A man’s forearm captured Maggie’s interest first. This man’s forearm, revealed by the rolled-up sleeve of a denim shirt, showed dark hairs woven like a soft web over tanned skin. She leaned over to glimpse his face in his rear view mirror. It didn’t work. He was one car up on her in the right lane, in a Dodge Ram pickup that gleamed with care and polished chrome, even through the gray sleet. The pickup put him up higher. All she could see was the reflection of the forearm in the driver’s side mirror.

Maggie straightened back up in her seat and winced as the rip in the upholstery pinched her bottom. She shifted and grimaced. The light changed, but only seven cars inched through the icy intersection before the light caught her again. Maggie hugged herself, tucking her fingers into her armpits, and blew a cloud of steam toward the broken heater. Sexy Forearm was now two cars up on her right. No bumper stickers, no personalized tag, and still nothing to see except that tempting arm. She imagined Mel Gibson blue eyes, maybe Mel’s jaw, too, coupled with a Sean Connery voice and Jean Claude Van Damme’s body. Now that vision could replace a car heater.

She imagined meeting him in a boardroom for a one-on-one closing of a corporate merger, equal players in a game of high stakes that had gone on for weeks. There had been attraction there, yes, but they had both fought it. Now, the battle almost over, his hand rose to stroke through her hair in a way that she knew would turn into a deep plunge. His fingers would reach through her hair, find the nape of her neck and pull her forward to meet his lips. She indulged the idea, felt the meeting of lips, the solid press of a broad chest.

No, that was good, but a few more moments of anticipation would be better. She rewound the image. She raised her hand, meeting his in mid-air, deflecting it, staying tough, hard-to-get…

A horn blared behind her. Maggie jumped out of her daydream and punched the gas.

The Dodge truck pulled into her lane. She hit the brakes hard, shrieked and wrenched the wheel, but it was too late. Chains weren’t as responsive as expensive snow tires. Maggie crashed headlong into the satin smooth side of the truck bed. Horns blared to her right and tires squealed as the motorists behind them tried to avoid the collision.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God…” Maggie fought with her door latch, kicked the base that always stuck and scrambled out when the door came open. The wind cut through her worn sweatshirt, but she barely felt it. She held onto the side of her car and skidded in her thin sneakers across the ice.

He opened his truck door as she let go of her car to turn toward him. She was watching her feet to keep her balance and Maggie had a momentary impression of a pair of worn brown cowboy boots splashing down into the water and the resulting wet jean cuffs. Then her stomach dropped with the weightless sensation of impending injury and her arms flailed out. He lunged forward and caught her at the rib cage. Instinctively, she grabbed for those great forearms, her fingers clutching into the rolled-up sleeves of the soft cotton shirt. Maggie came to a safe halt in a classic Fred and Ginger dip pose.

“Are you all right?” she blurted from a ninety degree angle with the ground.

Mel Gibson’s blue eyes rated supreme in any beating female heart, but suddenly golden flecked hazel eyes that looked more amused than mad had their points, too. Her victim? rescuer? had a wonderful face, all solid jaw and prominent cheekbones, and thick brown hair that fell over his forehead but shaved in neatly at his neck. His right eyebrow crooked with an old, whitish scar. The nose had the faint ridge on the downward slope that all big men seemed to have. He righted her and the top of her head just grazed his chin. Maggie inhaled a scent of coffee on his breath and Aqua Velva aftershave, which she had always liked. Her brother wore it.

She looked him over, ostensibly to check for blood or broken bones, and got an eyeful of broad chest and shoulders. Maggie went back to his face. She liked his face. “You look okay,” she said. “Do you feel okay?”

“I’m fine,” he assured her. “A tank would have to hit that truck to hurt me. How about you, though?” The voice matched the face and body, deep and timbred by thirty plus years and a southern birth. He looked over Maggie’s shoulder and she twisted to see her car. The hood resembled the mouth of a disgruntled cartoon character, and smoke poured out between its crumpled lips like a stream of invective. Maggie suppressed a moan of anguish. She needed the steadying hands he kept at her waist. “I’m fine,” she said faintly.

He pulled her back against him and spoke in her ear. “What?”

“I’ll be just fine,” she said louder, to compete with the shower noise of the vehicles growling around them. “Just fine.” She would have to move again. She could make friends again. She could do it all again. “Really. Just fine.”