“Space to run?”
Gabriel nodded gravely. Apparently that was no small concern to a pack of wolves. “I like project cars,” he added. “It’s a weakness. It lets me kick back, enjoy a fine brew, and lose myself in the mousetrap of the engine.”
He offered the keys, but I glanced up at him, worry in my heart.
“Are you sure about this? That car must be insanely expensive, and it’s winter in Chicago. The streets are a mess with the salt and the snow—”
“Kitten, have you ever known me to do something accidentally?”
No, I guess I hadn’t. With his confirming nod, I curled my fingers around the key, itching to walk outside and run a finger along the car’s curves. The ride back to the House was going to be something.
Gabriel jerked his head down as Connor fisted his hands and began to screw up his face. I knew that expression. Trouble was coming, and Connor was going to be loud about it.
“And it’s dinnertime,” Gabriel concluded. “That means it’s time for us to get going. Drive carefully, Kitten? I don’t want to find out you’ve destroyed another Mercedes this year.”
I actually hadn’t destroyed the last one, but considering his generosity, I decided not to argue. Instead, keys in hand, I walked outside and climbed into the sexiest car I’d ever seen.
—
The Mercedes had the curves of a midcentury roadster, but it handled like a Grand Prix racer. A bare flick of the accelerator sent the car flying, and it hugged the curves like, to use the cliché, I was driving on a rail. The car was so responsive, it seemed to anticipate my moves before I made them. Hands clenched around the braided leather steering wheel, I felt like the heroine of a spy thriller, as if I were racing through Chicago on my way to a dead drop rather than returning home after a failed attempt at pizza, a riot, tongue stew, and my best friend’s trip to the supernatural principal’s office.
Maybe the damage to the Volvo had been a mixed blessing. It would get some much-needed TLC . . . and I had a roadster to drive.
Chapter Five
MERITORIOUS
Gabriel trusted me with the car, but I wasn’t about to trust it to the residents of Chicago, not where parking was concerned. The risk of an errant snowplow, gravel truck, or ice-related fender bender was too high for my comfort, so I rolled up to the gated entrance to the House’s basement.
“Ma’am,” said the guard through the speaker, “you don’t have a basement parking pass.”
I might have been sleeping with the Master, but there were some prizes even that couldn’t win me.
“I know,” I said. “My car was damaged, and I’m driving a loaner from the NAC Pack. I don’t want to leave it on the street. If you can contact Ethan or Luc, I think they’ll make an exception for the night.”
The speaker went silent, and after a moment the gate rolled back and the basement door rolled up. I drove the Mercedes down the ramp and into the single visitor spot.
Ethan and Luc, curly haired and cowboyish, walked into the basement just as I got out of the car. Their curiosity must have been piqued by my request, and for good reason.
They took in the Mercedes, eyes glazing over in manly appreciation. I bit back a smile as Ethan fumbled for words.
“What—where—how did you?” he asked as he circled the car.
In his black suit, hair pulled back at the nape of his neck, Ethan looked like the double agent who might have ridden with me to the dead drop.
Gabe’s car was giving me illusions of grandeur. And spy fiction.
“Gabriel,” I said. “The Volvo was beat up, and he offered to have a friend take a look at it. This was his loaner.”
Slowly, Ethan looked back at me, eyebrow raised in shock. “He gave you this car as a loaner?”
I nodded and tried hard not to grin, and not altogether successfully. He wanted to tweak you, I thought. And he’d managed it very effectively.
“Is this the car?” Luc asked.
“This is the car,” Ethan said. He put his hands on his hips and completed his circle, green eyes poring over every detail, just as a man might peruse the curves of a beautiful woman.
“Wait,” I said. “The car? You know about this car?”
“We knew her once upon a time,” Luc said, walking closer. He reached out as if to caress her, but then pulled back, perhaps loathe to mar her finish with fingerprints.
Ethan glanced back at me. “Gabriel won this car in a game of poker from Sonny DiCaprio.”
I frowned. “I don’t know the name.”
“Sonny DiCaprio was what you might call a well-connected man,” Luc said. “He had a pretty nice establishment in Chicago in the eighties. Larceny with a side of protection racket. He also ran an illegal poker game downtown.”