Crash Into My Heart


A smart, professional, self-sufficient single mom, Janice has learned never to depend on anyone but herself. But when her tire blows out and her car lands in the ditch, stranding her on a lonely desert highway, the help she gets from a sensual, dark stranger driving a sexy sports car makes her reconsider her fierce independence.

An aggressive executive, dedicated to running his successful company in a competitive industry, Adrian doesn’t have time for anything—or anyone—else. Until he comes upon a beautiful woman in need of rescuing. Maybe he does have time for more than business.

Can Adrian make time for love?

Can Janice trust enough to love?

“Crash Into My Heart” is a sensual, romantic short story. It is meant for mature readers.


Adrian ground his teeth, irritated he’d had to cancel his weekend plans on his boat to rush up to the high desert to fix problems his VP should have handled. On top of that annoyance, the 405 had been a parking lot. Now he was stuck driving below the speed limit on a winding road, held up behind some old biddy in a Volvo. He’d hoped to be on his way back to LA by now. He noted the position of the sun slipping down beyond the hills, casting the canyon into shadowed dips and curves.

“Finally!” he muttered as the road straightened. He floored his Alpha Romeo 8C coupe to pass the clueless driver. He slowed briefly to throw her a dark look for failing to pull over during several opportunities in the past five miles.  He did a double take as he realized the woman didn’t have gray hair as he’d thought; she had silvery blonde hair. She turned to scowl back at him. And huge, smoky blue eyes fogged the world as he knew it. His anger evaporated, replaced by something quite different.

He crested the next hill, glancing back through his rear view mirror.

All he saw was dust. What the hell? There’d been no turn off, and he hadn’t been driving fast enough to lose her—yet.

The image of that unexpected dust kept intruding on his efforts to think instead about what he needed to say to his VP. Had she crashed? He hadn’t come anywhere close to running her off road, he thought, mulishly. He eased off the gas. He shifted, letting the car slow to a crawl. The car whined like an unhappy cat. No Volvo appeared behind him.

Damn! His work obligations warred with his conscience. He should see his VP tonight. It couldn’t wait. Well, it could wait. The sun had dropped behind the hills leaving the canyon awash in grey shadows. It would be dark soon. He checked his phone. No signal. What would his mother say?

He whipped around, squealing his car’s tires.


Okay. The important thing was that she was alive, Janice told herself shakily as she struggled from behind the inflated airbag. She swung open the driver’s door, which wedged itself into the dirt, giving her a too narrow escape route. She gave the door a tug back to loosen it. It didn’t budge. Good thing she was skinny. She slid out sideways, feeling stunned, wiping blood from what she hoped was a simple nosebleed. She tentatively tapped her nose. While it hurt like a son of a bitch, it seemed unbroken.

When her front passenger tire blew, she’d been cast off the road into the ditch. It’d taken all her strength to keep the car from rolling. She’d survived a bumpy ride through the shrubby, slanted terrain, landing abruptly on a giant rock. She sent a prayer up to the universe, grateful the boys were already on a plane headed to Denver.

She stared at her totaled car. Her beautiful car. The one luxury she allowed herself. Smashed. She reached back into the car and pulled out her purse, sitting on the seat as though nothing had happened. She dug out her cell phone. No signal. She looked up and down the road and saw no one. Certainly not that obnoxious, if totally gorgeous, driver of the James Bond car that had ridden her ass the last five miles. Asshole.

The road was desolate. Cutting through the back canyons between Los Angeles and the high desert, the route was traveled predominantly by locals. At this late hour on a Friday evening, it might be another hour before anyone passed.

If she walked to the top of the pass, she might get a signal. She surveyed her outfit. The light strapless sundress and her high-heeled sandals were perfect for lunch with the girls, rotten for hiking a canyon road. She crawled back into the car and unearthed a sweater from under the boys’ discarded backpack, and slipped into it.

Just as she was sliding out of the car again, she heard the sound of a large engine purring towards her. She looked up at the road and saw the top of the James Bond car.  He should have been long gone by now. She panicked. A woman, alone, stranded on an empty road. Crap. The car stopped, went silent. Settling back into her driver’s seat, she tugged at the door to close and lock it. It wouldn’t move. She glanced up.

The man stood above her on the edge of the road—broad-shouldered, dressed in a white business shirt and dark trousers. She couldn’t make out his shadowed face, but he looked a bit…swarthy. He had his hands fisted on his hips. He looked imposing.

“Miss? You all right?”

He sounded irritated. Well! Why’d he bother to stop?

“I’m fine,” Janice called up tensely. “You go on now.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I am, really.” She tugged frantically on her door. “I’ve got everything under control.”

It sounded like he said “the hell you do” and then he was climbing down the embankment towards her. Her heart raced and she struggled to breathe. She wrestled with the stuck door in earnest.

The man reached her car in a few strides.

“Let me help you get that open.”

“No, I’m fine.” She shooed at him with a wave of her hand. “Go away.”

Janice tried to sound calm, but she was sure he heard the panic in her voice. She sounded like a victim instead of a confident woman with everything under control. She hated to be out of control.

Ignoring her request to go away, he caught hold of the open edge of the door, yanked it up and outward, rocking the car. The door moved another two inches.

“There,” he said. “That should be enough.”

Janice stared up at him. He didn’t seem like a serial rapist murderer. But neither had Ted Bundy, had he? Up close, even in the encroaching shadows, the man was remarkably handsome. He held out his hand to her. She studied it with suspicion.

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