Excerpt
The Art of Getting Away

Chapter One

Sunday, August 16

CARLOS DROVE THE winding two-lane highway through the Missouri Ozark Mountains. Three weeks ago, a friend had offered to rent him a cabin at Table Rock Lake. He’d jumped at the chance for an impromptu vacation.
Now, spending six days alone with his thoughts didn’t seem like such a great idea.
He considered canceling. But his anger, building since the end of June, had finally boiled over. A complaining customer had received the brunt of it. Carlos's boss, his Uncle José, had smoothed things over with the client. Afterward, he’d suggested Carlos use the getaway to wrap his head around what had happened.
What a load of crap.
Well, too late now. He’d either drink himself into a stupor from boredom or go crazy.
Two hours out from Clantonville, he was within thirty minutes of his destination. The cabin was supposed to be nice. Close to its own beach with a view of the sunrise and surrounded by trees. Great for swimming. Lots of privacy.
As he rounded a blind curve, his heart slammed into his throat. An SUV sat in his lane. Carlos smashed the brakes, making the rear wheels break loose. The tires screeched. He struggled to maintain control. With inches to spare, his truck skidded to a stop.
He leaped out of the cab, shouting at the idiot who’d almost gotten him killed. The ability to speak escaped him when he saw a girl standing by the 4Runner. Tears ran down her cheeks.
Shit. Nothing got to him more than a crying female.
“Are you okay? I’m sorry! It died while I was driving.” The words tumbled out of her. “I can't push it out of the way, and I don’t know what to do.”
In a slow sweep he took her in, from her head to her feet and back. Beautiful was the only term his brain could latch onto. She was slender, with long shiny hair. And young. She stood eight inches shorter than his six foot two. In a simple tank top and cutoff jeans, her sculpted legs went on forever. His gaze got caught on her chest a moment before skimming to her eyes. They were turquoise. Captivated, he stared, trying to figure out if they were bluer or more green. He tore his attention away and shook himself. Had she asked a question?
“Yeah, fine. Just rattled,” he answered. “I didn’t mean to yell at you. I'm sorry.” If only he could stop her tears. “Let’s get it out of the way. You get in. Don’t apply the brakes ’til it’s off the pavement.”
“I’m not stupid,” she said under her breath as she swiped her cheeks. Louder, she added, “I can push too. I don’t need to add my weight.”
“No, it’s not safe without someone steering. And you can’t weigh more than a sparrow. It’s okay, get in.”
She huffed but did as he asked.
“The handbrake is off, right?” he asked.
“Yes!” she said.
Her feisty attitude cheered him up more than anything had since the funeral. With an extraordinary effort from his muscular frame, he got the old Toyota rolling. When he’d moved it under the oak trees, Carlos parked his Chevy behind it. Thank goodness that stretch of highway had a shoulder. They could be scarce on these twisting roads.
He walked over, took her hand to help her out, and held it. “I’m Carlos,” he said.
“My name’s Pandora,” she replied, voice husky. His confusion must have shown because she added, “It’s from Greek mythology. You know, the woman who released troubles upon humanity? Mom said I looked mischievous when I was born. People call me Dora.”
Not sure mischievous fits. More like sassy. “Nice to meet you. If you want, I can take a look. Pop the hood?”
“Do you know what the trouble might be?” she asked as she bent into the interior.
He couldn’t keep from noticing her perfect ass. When she straightened, he glanced up too late. Busted.
“Huh?”
“Do you know anything about engines?”
“A bit.” It was an understatement. He’d been a professional mechanic for ten years and was a good one. “It’s not out of gas, is it?”
“It’s got three-quarters of a tank!” she said. Again, that cheekiness. Damned if he didn’t break into a smile.
“When’s the last time it was in for service?” he asked.
“I had the oil changed three weeks ago. And my boyfriend said it was okay before I left St. Louis.”
Shit. The mention of a boyfriend pissed him off. Under the hood, it took him five seconds to see the battery terminals were corroded. The boyfriend wasn’t too observant if he hadn’t noticed. When Carlos touched the positive cable, it wiggled.
“You have any Coke?” he asked.
“What?” she yelped.
He raised an eyebrow. “The beverage.”
“Oh. Yeah. Are you thirsty?”
Without comment, he shook his head and accepted the cola she retrieved. He poured a small amount on the battery. At his truck, he got his toothbrush from his duffle bag and a wrench out of the toolbox.
“I’ll need water, too, if you have it,” he said. She returned with a bottle and stood with him as he brushed until the corrosion was removed. The water washed away the debris.
After tightening the loose cable, he said, “Let’s see if that’ll get it to start.” The SUV fired when she turned the key.
“You did it!” she squealed, hopping out. “It’s running. Thank you!”
Her delight brought him another honest-to-God smile. “You’re welcome. I doubt that’s the only problem, though. Have a mechanic run a diagnostic test as soon as possible.”
“Can I pay you for your trouble?”
“Yes,” he said. “Repay me by having it checked and repaired, okay? That way I won’t worry you’ll be stranded again and get hurt.” His concern transformed her features with wonder.
“I will.” She hesitated, looking over his square jaw, black hair, and dark brown eyes. Then she surprised the hell out of him by putting a hand behind his neck and tugging him close. The rich perfume of sandalwood reached him as velvet lips brushed his. “Thank you,” she whispered. Before he could move, she was gone. 

