Page 747 of Hell Hath No Fury

Lenny called yesterday to let me know Elizabeth was driving a car up for the new Seattle Director, and he expected her to arrive at any time. I’ve been forcing myself to keep working inthe garage today, instead of standing outside the headquarters building across the street like I want to. An image of Rocky standing on the street shouting“A-dri-an”flashes in my mind and now instead of thinking him a fool, I have compassion for the lumpy boxer.

A low whistle carries across the garage bays and I straighten from under the hood to see what it’s about. Two of my new mechanic-drivers are looking through one of the open doors to across the street. I immediately know what, or who, they see. They notice me watching them, and one of them nods toward the door. “Did you get a load of that stone fox? Small tits but legs for days.” The other guy nods enthusiastically, but when they look at me they slowly lose their grins.

“This is it, guys.”

“What?”

“This is it. Your chance to say all the things you need to say about that long-legged beauty. Lie to yourselves that you could have her. Wonder what it would like. Get it all out of your systems now, then spread the word to the rest of the crew. She’ll be our boss one day, so don’t fuck it up for yourselves now.”

They roll their eyes while I wipe my hands on a shop towel and run one through my too-long hair. Walking toward the open front of the garage, I say, “Oh. And one last thing.” Right before ducking under the roll-up door, I turn to face them, making eye contact with each one until I have all their attention. “Pass this along, too. Elizabeth Brand is already mine.”

Outside, I forget them immediately, scanning the street for the driver of the gleaming auto parked at the curb. She’s nowhere to be seen, but when I look up toward the guest suites, I see a curtain twitch behind one of the windows.

Gotcha, Ms. Brand.Resisting the urge to yell her name in the street, I cross it instead and climb the stairs to her floor.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Elizabeth

I’m not sure what influence the San Diego Mechanic has over Norman Brand, but my father informed me I’d be driving up to Seattle to deliver a car, like it was his idea. I was happy to go; if nothing else I’d get to enjoy the powerful automobile and the excellent stereo Len installed. Driving up the I-5, I raced muscle cars and European sports cars and ate prodigious amounts of junk food. Cindy, Dad’s current assistant, arranged for a hotel room on the way up, and I arrived in Seattle late the next day, prickly from road rage and bloated from gas station food.

I drove to the new C.I. branch, south of downtown with quick access to the freeway and the airport. As do all the branches, the building has a few suites for visiting clients, detainees being transported, new hires, or visitors from other branches. I got the key to my room from the front desk intern, who looked not a day over 15, and came up to my room. The entire facility was recently remodeled to be light and spacious, including my comfortable, roomy suite.

Now, I stand at my window—okay I hide partially behind the drapes—and look down at the open bays of the Seattle shop, which is right across the street. I see a familiar hunky figure approach the armored car I parked in the garage lot, then he looks around at street level. When he doesn’t see a driver, he looks up toward my window, where I duck behind the curtain, nerves freezing me here.

What if he thinks I followed him up here like a clinger? Well, I kind of did. Maybe I can just stay up here for the night, then get a cab to the airport and fly home without even coming into contact with him. The bold plan I concocted on the drive up, to explain to him that it wasn’t personal and he didn’t need to run nearly to Canada, dissolves at the sight of his messy brown hair under the thin Seattle sun.

I’m an idiot. He has no doubt put me straight out of his mind—some girl he hung out with and made it to third base with a few times. Fun, until I turned cold.

I plop down on the bed to mope, and I’m not sure how long I sit sulking before my door thuds against its frame under a barrage of heavy knocking.

“Open the door, Elizabeth.” God his voice is deep. A shiver runs through me from head to toe and my ears hum. I decide California cool is the right play here and open the door just as he’s about to knock again. He nearly knocks on my face, then he glares at me fiercely.

“Oh, hey, Owen. I thought I might see you here. Len mentioned you transferred up.” I’m proud of how breezy my voice sounds, but he clearly isn't buying it.

“Uh huh.”Ladies and gentlemen: Owen Stone. A man of few words.

Leaning against the frame, he fills my doorway with smug brawn while I fall into his dimples. Ugh, he’s insufferable. I open my mouth to tell him so, but before I can say anything, he wraps his giant hand around the back of my neck and pulls me up, then molds his lips to mine.

After punishing my mouth until I’m breathless, he eases back to a slow, thorough kiss that leaves my knees weak and head spinning. I try to keep up but am hopelessly out of my depth, my brain gone and my libido running the show. When he leans back suddenly, I fall forward and face plant into his powerful chest.With one hand wrapped around my lower back, he lifts my chin with the other so he can hold my gaze.

“Hi,” he says solemnly.

“Hi,” I say back breathlessly, sounding like nothing so much as a high school girl crushing on the quarterback.

“Can we talk later? I have something I really need to do right now.”

I feel my expression fall. “Oh, sure. I’ll just wait here and…” I wave helplessly at the television. “Or maybe go find dinner.”

“I didn’t say I was going anywhere,” he says gravely.

My voice is faint when I inquire, “Oh?”Jesus, Elizabeth. Pull it together.“But you said you have something you need to do?”

“I do, but it’s right here.” With that, he slings me easily over his shoulder—something I have never, ever experienced—crosses to the bed, and throws me on the springy mattress. I bounce a good foot, and by the time I’ve stopped bouncing his boots and shirt are off and his jeans are halfway undone.

Having just lost my ability to speak—hell, to think—I dumbly watch. He stops and gestures at my clothed body, as if to say, “Well?”

Wordless, I start unbuttoning my shirt. Too slowly, apparently, as I move in a daze. This wasn’t what I expected when I drove up. I’m not sure what I did expect, but it involved more staring and awkward conversation. I came up for closure. Apparently, I was confused, because closing is the exact opposite of what this brutish man has in mind.