Quiet," he barked.

"I just thought you'd like to know."

He changed lanes swiftly to pull off the interstate again and then circled back for another try at it. A man in a yellow Volkswagen passed them on the left and made a crude hand signal at Jack.

"Well, that wasn't very nice," Margie responded. "Of course, you deserved it."

They drove past the service station where they had switched seats. "Hey, I recognize this place. What are we doing here?" She glanced at Jack. "Oh, that's right. You missed the exit."

"We won't this time," he informed her with a boldness that made Margie check her seat belt.

They were back on the highway again and approaching the exit. Horns blasted when Jack cut the Jaguar through traffic. Margie winced and crouched low in her seat as Jack violated several driving regulations. "That's how you do it," he told her, relaxing into his seat.

Red lights filled the car's interior.

Jack hit the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. "I cannot believe this," he mumbled peevishly as he maneuvered the car onto the shoulder of the road.

"What's so hard to believe?" she asked. "There are good reasons to obey speed and traffic signs." She flashed him a smile. "Now you're in for it."

He shifted to reach for the wallet in his hip pocket. "Will you knock it off?"

"It serves you right is all. Ever since I met you, you've been busting up the world in this mad pursuit of yours."

A police officer bent toward the window. His badge read "Nichols". "When you're finished arguing, I'll need to see your license and vehicle registration."

Margie popped open the glove box and she handed Jack the white registration card.

"The car is hers," Jack explained.

Nichols bent to see Margie. "Stay in the car, please. I will return shortly." He walked toward his cruiser.

The traffic from the interstate sounded loud outside the car. Headlight beams struck at the mirrors and filled the darkening interior of the Jaguar. "I'm going to miss the ship and then I'm going to murder you." Jack said this very offhandedly.

It was the third time he had referred to injuring the innocent and Margie replied, "You know, slaughter is not the solution to every one of life's little problems, Jack." She sat further back in her seat. "And why is this my fault? You were the one driving like a madman."

"If you hadn't missed the exit in the first place I wouldn't have had to drive like a madman. It's like you've cursed me."

Margie thought he might be surprised just how many times she had cursed him.

Street lamps came on and traffic looked like one long row of lights. Nichols returned to Jack's window and handed him three tickets to sign. "I'm sighting you for reckless driving, speeding, and exiting the freeway improperly."

"Exiting the freeway improperly?"

"You drove over the median and took out a mile marker."

Jack signed the tickets and retrieved his license and the car registration. Once he rolled up the window, he stared at Margie. "Enough."

"Sorry," she offered between giggles. "Sorry." She straightened her face. Taking out a mile marker was serious business.

* * *

Jack took a quick right onto Port Boulevard. At the American Airline Basketball Arena, he turned left, and drove over the Port Bridge while watching for directional signs. Night settled and the enormous cruise ships looked like giant sea monsters beached in the harbor. Twinkling portal lights blinked in the darkness.

Locked gates kept them out of the parking lot. Jack pulled the car straight up to the fencing and honked the horn.

Margie grimaced. Why must he act so aggressively?

Jack honked the horn again.

"Will you stop? Obviously the lot is closed. You'll have to wait until morning to find Brittany."

"There's someone in the gatehouse."

"Yes," Margie agreed. "It's a guard, a guard with a gun. They shoot people with those things, you know, just for honking the horn."

Before she could continue the lecture, Jack opened the door and climbed out of the car to meet a uniformed guard at the fence. Margie could hear their conversation. Jack explained, "It's very important that I speak to someone aboard one of the ships. It's an emergency."

Margie rolled her eyes in the dark. An emergency? This pursuit of love?

"Is someone sick?" The guard asked. "Has someone died?"

Jack shifted his weight. "It's not that sort of emergency."

"The gates re-open at eight o'clock, sir. I'm sure you understand we have very strict security measures in place."

Sliding into the driver's seat, Jack let out a solid growl of frustration. The car's interior light went off when he slammed the door shut. "There has got to be a way past the gate."

"Why don't you try to call her?"

"Because she wouldn't answer, that's why. And if she did, she would hang up when she knew it was me."

"Send her a note."

"No," Jack firmly replied. "I've got to see her." He started the car's engine. "Tomorrow will be too late. Maybe it's already too late. People can marry while a ship is at sea, can't they?"

