Free To Trust a Stranger by Karen Robards

turned up the ramp onto the expressway, heading northwest.
    The streetlights glared yellow, completely outshining the moon. A few cars whizzed past, but not many. It was too late-or early, depending upon one's point of view-for the kind of heavy traffic that usually poured into and around Charleston in the summer, courtesy of clueless tourists who didn't know that summer was the worst possible time to visit, thanks to the humidity and swarms of biting insects.
    A thought occurred to Julie. “Hey, wait a minute. How did you know which way to go? You don't know where I live. Do you?”
    The glance he gave her was unreadable in the shadowy interior of the car. “I assumed you lived out in Summerville near your shop. Am I   wrong.”
    “No-o, you're right. We live in Summerville.” She eyed him doubtfully. His reply had been just a shade too casual-hadn't it? Or was she being paranoid again?
    It's not paranoid if they're really after you. The saying popped into her head uninvited. Under the circumstances, it seemed appropriate.
    But Debbie had fallen into her life purely by chance, and since then he had put himself out to help her. More, he had proved to be kind and caring, a friend.
    And she badly needed a friend.
    “Just tell me where to turn off.” He sounded cheerfully unconcerned, and, because she really had no basis for them, she let her suspicions go.
    “The first Summerville exit.”
    “Same as the shop. What's it called?”
    “Carolina Belle.”
    “Maybe I'll stop in again sometime. If you start carrying larger sizes, that is.” A crooked smile accompanied his sideways glance.
    “Actually, I only sell to the trade.” Julie smiled too at the sudden irresistible picture of Debbie in one of her gowns, and was grateful for the resulting easing of the tension that had her hands curled into fists in her lap.
    “Pageant contestants, that is. And their handlers.”
    “Are you telling me that you've got to be in a beauty contest to buy clothes at your shop?”
    He sounded so affronted that Julie's smile broadened. “Basically.” As a former Miss South Carolina, a veteran of pageants from the age of two on, and the wife of a rich and prominent businessman, her credentials for running a shop that sold custom-designed and fitted evening gowns, swimsuits, and costumes for use on the state and national pageant circuit were impeccable. Carolina Belle was, in fact, quite successful, and she made a decent little income from it.
    Divorcing Sid would be bad for business, she thought, and with that gloomy reflection felt her muscles start to tense all over again. Every other girl in
South Carolina
entered beauty pageants; it was almost a sport, like football or something. All the ones she took on liked to think that if they faithfully dieted and exercised and waxed and tanned and bleached and curled, they would end up just like Julie: Cinderella after the ball and the wedding to the prince.
    An acrimonious divorce wasn't part of that dream.
    Glancing down, she saw that her hands were once again curled into fists in her lap.
    “Life's a bitch,” Debbie said.
    Julie suddenly, totally agreed. “Amen.”
    There was a pause as he sped up to pass a lumbering semi. Then he glanced at her.
    “Listen, next time you feel like following your husband on one of his nocturnal adventures, don't. You want him followed, call a professional.”
    If he was trying to distract her from her own gloomy thoughts, he succeeded.
    “A professional?” She almost hooted. “A professional what? Husband follower?”
    “Private investigator. You hire one, he gets the goods on your husband for you. It's a lot less messy than doing it yourself, believe me. And a lot less dangerous for you.”
    “A private investigator?” Julie wrinkled up her nose doubtfully. “I wouldn't know how to go about finding one. It seems kind of risky just to look one up in the yellow pages. And-well, you know how things are around here. Everybody's related to