Am I in love, or am I in l.u.s.t?

I'd asked myself that question before. I was still waiting for the answer.

Townsend's words echoed in my head.

I have something to give you.

Oh, G.o.d. Was I ready?

I was about to say, "Yes! Yes! h.e.l.l, yes!" when the sound of an engine snared my attention. I started across the barnyard, catching sight of a mammoth-sized vehicle pulling into the driveway.

What in the world?

I blinked once, twice, when I saw the huge lettering on the side of a bus that had to be a city block long.

"Keelie and Company," I read.

"What the h.e.l.l is that?" Townsend asked when I joined him at the gate.

I shook my head. "I have no idea."

The bus stopped. Gravel rose in white swirls around it.

"Keelie and Company? As in Keelie Keller?" Townsend asked.

I shrugged. "Search me."

"What would Keelie Keller's bus be doing in your driveway?"

"Search me," I repeated.

The air brakes sounded and the engine stopped.

I reached out and pulled myself over the top of the gate. Townsend copied my move, and we walked toward the bus.

"That's one big ol' bus," Townsend observed.

I nodded.

A big, fancy bus with dark windows and "a celeb sleeps here" written all over it.

The seconds ticked by.

I was just about to bang on the door and demand to know what the h.e.l.l was going on when the sound of a microphone being pegged over a loudspeaker stopped me in my tracks.

I looked at Townsend and frowned, waiting. A voice came over a loudspeaker on the bus.

"Biker Barbie need a lift? Your chariot awaits."

I stared at the bus, stared at Townsend, who stared at the bus and then stared at me.

"Is that Manny DeMarco?" Townsend said. "What the h.e.l.l is he doing here, and what the h.e.l.l is he doing driving that thing?" He pointed to the vehicle filling my driveway.

I winced. Then lifted one shoulder and bit my lip.

Giving Cinder-Tressa her very own pumpkin coach transport to TribRide was my guess.

Who said chivalry was dead?

CHAPTER TEN.

"Barbie getting bus sick?" Manny sent a quick glance over at me in the oh-so-comfy co-pilot's seat-having rejected outright my request to take a turn behind the wheel. Surprise. Surprise.

"Why? Do I look sick?"

"Barbie looks...pensive."

I raised an eyebrow. Pensive? Not a word I expected to hear Manny DeMarco utter. I shrugged. "I'm good."

"Barbie like the ride?" Manny asked.

I nodded. "Barbie likes. Barbie likes a lot." In fact, my inspection of Keelie Keller's top of the line custom motor coach left little to criticize other than the fact that it had me hankering for more than a nibble of how the "other half" lived.

Hey, tell me you wouldn't crave a go at the good life.

"So. Manny. You're the bus driver? I said, starting to flip open various overhead compartments to explore the contents, nosing into all the nooks and crannies within arm reach. Okay. Listen. I'm a journalist. I look into things. It's what I do.

"Manny's no bus driver."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Ookay. Not a bus driver. Got it." Jeesch. People can be so touchy. "So, you're just delivering the vehicle."

Manny shot me a look. "Manny's not a deliveryman."

Hmmm. Maybe I'd have to learn what Manny was by eliminating what he wasn't.

"Okay. Procurer then," I said.

He shook his head.

"Transportation chief? Chauffeur? Event planner?"

Manny grunted. "Facilitator," he finally said.

I made a face. "Facilitator? What does that mean exactly?"

"Barbie's got her dream phone. Barbie can Google it."

A bittersweet feeling of pain tinged with regret hit me. Since I'd first met Manny a year ago, he'd called me "Barbie." In fact, he'd only just started calling me "Tressa" during our recent fateful cruise where I'd realized for the first time that Manny DeMarco-Dishman had more than faux feelings for his make-believe bride-to-be.

Once our pretend betrothal ended, and I'd made up my mind to see where things went with a certain ranger-type, I was back to being "Barbie."

"'Facilitator: Someone who enables a process to happen; an organizer and provider of services for a meeting, seminar, or other event,'" I read from my smartee-pants phone display. "How is that different from an event planner?" I asked, not about to let an opportunity to learn more about Manny the mystery man pa.s.s me by.

"Manny doesn't plan. Manny...anti-plans," he said.

I wrinkled my nose. "You...anti-plan? You mean like contingency planning?"

He stared out the front of the bus for a long time before his eyes met mine once again in the ma.s.sive mirror.

"Manny prevents the need for contingencies," he said. He handed me a wrapped candy from a container on the dash, apparently signaling that this subject was closed.

I unwrapped the candy.

"Barbie check out the fridge yet?" Manny asked.

Ah. Manny was trying to divert me with food. Maybe I was getting too close for his comfort.

"Not yet." I popped the thin, sweet square into my mouth and sighed. Ahh. Quality chocolate.

"Barbie's off her game," Manny said.

"Oh? Well-stocked, huh?"

Manny gave me a "what part of luxury did you miss?" look.

"Beer?"

"The good stuff."

"I'm so there!" I made my way to the kitchen area-moving like an inebriated airline pa.s.senger on their way to the john. I opened the fridge. And almost wet my pants. Bottle after bottle featuring Blue Moon's pale blue label greeted this Bud Lite devotee.

I picked up a bottle. "Sweet," I said.

"That's not the good stuff," Manny said.

I raised an eyebrow. "It isn't?"

"Check out Tut."

I frowned. "Tut?" I checked out the fridge again, pulling out a bottle that featured labels with hieroglyphic-like symbols.

"Tutankhamen Ale," I read.

"That's the one."

"I've never heard of it."

"Barbie wouldn't," Manny stated.

"What's the big deal with this beer?" I asked.

"Barbie knows the story of King Tut, right?"

"Who doesn't?"

"The recipe comes from Tut's stepmom, Queen Nefert.i.ti's, royal brewing chambers."

"You're kidding."

"Manny doesn't kid. Brewing chambers uncovered in a dig contained remains of the Queen's brew."

"You're kidding." Wow! Apparently the Queen enjoyed tipping a cold one way back, too.

"Scientists a.n.a.lyzed the beer. Came up with the recipe."

Holy tomb raider! This brought a whole new meaning to "handing down the recipe".

"Then this beer has to cost a pretty penny," I surmised.

"Try a lot of pretty pennies," Manny noted.

"Oh? So, how much does a bottle of beer like this run?" I asked.

"Barbie doesn't want to know," Manny said. "Barbie would only make herself miserable."

Ah. The old "ignorance is bliss" bit. The concept was not...unfamiliar.

"How much?"

"Fifty-two dollars a bottle. If you can get it."

I almost dropped King Tut.

I gripped Tut with both hands and ever so carefully replaced the ancient of ales and stepped slowly away from the not-so-mini fridge.

"Barbie chicken out?" Manny asked.

More like Barbie could be opening a can of worms if she opened that bottle and developed a taste for the very good stuff.