***

SITTING IN HIS TRUCK outside a Timberline City diner, Carlos rubbed his temples. He needed to get a grip. He was acting like an infatuated teenager gaping at his first centerfold.
Pandora. What kind of goofy name was that? Didn’t fit her. Neither did Dora. Pandie? Nah. That sounded like a Chinese Chihuahua. Andie? Yeah, she looked more like an Andie with that glint in her eye. Definitely sassy. Somehow, she’d eased his burdens. He chided himself. She would've forgotten him five minutes after that thank-you kiss.
As he crossed the parking lot, a couple was arguing in a Mercedes convertible. The man was close to Carlos’s age of thirty-four, wore a starched white shirt open at the collar, and had slicked-back hair. The woman looked about fifty and was elegant with tousled blond hair, designer sunglasses, and diamond earrings. She sneered at the restaurant.
“I’m not setting foot in there,” she said, crossing her arms. “I don’t care how wonderful the catfish is supposed to be. I’m surprised it hasn’t been closed due to salmonella. I can’t believe you talked me into driving to Dallas.”
“Come on Stella. This place is famous. You ate fish in that small restaurant in the Tuscan countryside and loved it.”
“The cuisine in La Casa Casciano was prepared by a chef who owned a three-Michelin-star restaurant in Rome. That’s not the same as eating lake scavengers fried by a barefoot hillbilly who wouldn’t know a Michelin star from a Hollywood star.”
“Have it your way,” the man said, throwing up his hands. “I’ll get a sandwich to go. Be back in a minute.
The car door shut. The sound of tires peeling out made Carlos glance back. Stella was racing away. The man tore after her in what had to be expensive Italian shoes. His shouts rose over the luxury car’s motor as it shot down the street.
Carlos shook his head as he entered the restaurant. Tourists. Fried channel cat did sound good, though.
“Dinner for one?” the pimply boy at the hostess station drawled.
“Hello,” he answered. “No, thanks. I’m here to pick up the key for 115 Log Sluice Road.”
The young man went to the office, and Carlos inhaled the smell of freshly cooked fish. When the waiter came back, he requested Carlos’s ID and had him sign the lease agreement. “Your cabin’s across the bridge, off route thirteen. Turn left on Possum Hill Lane. After half a mile and the curve to the left, the gravel driveway is on the right.”
“Where’s the closest place to the cabin I can get a beer?” Carlos asked.
“Gabe’s Bar. It’s in the middle of nowhere. You’ll pass by it on Possum Hill. They serve pizza and wings too.”
Carlos took his copy of the paperwork with the key and headed out. Ten minutes later, he almost missed the turn onto Log Sluice. He followed the private road a quarter mile to the cabin. It was smaller than he’d expected. The board siding was brown, and a porch on the east side held two beat-up chairs. Four hundred feet from it, the water was visible through the forest.
Inside, the cabin was utilitarian and plain yet clean. A kitchenette ran along one wall. There was a scratched wood dining table and mismatched furniture. Thrift-store lamps with crooked shades flanked the sofa.
After inspecting the bedrooms, Carlos left his duffle in the one with the better mattress. A bathroom sat in the corner beyond the kitchen. Not too impressive. However, it would do for a week. He brought in his ice chest that cooled a bottle of whiskey and a case of beer. His first and only order of business was drinking.
He’d had no alcohol since his bender the night Aunt Cecilia had died. Out on the steps, he guzzled two cans, and the instant buzz made him calmer.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out why her death became more difficult for him as the days ticked by. That he couldn’t deal with it.
It all went back to his mom walking out on him, his little brother, and his dad when Carlos was four. Aunt Ceci had stepped in, becoming a mother to him, and he’d loved her as much as a son could. Tears pricked, and he pushed his fists into his eyes until he saw stars. Screw it. This wasn’t working.
In his truck he buckled his seatbelt, guessing his blood alcohol level was over the legal limit. He was beyond caring. Gunning the engine made the tires spray dirt and gravel. At the road, he turned left for Gabe’s Bar.
The building was a few yards down. Within walking distance. Neon signs advertising beer were out of place on its rustic log exterior. The interior held a dozen tables between the booths, which lined opposite walls. The bar stood in the back, with the kitchen behind and restrooms in the opposite corner down a short hall. He sat in a middle booth, hoping to discourage anyone with the idea he wanted conversation.
A sixtyish waitress approached him once he'd settled in and looked over the menu. Wearing a white apron over jeans and a T-shirt two sizes too large, she got right down to business.
“Hey, there,” she said. “I’m JoAnne. What can I get you, hon?” She held a pad ready.
“Hi, JoAnne. I'm Carlos. I’d like a Coors draft, and keep them coming,” he said. “Also, a small pizza with sausage, pepperoni, and beef.”
“You got it. Anything else?”
“Yeah. A shot of whiskey. Please.” She made a note and brought his drinks a minute later. He sipped the liquor, resisting the urge to gulp it.
When JoAnne brought his food, she nodded to the empty shot glass. “You want another?”
“No, thanks. That'll do it.”
Numbness slid over his brain, and he relished it as he chewed. The pizza was good, with lots of cheese and generous portions of meat. Hungrier than he’d realized, he polished off the whole pie and the beer. He caught JoAnne’s eye, holding up his empty glass. She brought another, seeming to understand he wasn’t one for chitchat. Saying, “Here you go, hon,” she scooped up his empty.
The place was getting full by the time Carlos was deep into his third Coors. It was the peak of the tourist season. He glanced over his shoulder hearing the door open again and saw a skinny guy. Hitching up his pants mid-stride, “Skinny” wore dirty jeans that had holes in the knees. They resettled low on his hips. His hair was greasy, and his goatee was long and unkempt. He was twitchy and sneered as if he owned the place.
Carlos whipped around the second Andie came in. Aw, shit. What are the chances she would show up here? Carlos assumed this was the boyfriend, though it was hard to tell. When they passed, she followed three steps behind Skinny, who ignored her. They took barstools at the end closest to his booth . . .

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