“Between the two of us I’m sure we can figure this out.” Much as she disliked confrontation, Tori didn’t care to be pushed around or taken advantage of, either. “Let me see the prints.” She headed for the door and the parking lot beyond.
Hey, she had a right to challenge the totally bogus accusation. Innocent until proven guilty, she wanted to see the evidence, to defend her good name. The truth was she admired the beautiful machinery of the Maserati too much to mar it and she found the accusation insulting.
“You honestly believe I’d make up footprints?” The caustic question came from behind her. “For what reason? Some half-witted excuse to see you again?”
She froze with her hand on the car handle, struck by the concept. For all the derision in his words, she knew he found her attractive. Perhaps that was the answer. He was punishing them both for the chemistry between them.
And perhaps she was overthinking it. He was a jerk, reason enough for his contrary behavior.
She tried opening the door of the red Maserati Spider convertible and about pulled her shoulder from the socket when it refused to give. Locked. She turned to him, forced a smile. “Open, please.”
She met stoic resistance.
What now? Then it hit her, she hadn’t answered his question.
“Look, I’m not vain enough to figure you manufactured an excuse and went out of your way to pursue me. Since I didn’t step barefoot into the car, I want to help you determine what it is.”
“I know toe prints when I see them.” But he clicked the locks, allowing her to open the door.
Bending over, she stuck her head inside. The scent of well-tended leather filled her senses. Such a sexy aroma. It made her think of smart cars, long drives and hard men. None of which were appropriate to the moment. Discounting the hardheaded male looming over her.
She ran her hand over the soft buttercream upholstery, eyed the matching carpet. Three small smudges were grouped close together. She supposed they could be toe prints, but she didn’t think so.
“They look like paw prints,” she said, glancing over her shoulder in time to catch him eyeing her butt. Her blood heated at the appreciation in his pale gaze. But she tamped it down as she stood and faced him, reminding herself of the complications he presented—client, tortured soul.
“Absolutely not.” He denied her explanation. He stepped back and seemed to wobble a bit on the uneven asphalt. He glared at the ground before turning the look on her. “Impossible. Unless you left a window open when you parked the car.”
“No. I adjusted the seat.” A necessity considering, at six feet, he stood a good eight inches taller than her. “But I just pulled it into the garage. There was no need to adjust the mirrors.”
“Then the only explanation is toe prints.”
“Unless the marks were there before you reached the party,” she offered in what she felt was a reasonable tone. “Do you inspect all areas of the car before driving it each time?”
“Of course not.” He scowled, his annoyance over the discussion more than clear. “But they weren’t there before.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I didn’t drive it barefoot. And I live alone. Not even a cat. No one else to leave toe prints or paw prints.”
“Okay.” She moved toward him so she could close the car door.
He took a hasty step backward, his heel landed in a small hole and his leg buckled, sending him sprawling on his butt. A grunt of pain was cut off by a string of vile curses.
It was one of those fast-forward, slow-motion moments. Tori saw the fall unfolding and reached out to grab him, but his momentum pulled his hand right through hers. She had to catch herself from falling on top of him.
“Are you okay?” Stupid question. His complexion had gone white and his jaw was clenched against the pain. She crouched next to him. “How can I help?”
“Back the hell up.” He shooed her away. “Give me some room.”
Respecting his wish, she stood back but watched him carefully. In high school she worked two years as a lifeguard at her dad’s golf club. From his paleness and the clamminess of his skin, he looked about to pass out. If that happened, she’d have to call an ambulance because there’d be no handling his deadweight.
“Garrett, are you light-headed?” She knelt next to him.
“A little,” he admitted, which said a lot.
“We don’t want you passing out. I would have to call an ambulance...” Mention of an ambulance got his attention.
“No hospital. I just need a moment.” He supported himself on one arm, leaning sideways. The other hand clutched at his right leg, the obvious point of his pain. He tried to rise but slumped back. “My head is spinning.”
“Okay, you need to sit up. And put your head in your lap.” He no doubt saw spots before his eyes. She helped him into position and rubbed a hand over his back. It was supposed to be your head between your knees. She hoped this would be enough to stop the dots from merging into total darkness.
After a moment, he lifted his head. “It’s better. Thanks. Sorry to snap at you.”
Dark tendrils fell over his eyes. Brushing them back, she felt the dampness of his skin. It had been a close call. “Okay, let’s get you on your feet.”
Without asking this time, she tucked an arm under his right shoulder and lifted. He managed to get his left leg under himself, and between the two of them, he reached his feet.
He brushed off his clothes, teetering, but unwilling to ask for help.
“I’ll send you a bill for the carpet cleaning.” It would be a great exit line, except his right leg wouldn’t hold his weight. He almost went down again when he tried.
“Enough of this.” She invaded his space, cupped his face in her hands, feeling the prickle of an approaching five o’clock shadow, and met his pain-filled gaze. “Either you accept my help or I call for that ambulance. It’s your choice.”
Just for a moment he hooded his eyes, leaned into her touch. In the next instant, he jerked away. Squaring his shoulders, irritation stamped his features, eradicating any flash of vulnerability she may have imagined.
“No hospital.” He repeated his earlier decree. “I strained an old injury. I just need to get home and put some ice on it.”
“It’s your right leg. You aren’t driving anywhere.”
His jaw clenched as he struggled between desire and reality. “Fine.” He gritted the word through his teeth. “You can drive me home.”
Lucky her. As if hauling his injured rear was a highly sought after reward. She rolled her eyes, pretended her heart hadn’t leaped at the notion of driving the Maserati and tucked her shoulder under his arm to help him around the car. This close he smelled of a spicy cologne touched with lavender and citrus, raw male and, oh, Lord, leather.
The sexy combination nearly knocked her on her tush.
Unfortunately, once they reached the passenger side, it became obvious the car was too low-slung for him to comfortably lower himself into it.
“This isn’t going to work,” she declared, raw with frustration.
“For once, I agree.” He shifted on his good leg, and suddenly she was in his arms, her hands clutching his waist. “I need to keep my leg straight.” His breath caressed her cheek, sending a shiver down her spine.
“We can use the company SUV. It’s higher and has