"I think so," she told him. Margie touched his arm, moved by his dismay. "But you're going to have to wait until morning, Jack. If you try to bust through a gate you'll wind up at Gitmo. Let's find you a hotel room. You and Brittany can sort this out in the morning."

He didn't act as if he heard her. Instead, he slowly drove past the fencing as though looking for a hole to slip through.

Margie stopped trying to convince him with decent logic. "Why don't you just climb the wires?"

"Don't think I haven't considered it, but they're plugged in."

"You would be struck with high-powered voltage?"

It was just a question.

When Jack scowled at her, Margie recanted, "I-I'm kidding."

He heaved a sigh then. "You're right." Raking his hair back with one hand, Jack agreed, "I'll get a hotel room and come back first thing in the morning."

"Now you're being sensible."

* * *

It took them nearly an hour to find a hotel room. Most establishments were already booked full. Jack wanted a place within walking distance to the port. The Forty-Winks Inn had one room available. The street-side building stood two stories high and had a giant blinking eye built with neon lights off the top of the roof.

Margie shut off the car engine to walk to the door with Jack. She saw two full-size beds in the clean and comfortable-looking room. A dresser set across from the beds and a vanity occupied the wall next to the bathroom.

"I guess this is goodbye, Jack Ivan," she told him from the door.

He nodded while poised with his hands on his faded jeans. The opened blue-plaid and sleeveless shirt revealed his muscled biceps and the ribbed tee beneath. The large golden crucifix flashed in the lamplight. After a long breath, he suggested, "You know, it's getting late. Why don't you find a hotel room and get some sleep?"

"Oh, no," she answered, "I'm fine."

He shook his head and walked toward her. "It will take five hours to get back to Tampa. It would put you home past two."

"I'm used to staying up late."

He stood right in front of her now. She had forgotten how broad he was and how tall for she had to crane her neck to look up at him. "The life of a socialite?" he asked in good humor. His dark eyes examined her face and then settled on her lips.

Margie took a slow breath to stop the tingling in her belly. What was she feeling? She had no business getting tingly over Jack Ivan. All day she had wanted nothing more than for this journey to end, but now faced with the prospect of saying goodbye, Margie paused.

He said, "The least I can do is buy you some dinner." He stuck the room key in his front pocket and led her out of the room. "Come on, there's a steak place across the street."

* * *

Shortly concluding the day's business, the Ponderosa Steak House still seated customers until nine o'clock. Margie passed on the steak and chose chicken and then pasta and greens from the salad bar. Jack ate steak and cheese fries.

Few patrons remained in the dining room. Margie and Jack sat beneath an antique saddle hanging on the wall. A western theme dominated the décor, including the damaged wooden sign reading: Don't ride your horse into the saloon.

"You should feel right at home in here, Jack." When he looked up, she explained, "You being a cowboy and all."

"I'm not a cowboy," he told her. "I'm a cattleman."

Margie grinned at him while chewing a crouton. When she finished, she asked, "Where is your ranch; specifically, I mean?"

Jack cut into his steak. "Zephyrhills."

"Do you own a lot of property?"

"Three thousand acres."

"That's a lot of land." She selected another crouton with a good amount of cucumber dressing on it.

"My neighbor owns ten-thousand."

Margie sat back. "Ten-thousand? Well, he's set, isn't he?"

"You don't know much about ranching, do you?" When she shook her head, he explained, "There are ranches all over Florida with larger amounts of property than Andrew McDonald. They include prairies, pinewoods, and swamps, and parts of the Everglades. McDonald won't be set until he owns a lot more property than ten-thousand acres." He cut another piece of steak but paused before putting it into his mouth. "What do you do, Margie?"

"What do I do?" She paused as well. "A job, you mean?"

"That's what I mean."

"I told you, I'm engaged."

He frowned at her. "That's not a job."

Obviously, he had never been engaged to Tyler Bonaguide. She told him, "It's what I'm concentrating on at the moment." She eased her back into the booth cushion. "It's a lot of work you know, selecting a trousseau, deciding what length of gown to wear, finding the perfect location for the reception."

Tilting his head, Jack's eyes observed her left hand still resting on the table. "When are you getting married?"

"Soon," she offered. She picked at another crouton.

Jack stared at her with his fork dangling in mid-air while waiting for a more generous response.

Margie cleared her throat. "About a month."

