But, watching the hard muscles of his butt and thighs ripple as he moved, she found her shame was soon replaced by an even more powerful sexual curiosity. She realized she was trembling, actually quivering.
Good grief! When was the last time the mere sight of a man had done this to her?
He opened the door and bid her enter with an exaggerated gesture. Preceding him inside, she again caught a whiff of mechanic’s grease and man. His office was small, too small. As she settled in a chair her skirt again hiked high on her thighs, and the bad boy took his fill as he sat down, his knees almost touching hers. She struggled with her recalcitrant skirt—to his apparent delight. She tossed him a glare.
Mercifully, he swiveled to his computer screen, consulted his clipboard, and pecked at the keys. “Let’s see…oil change, new thermostat.”
“What?” Allison interrupted. “Like hell I need a new thermostat. I have no problems with overheating.”
He gazed at her frankly, obviously quite amused, and a telltale color shot up her face, totally negating her last statement. “Yeah, I can tell,” he drawled. He gestured toward the computer. “Sorry, ma’am, I was just entering the service order for the customer before you. You know how it is, everything electronic these days. Even we grease monkeys have to be computer literate.”
“Sure, whatever,” Allison rejoined with a long-suffering air.
He hovered over the keyboard for a few more moments, then removed the previous order from his clipboard and whipped out a pen from behind his ear. “Name?”
The shock of those gorgeous pale blue eyes probing her own hit Allison with a new and unexpected jolt. Flustered, she shot back, “What business of that is yours?”
He laughed. “Can’t remember the last time I serviced a vehicle for ‘Ms. Anonymous.’ Would you like us simply to auction off your car when we’re done today?”
Again she felt her cheeks heat up, making her feel ridiculous. “You may as well, it’s such a lemon.”
He appeared taken aback. “Well, ma’am, we’ll see if we can’t make some lemonade for you. Name?”
“Allison Tracy.”
“Ms. Tracy. You been here before?”
“Yes. Why do you think I’m so ticked off?”
He fought a grin. “I wouldn’t dare to guess what makes you tick, ma’am. Phone number?” Before she could protest, he explained, “It’s how we look up your records.”
She rattled off her home phone number.
He pecked at the keys. “Ah, here you are. Let’s verify that all your info is correct.” He read off her work phone number, her addresses for there and home.
She nodded wearily.
“So you have a 2003 sedan, purchased from us last October.”
“A 2003 lemon,” she reiterated. “I’ve been in here repeatedly complaining about how poorly this car runs and all I get are runarounds and assurances it will be fixed and it never is. And by the way, while I’m here, I’d like to have a few words with that salesman who sold me the bucket of bolts.”
He squinted at the screen. “Dub Dexter? Afraid he’s off today.”
“Did you say Dud?” she taunted sweetly, strangely not feeling the least bit disappointed that the salesman was absent. “More likely he’s hiding under another one of your clunkers.”
He swung toward her, his mouth quirking in a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “What exactly is your problem, Ms. Tracy?”
“It’s not my problem, it’s your problem.”
“Okay, then. What exactly is our problem?” He frowned at the screen. “Other than, I can tell it’s time for your next oil change and lube.”
Allison went warm again. Why did the word “lube” sound so sexy coming off those sensual lips of his? She’d never before been turned on by mechanic’s lingo. But never before had she met a mechanic quite like him.
She realized he was waiting for her reply, one brow quizzically cocked. She cleared her throat and began. “The problem is, you people sold me a forty-thousand-dollar piece of junk. I make my living in sales—”
“Oh, do you?” he interjected dryly.
She clenched her jaw. “My car has serious engine problems—problems which you morons have failed to repair.”
“Is that so?” he asked mildly.
She waved a hand. The problems with her car cooled her libido. “Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to take a client out to lunch, then have your engine pitch like a bucking bronco when you try to drive him back to his office?”
“You serve a male clientele, do you?” He smiled. “You see, even a moron like me is smart enough to catch that one.”
That did it. Allison shot to her feet. “Look, I came here to get my car serviced, not to be insulted by some smart-ass shop jock with wandering eyes and a swelled head. Why do they let creeps like you work here, anyway?”
“Beats me, ma’am,” he drawled back. “Maybe creeps like me make good grease monkeys.”
She clamped her arms over her chest. “I want to deal with someone else.”
He tapped his pen on the desktop. “Are you sure, ma’am? It could mean a wait—maybe a long one.”
“Damn it. I don’t have time for this. I have a couple of important meetings scheduled.” Feeling equally frustrated and defeated, Allison slid back into her chair. It galled her that this buckaroo with a grease gun seemed to be besting her—yet a small measure of respect rose up for him, too.
With a maddening look of smug satisfaction, he inquired, “Any other problems?”
“Yes. The engine ticks like a damn bomb. You mor—that is, you people—have failed to fix that, as well.”
He scribbled at his clipboard. “Okay, then.”
“Okay? Is that all you have to say for yourself?”
He glanced at his notes. “Engine ticks like a bomb, bucks like a bronco. That about cover it, ma’am?”
Allison was becoming exasperated. “Well, you don’t have to act so glib about it all. Don’t you have any idea why I’m having these problems, or how to fix them?”
He scratched his jaw. “I know these females tend to be temperamental.”
“Now you’re comparing me to my car?”
He leaned back in his chair and winked at her lazily. “Well, ma’am, a car is just like a lady. Sometimes all they need is just a little TLC.”
“Brilliant. I can tell my car is in excellent hands with you. Did you even pass fourth grade?”
“Well, ma’am, I—”
“Let me know when you’ve TLC’d the problem.”
For a moment the two just stared at each other, tension crackling in the air between them. Allison had to admit to herself that she was intrigued by the way this shop stud held his own with her.
Then he leaned toward her and continued in a more intimate, yet still slightly mocking, tone. “Actually, Ms. Tracy, what I was about to say was, even though I am a moron, and even though an intermittent engine problem can be very difficult to diagnose, I’m guessing your pitching and bucking problem could be due to a defective ignition module. But we’ll have to, er, scope the engine to be