Joy Ride(2)

I don’t need precognition to know where he’s going with this new scenario. “Would you want it to play a little song when you hit the horn?”

His eyes twinkle. “Oh, that’s a nice feature indeed.”

I wonder where I came up with that idea. Could it be my vast knowledge of the General Lee from The Dukes of Hazzard?

The guy is rolling through the greatest hits of cars on TV or film. And you know what? There’s not a damn thing wrong with that. If he learns about cars from the tube or the screen, so be it. Maybe he’ll ask me to make a VW Bug that talks. My sister has begged for that for years, and if I ever figure out how, I’m delivering it to her first.

“What about wings for doors?” he asks.

“Like a DeLorean?”

He nods in excitement. “I love that car so much.”

“I haven’t met a DeLorean I didn’t want to marry, either. That’s the reason I got into this business in the first place.”

“Are you a Back to the Future fan, too?”

I hold up a fist for knocking. “You know it.”

“Any chance you could put a flux capacitor in it for me?”

“Absolutely. And I promise it’ll hit 1.21 gigawatts when you crank the gas,” I say, and as we laugh, the click clack of many pairs of high heels against asphalt surrounds us. This show is swarming with women in heels, working the booths, posing seductively on hoods or beside doors. Can’t say that bothers me. Nope, I definitely can’t say I’m annoyed by the proliferation of female flesh one bit.

Cars and chicks—that’s all I need for sustenance.

But now’s not the time for checking out the scenery, because business always comes first. I extend a hand to the Back to the Future fan. “Max Summers of Summers Custom Autos.”

He shakes with me. “David Winters. And I know this may shock you, but—confession—I know nothing about cars.”

“Nothing wrong with that, since I know a ton.”

He smiles and shrugs sheepishly. “Excellent. I’m looking for a builder who can make the best. Like this one, I presume?” he asks, pointing to the sleek green beauty I’m keeping watch over at the show. I’m here with a client. I customized this baby for Wagner Boost—an NFL lineman who’s off signing autographs somewhere nearby. Wagner is a mammoth man. At six foot eight and 350 pounds—that’s his morning weight, since he jokes that he shoots up to 360 after breakfast—he needed a car tailored to fit his frame. I made it for him, and he likes to show it off.

“Let me tell you something,” I say, patting the hood of Wagner’s prized possession. “If you can dream it, I can damn near make it. If you want aftermarket tires, a new engine, or custom upholstery, I’ll take care of it. If you want to marry parts from a roadster you’ve seen in a gangster flick with a futuristic prototype, I’ll find a way. I’ll deliver on your vision because that’s what I do.”

The tap tap of stiletto heels sounds closer now, like someone is approaching, as David fires off another question. “Can you—?”

A woman’s voice interrupts. “Can you paint a badass tiger on the door?”

No. Fucking. Way.

That voice. That sexy purr. Like honey, like whiskey. Like dirty dreams.

Everything in me goes still. I haven’t heard that voice in years. I don’t even have to turn around because one more click, then another, and here she is, standing in front of me. Looking hotter than she ever did before.

Long brown hair. Dark chocolate eyes. Legs that go on forever.

Henley Rose Marlowe.

Fuck me senseless.

It’s her.

The woman who drove me crazy.

I’m momentarily speechless as I take her in, because she’s not twenty-one anymore. She’s five years older and twenty-five times hotter. Yes, her hotness has squared with the years.

But I’m not about to let a potential deal slide through my fingers. I never let women get in the way of work, especially not one who’s inserting herself into the middle of a conversation with a fucking tiger comment.

I get around her interruption by going along with it.

“The tiger can even be roaring,” I suggest, as if she’s just some random car lover who’s keen on chitchatting, not a girl who used to work under the hood in my shop.

“Maybe even breathing fire,” Henley offers, like we’ve got this wordplay down pat, Who’s on first? style.

David gets into the action, too, emitting a rawr as he holds up his hands as if they’re claws.

Henley flashes him the sexiest smile I’ve ever seen, and in less than a second, the fire-breathing tiger inhabits me. Because I’m jealous as hell. For no good reason.