Chapter 6

6

Jamie considered herself riddled with flaws, but cowardice wasn’t one of them. Yes, she wanted to get the hell out of there rather than confront the past and the possibly unpalatable truth about Nate, but fate, or her mother, had decreed otherwise. She was stuck here for at least a couple of days, and she wasn’t going to spend that time avoiding Dillon. Besides, the bigger a pain in the butt she was, the more motivated he’d be to help her leave.

She shoved her hair back from her face and straightened to her full height. She was too short, almost a foot shorter than Dillon, and she always thought that he would have been easier to deal with if he didn’t tower over her. He thought he could bury his head inside a car engine and ignore her, but she was about to disabuse him of that notion. She was going to be a total pest until she got out of there.

She opened the door to the cavernous garage and was immediately assaulted by noise, a vast rumbling that had been almost completely muffled. She closed the door behind her and began to sort through the cacophony. The rush of white noise was actually some kind of space heater, spewing hot air into the vast expanse of the room. The music was loud, too, Nirvana, Jamie suspected, though she’d never been that fond of the group.

But Dillon had always favored the raw-pain sound of Kurt Cobain.

Beneath it all was the rumble and roar of a car engine, punctuated with the steady sound of a hammer on metal. And then a stream of curses as Dillon emerged from beneath the hood of the Duesenberg.

She’d half hoped to watch him for a bit without him realizing she was there, but he honed right in on her, his eyes narrowing. It was too loud to do anything other than shout, and Dillon wasn’t about to bother raising his voice. He simply disappeared back beneath the hood of the old car, leaving

Jamie with two choices. She could go back into the kitchen and wait. Or she could go over there and make him talk to her.

The kitchen option sounded immensely appealing, but Jamie was made of sterner stuff than that. She wasn’t about to turn off the heat—her sojourn in the alleyway still hadn’t worn off completely—but she could put a stop to the cacophony blaring from the huge stereo system.

She walked over to it and punched the power button, and the noise level decreased substantially.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Dillon demanded, emerging from the Duesenberg engine once more.

“Turning off the noise. I want to talk with you.”

He dropped the hammer on the cement floor and headed toward the stereo. And her. “I’m working,” he growled. “And when I work, I listen to music.”

“If you call that music,” she scoffed.

“You can’t fix cars to Mozart, princess, no matter what your mother might think. Not that the Duchess would think about anything as mundane as fixing cars, but you know what I mean. I promised to get this Dusey ready sometime before Thanksgiving, and obviously I’m running behind schedule. So if you’d take your cute little butt out of here and let me listen to my music then I won’t have to shoot you.”

“Do you even have a gun?”

“I’m a convicted felon. Not allowed to own firearms.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“And I’m not going to.” He had moved up close to her, because she was fool enough to be blocking the stereo. He reached past her, pushed the power button, and suddenly the music was blaring in her ears.

She punched the power button off again, glaring at him. Until she saw the thoughtful expression on his face, and realized she might have misplayed her hand.

“Are you going to get into a wrestling match over Nirvana, Jamie?” he drawled, turning it on again. “I’m game if you are, but I can think of only one way it would end, and the floor of this garage is a rotten place to have sex.”

She didn’t blush, didn’t flinch, though it took a great deal of effort. “In your dreams,” she said.

“Yes.”

The one-syllable word was even more unsettling, and she wisely decided it was time to change the subject. “Look, you’ve got at least half a dozen cars over there. Surely one of them is in good-enough working order that I could drive it back to Rhode Island. I’d have it shipped back to you, I promise. I just really need to get the hell out of here.”

“Most of those cars belong to other people. That’s what I do for a living

—restore cars for rich people who don’t have the soul or the knowledge to appreciate them.”

“You can’t convince me you haven’t kept some for yourself.”

He smiled then, a predatory grin that gave her pause. “As a matter of fact, three of those cars are mine, and two of them run. You want to check them out?”

She didn’t trust him, didn’t trust that faintly smug expression. But it didn’t matter—she wanted to get out of there badly enough to risk it.

“Okay,” she said. “I’m not picky.”

How could a smile be infuriating, unsettling, and sexy as hell? But then, that could describe everything about Dillon Gaynor, and always had.