"Yet you're only wearing a cheap pinkie ring. It looks like it came out of a bubble gum machine."

She righted the ring on her finger. "This did come out of a bubble gum machine."

"I would think a girl with your money could afford better jewelry."

Margie finished chewing. "This has sentimental value."

"Nothing else turns your finger so green?"

"I've had the pink glass reset into a gold band," she replied, leaning back in the booth again. "When I was a little girl, my nanny dragged me and my sister along with her to the Quick Check store at Sunshine Plaza. While she stood in the checkout line, she would hand me a quarter to use at the prize machine." Margie stared at her pasta and twirled it with her fork. "The first time I saw this ring, it was in the top of the glass bubble. Every week it sank lower and lower in the bowl. I knew it was my own and every week I would gaze into the machine to see if the pink-stone ring was still there. I concentrated really hard and recited, ring of mine, pink in hue, bring me love that sticks like glue."

With a mouthful, Jack retorted, "You're kidding?"

"I was eight," she explained with a shrug. "One day I couldn't see the ring and was afraid it was gone. I just knew some other little girl bought it and would find love that stuck like glue." She sat forward to add intensity of the story. "But I put my quarter into the machine and recited my poem, and..."

He looked as if the story pained him to listen to it. "Yeah, what?"

She leaned back again. "Out pops a key-chain with a miniature baseball bat on the end of it. I stood there simply devastated." She stopped twirling her fork and pointed it at Jack. "Then, all of a sudden, this boy came out of nowhere, put his quarter into the machine, and out came my ring."

Jack finished the story for her. "So, you beat him up, took the ring, and ran off?"

Margie winced at his rendering. "No."

"Well, you're wearing it. So what did you do?"

"What any girl would do in my place. I started to cry. He handed it over and took the key-chain in return. He was so chivalrous that I've loved him ever since."

"You knew him?"

Margie blinked at Jack. "Well...no. But I vowed one day to marry him."

Jack snorted and finished chewing his steak. "Do you know how many boys have given up pink rings to girls at the bubble gum machine?"

She paused again. "Gee, I don't know."

"Any self-respecting boy would ditch such a girly prize. I did." He leaned his arms on the table. "I assume your fiancé did or you wouldn't marry him, right?"

"Right," she lied. She had never asked Tyler about it, but according to Jack many boys gave up pink rings at the bubble gum machine so it was possible Tyler had as well. To take the focus off her own situation, Margie asked, "You gave up a ring at the bubble gum machine? That seems kind of sweet of you, Jack."

He lifted a shoulder as if it was no big deal. "She was bawling over it." Finished with his plate of food, he pushed it away, leaned his elbows on the table, and rested his chin on his fist. "You never answered my question."

"What question?"

"Why aren't you wearing an engagement ring? Can't your fiancé afford one? Is he just a poor slob engaged to a rich girl?"

Margie wrinkled her nose. "Tyler is not poor. He gave me an engagement ring."

"Tyler?"

She leaned against the table, frustrated by his rapid-fire questions. "Tyler Bonaguide, if you must know."

"Bonaguide, Bonaguide," Jack thoughtfully replied while he wiped his mouth on a cloth napkin. Then he tossed it on his plate. "The bank manager?" He stared wide-eyed at her. "You're engaged to the bank manager?"

Margie's mouth dropped at the suggestion. "His son--I'm engaged to his son!"

"Oh, thank goodness. For a minute there I thought..." He grinned at the ceiling. "Tyler Bonaguide, hmm."

"Hmm, what?"

"I don't know but the name conjures up the idea of a man who obeys traffic signals and speed-limit laws."

She knew he meant to rile her but she couldn't quite hold back her defense. "I'll have you know Tyler has been ticketed on numerous occasions."

"You must be very proud."

"Of course I am."

"Because a man who can't break a rule now and then is half a man."

"Right."

Jack leaned closer. "And a woman who can't wear her engagement ring is half a woman." Still grinning, he stood and laid several bills on the table to tip the bus-help. "Ready to go?"

Margie got to her feet. "There is a good reason why I'm not wearing my ring."

He returned his wallet to his hip pocket. "Hey, you don't have to defend yourself to me."

"I am not defending..." She stopped in mid-sentence when she realized how loud her voice sounded.

A busboy, who looked remarkably like John Candy in a green apron and paper hat, stared at her and then returned to collect the dirty dishes off another table.

