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The truck's interior light spread across the darkness and for the first time she got a clear look at her Good Samaritan. Under the cowboy hat he was clean-shaven, except for a mustache, and had intelligent eyes that reminded her in the weak light of a wolf's eyes. She'd met men with those same eyes before and they'd been dangerous in one way or another. His hair was shaggy and unkempt and curled at the collar of his shirt.
But he was smiling now, his smile as wolfish as his eyes, and he'd done her a favor and had been nothing but a gentleman with her. "Anything I can do to help?" he asked.
"What I need," she said, waving a hand at the raised hood and the engine after she'd picked up the flashlight she'd dropped from the ground, "is a doctor for my truck. It's sick."
The man took the flashlight from her, walked over and peered into the engine. His fingers traced along the metal parts, jiggling something here, something there. He seemed to know what he was doing. "Yep, looks like you need a fuel filter."
"You're pretty knowledgeable for a hitchhiker." She forced herself to stop looking at him and his long legs and shifted her gaze to the buildings at the end of the lot. She'd been having strange thoughts about the man. When he'd come back from dragging off her drunken admirer she'd had the urge to throw her arms around him and kiss him. Which was crazy.
Even now she kept sneaking peeks at him because she wanted to see his smile again. The feelings were so unexpected they took her off guard. She never reacted to a man this way.