He strolled over to the row of cars along the far end of the garage, pulling the bright yellow tarp off the first one. At that point Jamie would have been willing to drive a stagecoach back to Rhode Island, but the sight of the old Model A Ford stopped her.

“It runs,” Dillon said. “About twenty-five miles an hour, and the tires have to be replaced every hundred miles, or sooner if you have a blowout, and the hand crank is a bit tricky to start, but you’re welcome to it.”

“I think I’ll pass. What’s next? The Hindenburg?”

He yanked the tarp off the next one, and Jamie held her breath. It was gorgeous—an aqua-blue Thunderbird from the mid-fifties. “I’ll take it!” she breathed.

“I didn’t know cars got you that excited, kiddo,” he said. “I would have tried it earlier. And no, you won’t take it. The T-bird is waiting for a new engine. It’s not going anywhere until then.”

“You said you had two working cars. Why bother showing me ones that don’t work?”

“Because you aren’t the type to take my word for anything.”

She didn’t bother arguing. “Where’s the other car?”

“Over there,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of a covered vehicle in the far corner.

“Does it run?”

“Yes.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

He wasn’t moving, he was just watching her, but she wasn’t about to let him spook her. If the old junker hiding under the blue tarp was her ticket out of there, then she’d embrace it willingly. Anything to escape.

He was still halfway across the huge expanse of the garage, watching her, when she reached the car. She didn’t hesitate, yanking the plastic away from the machine. The first flash of yellow and chrome should have warned her, but it was already too late.

It was the car Dillon had owned twelve years ago, the same car she’d driven to that party in, the same car, the same front seat where he’d kissed her, touched her. The same back seat where…

Her back was to him, a small blessing. She knew the color had bleached from her face, and she stood still, trying to figure out how she was going to handle this. How she was going to be able to turn around and smile calmly and tell Dillon that this car wouldn’t do, either. Because nothing in the world could make her get back on the cracked leather seats of the old Cadillac.

Except the seats weren’t cracked anymore. Dillon must have restored them at one point. It was a small comfort to know those weren’t the actual seats where she’d been trapped…

She couldn’t think about it. She took a deep breath, trying to control her reaction, so that she could calmly turn and tell him that she needed a different car. She could do this.

Nirvana was still blaring, but she knew he was watching her. Watching for a reaction. And she knew there was no way she could fool him. So she didn’t even need to try.

She let the tarp drop back over the old Cadillac. And then she walked over to the door leading to the kitchen, keeping her back to him so he couldn’t see her face. His imagination would fill in the gaps.

She didn’t bother to slam the door—he wouldn’t hear it over the sound of Nirvana. She simply closed it behind her and burst into tears.

Dillon was half tempted to go after her. It wasn’t his fault she’d gone snooping under the tarp—if she weren’t so goddamned determined to

escape and get back to that old bitch she wouldn’t have gone poking her nose into places it didn’t belong.

Of course, that was exactly what she’d do, as long as she stayed here.

Maybe it was a good idea she’d found the Caddy, after all. She’d know that snooping could bring unwanted results.

The tarp was still half hanging off his old car, and he covered it carefully, so that none of the dust and paint flying through the air would harm it. It had been his first car, and he loved it like a mother. Not that his mother had been much to love. A car, even an old one prone to breakdowns, was still a hell of a lot more reliable than most people.

Jamie had dropped something on the cement floor—he could see it glistening in the dim light. He picked it up, turning it in his hand. An earring, and it could have belonged to no one else. For the simple fact that despite what he’d told her, no woman ever had the nerve to come into his garage uninvited, and he’d never invited them.

Trust Jamie to ignore the hidden warnings. She always did have a habit of storming into a situation without thinking first. That was one of the things that got her into trouble that night twelve years ago.

He looked down at the piece of gold in his hand. Of course it was gold

—only the best for the Kincaids. It was a unicorn—that was typical of Jamie, as well. She’d be the kind to have an affinity for mystical beasts who only came to virgins. But Jamie wasn’t a virgin—he knew that for a fact.

And while she might want to live in a fantasyland, in her safe girls’ school, by coming here she’d walked into the dragon’s den. Into the fire. And she was likely to get burned to a cinder.