Margie lowered her voice to hiss, "I am not defending myself, Jack Ivan. Tyler gave me a ring, a beautiful ring, a spectacular ring, and it's nothing a cattle poke like you would ever select. Yours would resemble a horseshoe or a cow patty."

Jack threw back his head and laughed uproariously.

Margie left him standing at the table.

A moment later he passed her on the left, twisted round, and hit the exit door panel with his back. "I know what's wrong with you." He held the door and eyed her from his six-foot-three vantage while she walked out of the restaurant.

"There's nothing wrong with me."

In the lamplight she saw his bare biceps knot when he placed his hands on his hips. The cross round his neck looked burnished bronze, just like Jack's features. He explained, "My uncle lived behind Sunshine Plaza when I was a kid. I used to spend Friday nights with him and my aunt."

Margie had no idea why he shared the information. "So?"

"So, I'm the boy who gave you the bubblegum ring."

"Right," she told him, stepping into the parking lot. The light breeze held the scent of rain.

Jack caught up with her again. "How sad that you swore you'd love me forever and now you're engaged to another man...a lesser man. And now you refuse to wear the engagement ring he gave you in favor of my small token of love."

"You had better stick to ranching, Jack. You have an awful sense of the romantic."

He closed his eyes with a grimace as though Margie mortally wounded him. "I was going for tragic."

"Oh," she allowed. "Well, you achieved that."

All of a sudden, Jack grabbed her hand and when traffic allowed, he pulled Margie across the street.

"I may never cross with the light again," she told him, catching her breath on the next sidewalk.

"You're a bad girl at heart, I knew it." They'd reached the Jaguar and he opened the door for her. Jack watched Margie turn to face him. Her blue-green eyes sparkled in the lamplight and high color topped her cheekbones. He had spent nearly all day with the girl, and though he had thought her pretty, he had been too caught up in the race to find Brittany to pay attention to Margie. Now, he saw how trim and graceful she appeared in the spaghetti-strapped blouse that embraced the lines of her figure. Her skin was honey brown. White-blonde streaks coursed through the long layers of her golden hair and Jack wondered what the texture would feel like against the rough calluses of his hands.

As if sensing his attraction to her, Margie moved to sit in the driver's seat. "Well, let's try to say goodbye again." She tugged on the door and then leaned away to slam it shut. Rolling down the window, she smiled up at him. "I have an inexpressible desire to rush home and get that ring back on my finger."

Jack nodded. He balanced one arm on the roof of the car and grinned down at Margie. "I'm sure Tyler Bonagoose will thank me for it."

"It's--it's Bonaguide."

He pretended confusion and frowned at her. "Bonaguide? Are you sure?"

She wrinkled her nose in an appealing way. "I'm pretty sure."

"Well, all right then, but I'm certain you said something about a goose." When she giggled softly, Jack boldly asked, "Are you certain you don't want to sleep over?"

Margie stared at him for a moment. Her shadowed eyes seemed to analyze whether he meant what it sounded like he meant.

He meant it all right, but wondered if she would take him up on the offer.

Breathlessly, she answered, "I need to get home."

He studied her mouth then and tried to imagine what it would feel like to kiss Margie. Leaning closer, he said, "Thanks for bringing me to Miami."

Flustered, she faced the wheel and turned the ignition.

A clicking sound came from beneath the hood. Margie gasped and stared at the dash. Twisting the key again, she heard the same buzzing sound. "The battery!" Pumping the gas pedal, she forgot all about Jack Ivan leaning down to kiss her.

Margie shoved the door open and swung her feet to the pavement. The maneuver made Jack jump out of the way. "It's the battery, isn't it?"

"Pop the hood," he told her, moving toward the front of the car.

"How do I pop the hood?"

He spun around to walk toward the driver's seat.

"I should've listened to that mechanic. He told me the battery sounded strange. What am I going to do now?"

"You're going to let me get into the car."

"Oh," she said, stepping toward the sidewalk.

Jack tried the engine again and then pulled the hood-release lever. Getting out of the seat, he explained, "I'll see if anyone has jumper cables in the office."

He came back ten minutes later without jumper cables. "The clerk said there's a twenty-four hour Wal-Mart up the street. It's about a mile walk. You can stay here."

"I'll come with you," Margie told him, locking the door.

