A PERFECT RENDEZVOUS

Seen Your Face, In Different Times and Places

They'd been on the road for fully ten minutes before Zayn felt the strangling tension in his chest begin to dissolve, and he drew a long, full breath—his first easy breath in hours. No, months. Years. Futility and helplessness had raged in him for so long that he felt almost lightheaded without them. A red car roared past them, cut across their lane to exit the interstate, lost traction, and spun around, missing the Blazer by inches—and then only because the young man beside him handled the four-wheel-drive vehicle with surprising skill. Unfortunately, he also drove too damned fast, with the daredevil aggressiveness and fearless disregard of danger that was uniquely and typically Texan in his experience.

Zayn was wishing there was some way he could suggest he let him drive, when Harry said in a quietly amused voice, "You can relax now. I've slowed down. I didn't mean to scare you."

"I wasn't afraid," he said with unintentional curtness.

Harry glanced sideways at him and smiled, a slow, knowing smile. "You're holding onto the dashboard with both hands. That's usually a dead giveaway."

Two things struck Zayn at once: He'd been in prison so long that light-hearted banter between adult members had become completely awkward and alien to him and Harry Mathison had a breath-taking smile. His smile glowed in his eyes and lit up his entire face, transforming what was merely a pretty face into one that was captivating. Since wondering about him was infinitely preferable to worrying about things he couldn't yet control, Zayn concentrated on him. There was a freshness about him, a simplicity in the way he wore his thick, shiny brown hair, all of which had made him think he was in his late teens or very early twenties. On the other hand, he seemed too confident and self-assured for a twenty-year-old. "How old are you?" he asked bluntly, then winced at the brusque tactlessness of the question. Obviously if they didn't catch him and send him back to prison, he was going to have to relearn some things he'd thought were bred into him—like rudimentary courtesy and conversational etiquette with beautiful people.

Instead of being irritated by the question, Harry flashed him another one of those mesmerizing smiles of his and said in a voice laced with amusement, "I'm twenty-six."

"My God!" Zayn heard himself blurt, then he closed his eyes in disgusted disbelief at his gaucheness. "I mean," he explained, "you don't look that old."

Zayn seemed to sense his discomfiture, because he laughed softly and said, "Probably because I've only been twenty-six for a few weeks."

Afraid to trust himself to say anything spontaneous, he watched the windshield wipers carve a steady half-moon in the snow on the windshield while he reviewed his next question for any trace of the tastelessness that had marred his previous words. Feeling this one was safe, he said, "What do you do?"

"I'm a schoolteacher."

"You don't look like one."

Inexplicably, the laughter rekindled in his eyes and Zayn saw him bite back a smile. Feeling completely disoriented and confused by his unpredictable reactions, he said a little curtly, "Did I just say something funny?"

Harry shook his head and said, "Not at all. That's what most older people say."

Zayn wasn't certain whether he'd referred to him as being "older" because he actually looked like an antique to him or if it was a joking retaliation for his ill-advised remarks about his age and appearance. Harry was puzzling over that when he asked what Zayn did for a living, and he answered with the first occupation that seemed to suit what he'd already told him about himself.

"I'm in construction."

"Really? My brother's in construction work, too—a general contractor. What sort of construction work do you do?"