A couple of minutes later, headlights brightened her rearview and enlarged. This vehicle stopped right next to her.

Crappy pickup, stuff piled in the back, under a tarp.

The passenger window rolled down.

Young Mexican guy. Another Mexican sat at the wheel.

They looked at her funny.

The passenger got out. Small and scruffy.

Kat slid down low in her seat and when the Mexican came over and said something through the glass, she pretended he wasn’t there.

He stood there, really freaking her out.

Kat kept making believe she was invisible and the Mexican finally returned to the pickup.

It took five minutes after the truck drove away before she was able to sit up and breathe normally. She’d wet her thong. Rolled it off her butt and down her legs and tossed it into the backseat.

Soon as the undies made contact, her luck turned.

A Bentley!

Screw you, Range Rover!

Big, black, and glossy, that aggressive grille.

And slowing down!

Oh shit, what if it was Clive?

Even if it was Clive, she could handle it, better than sleeping here all -

As the Bentley rolled to a halt, she opened the window, tried to get a look at who was inside.

The big black car idled, moved on.

Damn you, rich bastard!

She jumped out of the Mustang, waved frantically.

The Bentley stopped. Backed up.

Kat tried to make herself look safe by shrugging and smiling and pointing to her car.

The Bentley’s window lowered silently.

Just a driver inside.

Not Clive, a woman!

Thank you, God!

Kat said, “Ma’am,” in the syrupy voice she used at La Femme. “Thank you so much for stopping I ran out of gas and if you could just take me somewhere where I could maybe find a-”

“Certainly, dear,” said the woman. Throaty voice, like that actress Mother liked… Lauren Lauren… Hutton? No, Bacall. Lauren Bacall had rescued her!