"I'll give you the key and you can stay in my room. Watch TV."

"I'd rather stay with you."

Tilting his head, he asked, "Can't get enough of me?"

"I've had plenty of you, thanks," she covered.

Chapter Three

While Jack studied the car-maintenance supplies, Margie studied a pair of Capri pants and a sleeveless pink top. He found her forty-five minutes later still wandering through the clothing section. "Look at these cute pants." She held them up for him to see. "I've never shopped at Wal-Mart."

"You're kidding?"

"And look at this blouse that goes with it."

"I have bad news," Jack told her, instinctively fingering the fabric she held out. "They don't carry your battery."

"But they have my size in this blouse."

"You're not listening to me."

Margie stopped at the swimsuit rack. "I am. I was talking about clothes and you were talking about..." She frowned at him, trying to remember.

"Batteries."

"Right."

Jack looked into the shopping cart. "You'll have to come back in the morning to order your battery from the garage or have the car towed to another service station."

Margie walked ahead of him. "That's fine," she answered after laying the pants in the cart. "I want to visit the shoe department before we leave." In wonderment she added, "Have you seen the cosmetic aisle?"

Margie's cell phone rang while she scouted the size 7 racks. "Cat?" She turned a corner and waved for Jack to follow her. "I'm tearing 'em up at Wal-mart."

"Wal-Mart," Cat uttered. "I've heard about Wal-Mart. That isn't why I called."

"Why did you call?"

"The caterer wants to know if you want asparagus towers or broccoli on a plate with rillettes of salmon and caviar."

Margie stopped examining a pair of sandals to frown into space. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Cat shortened the question, "Broccoli or asparagus?"

Margie looked to Jack for help. "If you were a plate of salmon, what side dish would you chose? Broccoli or asparagus?"

He scowled at her. "If I were a salmon?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Margie interrupted. "What do you like better, broccoli or asparagus?"

"Broccoli."

"Who are you talking to," Cat wanted to know.

"The average man," she answered, wrinkling her nose at Jack Ivan.

"Well ask the average man if he would like blueberry tart or banana leaf cones."

After Margie cupped the phone to her shoulder and asked, she came back with, "He said banana leaf cones. But he looks a little confused."

"I'm not confused," Jack complained.

Margie quieted him by raising a threatening finger.

Jack looked so scared that he rolled his eyes.

"All right, that's settled," Cat, continued. "Tyler is here. Do you want to talk to him?"

"Tell him I can't talk right now. I'll call him in the morning." Ringing off, Margie shoved the phone into her purse.

"Who can't you talk to, your fiancé?"

She ignored Jack to examine a pair of canvas mules. "My phone battery is low."

"Liar."

She held out the phone to show him. "I'm also roaming." She added the mules to her purchases.

He still rested his arms on the cart. "You didn't want Tyler to know you were with another man."

Margie shook her head. "I'm not with another man." Ready to go, she shifted to walk away. "I'm with you."

Jack pushed the cart again. "Ahh, the words every man longs to hear."

"You know what I mean," she tossed over her shoulder. "You're happily chasing Brittany and I'm..."

"Yes, but Brittany..."

"...happily engaged."

Jack pulled the cart to a halt. "Are you?"

"Am I what?" she asked, smelling a candle in the box display in the middle of the aisle. She looked at the package. "Hawaiian Breezes."

Jack removed the candle from beneath her nose and placed it into the display box. "Are you happily engaged?"

"Of course. Why?"

He smiled as he considered her hair. There were tiny laugh lines around his eyes. "Well, you were sure quick to run off with me without considering your boyfriend."

Margie shook her head and walked toward the center aisle of the store. "I did consider Tyler. Actually, he is the reason I helped you."

"Tyler is the reason you help me? That doesn't make sense."

"It doesn't have to make sense," she pointed out. "You and I are not engaged."

Jack jerked the cart to a stop again. "Then I want my ring back." He looked very serious standing there next to the granola bar display. His full mouth held no hint of a smile. His thick arms flexed hard as he held to the cart.

"I will give the ring back to you when you return my key chain." Margie reached past him to select a box of oat bars. "Where is it?"

"Where is what?"

"The key chain..."

He answered, "I keep it under lock and key in my study at home. I recite a poem over it every morning after I take it out of a heart-shaped box."

