Joy Ride(3)

David smiles back at her.

Okay, maybe for that reason.

Which is not an acceptable reason at all. I shake off the useless emotion as David speaks again. “That’s it. I’ve officially decided I want a tiger on the door of a DeLorean. Painted in green, like the color of money.”

Yep, he’s rainbow-sprinkles all the way, and I focus on the sprinkles, not the flirty grins exchanged between this guy and a woman who was never mine, not even for one night.

“You can have it in royal purple, in emerald green, in sapphire blue,” I tell him. “You can have it with a flag on the hood, a pinstripe on the door, and the sweetest stick shift you’ve ever felt in your hands.”

“Purple and a sweet stick? I’m sold.” He clasps my hand in a good-bye shake. “I’ll be in touch.” He takes a step to go then stops. “Is purple too crazy a color? What do you think?” he asks the woman who’d make any red-blooded man gawk.

Perfect figure. Pouty lips. Tight waist. Gravity-defying tits. If God created an ideal woman to sell anything to any red-blooded man, he’d make her just like Henley.

Not sure he’d intend her to have such a smartass mouth, though.

She licks her lips. “Purple is hot as sin,” she says to David, like the words are for his ears only. She presses her fingertip to her tongue then touches the hood of the car as if it burns her. She raises her hand, letting the imaginary flame fly high.

David eats up her show, laughing and grinning.

“That’s an excellent selling point for purple. What about you, Max? Favorite color?” He holds up one hand as a stop sign. “Wait. Let me guess. Gold? Silver? Red? Blue?”

I shake my head. “Black.”

Then David says good-bye and heads off, and I’m left with this vexing vixen who hates me. She stares at me like a cat that won’t look away till you give her your hamburger. I don’t break her showdown, nor do I offer her a bite.

“Black,” she repeats, tapping the toe of her red suede pump as she glares with dark brown eyes full of fury. “Like your heart.”

Have I mentioned the last time I saw her she marched out of my shop in a blaze of angry glory?

Might be because I fired her sexy ass five years ago.

Yeah, there’s some bad blood between us.





2





Henley Rose and a hot car go together like peaches and cream, like fine Scotch and a long, dirty night. Which means working with her was like walking into the Garden of Eden every single day. It was a test of willpower because the woman could craft a car as if it were an erotic dance.

Not a striptease.

Not an in-your-face pelvis thrust.

But a beautiful fucking ballet of a woman seducing a machine. Those hands, the way she wielded tools, the intensity in her focus—it was sensual, and it was sinful, and it was this man’s fantasy made flesh.

Imagine what it was like working with her for one, hard-on year.

I mean, hard year.

I survived the challenge because she had talent to spare. And I never treated her differently because she was a woman, or because I thought about her naked an obscene amount of the time. I treated her like anyone else—specifically, all the people I work with who I never ever imagine in anything less than full-on Siberian winter garb, complete with the thermals and Michelin Man coat.

“Black heart still intact.” I tap my sternum. “Same model as before.”

“I’d have thought you’d get an upgrade by now. Faulty parts and all.”

“No recall needed on the ticker. It works just fine in this cruel bastard,” I say, reminding her of the words she’d uttered the day she stormed out.

She arches a brow. “Shame. You should have let me replace it. I’m good at making all sorts of clunkers run better.”

Jesus Christ. She still takes no prisoners. “I’ve no doubt you have all the tools to fix anything, and if you couldn’t find the right one, you’d use a blowtorch.”

She adopts an expression of indignation. “There’s nothing wrong with using a blowtorch,” she says, taking extra time on the first syllable.

How the hell did I ever last with this woman? Before I can even fashion a comeback, she taps her toe against the tire on Wagner’s car. “I see you still like to make your cars with big, manly wheels.”

I roll my eyes then make a give it to me now motion with my hands. “All right, Henley. Deliver the punchline.”

She bats her lashes. “What punchline?”

“Big? Manly? You’re going to say it’s some sort of compensation thing going on. That’s what you always said about the guys who wanted the biggest cars with the biggest wheels.”

She smirks. “Was I wrong in my assessment?”