Wear and tear was part of owning a car. But this combined with the sludge that passed for oil, the corrosion in the cooling system, the clogged fuel injectors...
She’d bet that the man...what was his name? She grabbed for the form, leaving fresh smudges on the white paper.
Ford Lassiter. Of course. Fancy name for a fancy man. And all those fancy college degrees listed after his name. Anyway, she’d bet that Ford Lassiter had only serviced his car a dozen or so times in the ten years he’d had it, assuming he was the original owner, and she assumed he was.
Irresponsible.
“Is it fixed?”
Beth turned and found the man in question standing in the entrance of her garage, silhouetted by the late-afternoon sun. He was tall, probably a good eight or so inches taller than her own five feet six. His hair was the tawny kind of color that made her think of a lion, and it offset the surprising chocolate brown of his piercing eyes.
He was lean, but his body looked hard, like he did more with it than just hit a gym. The suit he’d been wearing earlier was well cut and clearly expensive and showed off that body quite nicely.
In the hours since she’d sent him away, he’d removed the suit jacket, loosened the tie and unbuttoned the top few buttons of his white shirt. And in sharp contrast to the sleekness of the outfit, he now had an open can of Coke in his hand. Beth highly preferred this look. In fact, as she met his stare and leaned back against the sleek door of the Turbo, she found herself wanting to purr a bit as she took in the view.
Not that he was her type. At all.
“It is most certainly not fixed.” Even through her annoyance, she felt a little quiver in her belly when she looked at him—really looked at him. She’d have to have been dead not to.
“What do you mean, it’s not fixed?” That handsome face schooled itself into a disapproving frown, and Beth arched an eyebrow.
Sexy or not, he’d best keep some respect in his tone when she broke the news to him.
“When’s the last time you had a maintenance check done on this car?” Pushing off from where she lounged, she beckoned for Ford to come look under the hood with her. He hesitated, and she didn’t miss the way those dark eyes meandered down her body, which was far more exposed than it had been earlier in the coveralls.
Interesting. Beth had always had a knack for reading people, probably since she preferred to hang back and study them rather than dive right in. That knack was telling her that Ford Lassiter was a man who kept everything in his world under rigid control.
She would have bet money—if she’d had any—that he wasn’t that deliberate in checking out a woman unless some part of him wanted the woman to know.
He hadn’t moved but was instead regarding her intently.
Well, well, well. The rich man wanted to go slumming, did he? Smirking, Beth crooked her finger again and deliberately swayed her hips as she bent over the open hood.
That leonine power, that tightly coiled control—he would be fun to tease. And, she noted when he finally deigned to saunter over, not bothering at all to bank the combination of curiosity and attraction in his eyes, she couldn’t deny that little click that she felt in her gut when their eyes met.
Chemistry. Couldn’t make it, couldn’t fake it. It was either present with another person or it wasn’t...and it seemed that she and Mr. Ford Lassiter had it on the most elemental of levels.
Beside her, he leaned a hip against the Turbo and regarded her with an amused smirk on his own face. Oh, yes, he felt it, too...and unless she missed her guess, he was entertained by the notion of being attracted to a woman like her.
Beth had made it a point to live her life without worrying about what others thought of her, but it still stung when someone, even a stranger, looked at her like she was one of those wild Marchande girls from the wrong side of town. Well, fuck that. She was going to make him want her so badly his head would spin...and then she’d send him packing.
“Can’t remember? Even with all those fancy letters after your name?” She tilted her head, looked up at him, waited while he thought back to her question.
“I don’t recall.” He didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed about it, though she noted that his spine stiffened a bit in defense. “I’m a busy man.”
“Seems to me that a busy man like you would have people who could take care of little details like car maintenance for him.” Though Beth’s lips curved in a smile, inside she went from irritation to anger. “This fancy machine here? Most people in this neighborhood have to work for five years to earn that kind of money.”
She wouldn’t focus on what she and her sisters could do—could pay off—with that kind of cash. Replace the furnace that threatened to quit every winter. Patch the place in the roof that let the rain in. “Some of those people might think that you’d want to take care of something like that. Take some responsibility.”
“You’re right.” There, finally, was evidence that he was human—the tiniest flicker of guilt. It was enough to melt her anger away.
Likely he hadn’t ever thought about how long other people would have to work to pay for one of his toys...and why would he treat it as anything special when he probably had a garage full of others at home?
“Can I get that in writing? I think it’s probably not something you say very often.” Beth arched an eyebrow. Ford blinked at her, seemingly stunned, before bursting into laughter.
It was a rich laugh, not the carefully controlled chuckle she would have expected from him, and it cut her off at the knees. To her, nothing was sexier than a man who could laugh at himself.
“Don’t get used to it. It probably won’t happen again.” As if he realized that he’d let his control slip, Ford’s grin quickly morphed back into stern lines. “In all seriousness. Now that we’ve established I don’t take proper care of it, what is wrong with it? Do you not have a part that I need?”
Beth couldn’t hold back the snort of sarcasm that slipped from her throat. “Well, that’s a start, but no, I don’t typically carry parts for cars like these. Not much call for them around here.”
Doing her best not to roll her eyes—they were clearly from such different worlds—she rubbed her hand over her cheek. The return of his smirk told her she’d likely left a smear of engine grease behind on her clean skin, but she didn’t care. That was her. Take it or leave it.
“Your transmission is shot. That needs to be replaced. I can call in a favor and have the part couriered in for the morning, since I figure you’re probably willing to pay the rush fee. But replacing it is going to be a full-day job.” She held up her hand as he opened his mouth, looking like he was prepared to argue. To her way of thinking, there was nothing to argue about here. “But if you stay consistent with the way you treat this car, then I would suggest you let me fix everything else that’s wrong with it while you’ve already got it in the shop. Your fuel and cooling systems need work, you’ve got some corrosion...and you need a basic damn oil change.”
“I see.” Ford gazed at her steadily, his expression unwavering. Beth stared right back, startled when he was the one to break away, huffing out a sound of exasperation and waving his hands in the air. “What are you listening to?”
“Sitar music.” She loved this playlist as much as she’d loved the heavy metal one she’d been playing earlier. Music was so deeply ingrained in who she was, she felt it was a shame not to appreciate as much of it as she could.
“Right.” This, finally, this was what seemed to throw him off his game—the music blasting from her phone.
Beth felt her breath catching as he reached out and sifted his fingers through the end of her braid. Her breasts pushed forward as she exhaled,