"I'm glad you're taking it seriously," she told him and walked toward the registers. They stood in the checkout line when reality struck. "Where am I going to sleep?"

Jack selected a Milky Way from the candy display. "I'll share my room."

Margie frowned at him. "I don't think so," she told him, leaving no doubt she wasn't interested in, well, you know. "There has got to be another room available."

"The desk clerk told the guy behind me that mine was the only room left in town. There's some sort of convention going on." He grinned at her. "Looks like you're stuck with me for a little while longer."

Margie handed her clothing to the cashier. "I am not sharing a room with you, Jack Ivan."

* * *

So, she shared a room with Jack Ivan. Somewhere Margie's life took a tragic turn! There she sat on the edge of the bed nearest the door while Jack lay relaxed on his own bed watching a rerun of The Beverly Hillbillies. Margie bit her thumbnail and then made herself stop. She never bit her nails.

"Will you relax?" He had his hands behind his head on the pillow. Still fully dressed, Jack crossed one boot on top of the other and didn't take his eyes from the sitcom. In the low light, the television's flicker caused his handsome features to turn shadowy and blurry and pink sometimes.

Margie pulled her thumbnail out of her mouth to say, "I am relaxed."

"You're as rigid as a two-by-four. Kick off your shoes and get comfortable."

She didn't know how Jack knew she sat rigid as a two-by-four. He wasn't even looking at her, unless he sneaked peeks at her when she wasn't sneaking peeks at him. Now Margie bit her lip.

Jack didn't miss the action. "If anyone has the right to be nervous, it's me."

"What do you mean?"

He swung his legs off the bed and dropped his boots onto the beige carpet. "I'm scared to fall asleep. I don't know what you'll do next."

"Why, because I chased the cabdriver down to get my last package from his back seat?"

"No, because you jumped on the cab and beat on the back window to catch the man's attention."

He exaggerated. The cab barely pulled away from the curb when Margie rapped on the side of the car. Still, she liked his version best. "My new sneakers were in that bag." She turned to face him. "Besides, I would've never known what a fine sportsperson you are. How breathtaking to watch you dive into the opened car door."

Jack grabbed his chest in mock salute and sat up straight. "I am your trusted warrior." He stood and then leaned down to look Margie square in the face. "Honest, brave, and completely uninterested to you."

Margie furrowed her brow in indignation and her eyes scanned his features with displeasure.

She opened her mouth to argue, but Jack spoke over her. "I, on the other hand, know that you find me attractive because you already admitted it."

She gave him a look of kindness. "I felt sorry for you when I said that."

"Right," he added smugly.

She got to her feet and Jack took a step backward. "I still feel sorry for you."

He didn't move when she tried to brush passed him. "Now, listen," he began. "I'm going to take a shower and I will lock the door if I must."

"You can trust me, Jack. I won't burst in on you."

"All right, good. I'm glad that's settled." He moved away then to grab a towel from the vanity. With a last warning glance at Margie, he entered the bath, and shut the door. She waited to hear him twist the lock. When he didn't, Margie smiled at his ludicrous act. He had put her completely at ease--by denying her attractiveness!

She stomped toward the mirror and then gasped at her reflection. Well, if she didn't look like Izzy Bozoff: fly-away hair and no makeup and worn out mascara smudged beneath her eyes. See what traveling with Jack Ivan did to a girl?

After plugging in her cell-phone, she brushed out her hair, and washed her face. Jack hollered a foul word when she turned on the cold water faucet. It served him right. For meanness, she turned on the water again, just to hear him yell. That's what he got for calling her unattractive.

Jack came out of the bathroom toweling his dark hair. He only wore jeans. Black chest hair glistened and formed a T down his belly. "Why did you do that?"

Margie pretended to watch Bewitched on the television set. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"I'm sure you do." He sounded irritated and Margie looked at him. Water droplets balanced on his tanned and very broad shoulders. Watching her watch him, Jack let his towel drop and then lifted it again to cover his chest. "Do you mind?"

She ignored his protests and grabbed a granola bar. Opening the package, she pinched off a section, and delicately crunched the oats.

Jack came around to sit on his own bed. "So, you're good at number-crunching, is that right?"

Margie frowned, trying to understand what he meant. Then she remembered their conversation on the roadside while they waited for the tow-truck. "I said I have a gift for mathematics." She pinched another bit off the snack bar.

"A gift, right." He sat back on the bed as before with his bare feet stretched out in front of him. "How gifted are you?"

She remembered he had lost his accountant today. "I studied syllogism and the doctrine of inference at Harvard."

"You went to Harvard?"

"Why are you asking? Do you need someone to look after the books on that ranch of yours?"

His eyes studied the television set again and he answered without looking at her. "No, I need someone to look after my affairs for me and not just the money. I need someone who knows the law. Are you gifted in law, too?"

"My fiancé is a lawyer, Jack. He's the president of the Bonaguide Law Association."

Jack whipped around to face her. "The banker's son is that joker on the television commercial?"

"That's Tyler," Margie said nodding and smiling. Then she realized what he said. "He is not a joker."

His voice held a bit of wonderment when he repeated, "Your fiancé is the lawyer on TV." He sat up on the edge of his bed now and stared at Margie. "Well, congratulations to you." He grinned broadly and placed both elbows on his knees.

Suspicious, she threw him a careful look. "What do you mean?"

Jack chuckled. "I mean congratulations. Isn't he running for councilman or something?"

"Mayor."

He stared at the ceiling. "He's perfect for you: well dressed, law-abiding, and unexciting."

"He is not."

Jack sat back on the bed again and crossed his feet at the ankles. "Sure he is. He wears three-piece Armani suits."

"I meant..."

"And he'd better stay law-abiding if he hopes to get elected."

Margie sat up now. "Tyler is very exciting!"

Grimacing, Jack declared, "Did I need to know that?"

"You are contemptible," Margie exclaimed, snatching a pillow behind her and throwing it at him.

He captured the pillow mid-air and stuffed it behind his head. "I try my hardest." He didn't pursue the subject further and patted the front of his jeans. "Do you have any change? I want to buy a soda."

Margie dragged her purse toward her and then pulled out the wallet to hand him a dollar in change. "You're not going out like that are you?"

"Like what?" His dark hair matted on his powerful chest and hard-muscled abdomen. Smirking at her, because he seemed to know exactly what she thought, Jack flexed his big biceps and teased, "Twisted steel and sex appeal."

Margie tried to cover. "I'm referring to the fact that you don't have your boots on."

Jack stared at his feet.

Standing, Margie reached for his plaid shirt hanging across the chair. She handed it to him and said, "I think I'll come with you."

"I'll bring you a drink. What do you want?"

"I don't know. That's why I want to come with you, to see the selection." She grabbed her purse and then walked out the door behind Jack.

"I'll tell you right now they don't have bug sap or anything else you want to gulp down made from bees."

She smiled at him. "That's what I like about you, Jack. You use all the academic terms."

The dark sky opened up and rain poured down outside the narrow overhang. They were on the second floor and took the flight of steps to the bottom level where an ice machine vibrated against the wall in the stairwell.

Jack studied the soda selection. It started to rain harder and Margie slipped beneath the stairs to find shelter from the blowing rain. "Buy me a grape soda," she told him from her covered spot.

He glared at her through the sweeping rain. His pant legs were wet and his feet looked nearly underwater. "Get over here."

"I don't want to get wet," she shouted over the downpour.

Jack shook his damp hair. "I told you to stay in the room."

Margie handed him a dollar bill that was drenched before it hit his hand.

"This won't work, give me some quarters."

Margie dug in her purse for more change.

"Come on, come on," Jack rushed her. "I'm starting to drown."

"I can't see. It's too dark."

"Forget it then. You can share with me."

"I want grape." She found a quarter and a dime and held them up for him to see.

"Thank you. Now I can buy a newspaper."

Margie slumped against the wall. "That was for my soda."

"It's not enough. Besides, I want to see the sports section." After grabbing a paper, Jack took Margie's arm and led her toward the stairs. He dragged her along behind him beneath the overhang. Her powder-blue pantsuit started to turn a deep-blue shade from the rain.

Thunder crashed and lightning streaked toward the earth. Margie did a rapid shuffle to stay close to him. When they reached the door, Jack pushed but it didn't open. He twisted around to frown at Margie. His features lit up with another flash of lightning. "Did you lock the door?"

Margie had to yell over the thunder. "Of course I locked the door."

"Did you grab the key off the dresser?"

"I thought you had the key." She wiped rain off her face and pushed a loose tendril from her forehead. "Why didn't you bring the key?"