He crossed the room to the workbench, reaching underneath and unlocking the small combination safe he kept there. He set the gold earring on top of her purse. And then locked the door again.

Jamie’s hands were shaking. Why was she surprised? She’d been trapped in Dillon’s garage for less than twenty-four hours and already she

was remembering, reliving things she hadn’t wanted to ever think about again. There was no escaping it, and she was someone who’d take any escape she could find. If every time she turned around she was going to find herself remembering, then her only defense was to face it, squarely, instead of trying to hide from it.

Except that right now she didn’t feel like facing anything. She glanced out the grimy window at the bleak street beyond. The snow should have blanketed things with a romantic shroud, but instead it only seemed to make things look more depressing. The snow was still falling lightly, but the fresh layer on the ground was already dusted with grit. She could see rusting cars parked haphazardly along the side of the building—clearly junkers unworthy of Dillon’s magic touch. There were no people around. This was the back end of beyond, though how that could be the case in a city was beyond Jamie’s comprehension. If she could just find decent boots and a couple of layers of sweaters she could take off and look for help. Someone around here would be of more assistance than Dillon Gaynor. Anyone would.

Mouser was her best bet. He wasn’t moved by Dillon’s bad temper, and he wouldn’t be too intimidated to help her. At least she could ask.

The only problem was finding him. She was pretty sure he’d walked to wherever he was going—there was no sign of fresh tire tracks in the gritty snow, and he’d been dusted with snow when he’d appeared in the kitchen like an angel bearing coffee. Or maybe he just walked from the coffee shop.

It didn’t matter—she couldn’t just sit around in Dillon’s abandoned kitchen and fight off all the memories that kept hammering at her. She needed to get home, away from Dillon and the past and old memories. Away from that damned yellow Cadillac.

If she knew where the hell her car was she could find the raincoat she had tucked in the back, but nothing on this earth could get her to go back into the warehouse to ask Dillon. She was wearing jeans and a light sweater, but she’d already discovered that was little defense against the biting Wisconsin wind. And there was nothing else in her pitiful suitcase.

There was, however, a row of hooks by the back door where Dillon had flung the dead rodent. The heavy sweater seemed the most innocuous of her choices, and she pulled it over her head. It smelled like engine grease and gasoline, and it came down to her knees, but it was warm and bulky. And better, it smelled more of old cars than of Dillon.

Except that she’d always associated the scent of engine grease and motor oil with Dillon. Mixed with the taste of cigarettes.

Hell, it was lucky he hadn’t blown himself to kingdom come long ago.

Or unlucky. If Nate hadn’t come here he’d probably still be alive. And she wouldn’t be trapped in a living nightmare, remembering things she thought she’d dealt with long ago.

The air was even colder when she stepped outside this time, and the earlier sunshine had vanished, leaving the sky gray and threatening as the snowflakes filtered down. She walked down the alleyway between Dillon’s warehouse and the next, but there was no sign of life. No cars except for the abandoned ones, no voices in the muffled silence.

The main road wasn’t any better. Now that she could get a good look at her surroundings she was even more depressed. Everything around Dillon’s warehouse was deserted. If this had once been part of a thriving city, that city had abandoned this area, spreading out in more congenial directions.

Maybe times would change and gentrification would hit Cooperstown, Wisconsin. Someone would snap up the deserted warehouses and turn them into loft apartments, someone would buy the empty storefronts and turn them into pricey boutiques.

There were footprints in the snow. Considering how abandoned that area of the city seemed to be, there were a surprising number of different tracks. The small ones were probably Mouser’s. She could see the scratching marks left by the rat’s brothers and sisters, and she shivered lightly. And there was another set of footprints, probably male. Narrow feet, not too big, almost graceful. The tracks couldn’t belong to Dillon. He had big feet. When she’d been an impressionable teenager she’d noticed them, and she and her girlfriends had speculated about what else might be oversize about Dillon Gaynor, giggling at the salacious thought.

She wasn’t giggling now, and she didn’t want to think about it. Those feet were more like Nate’s. Narrow, aristocratic feet, while she had always bemoaned her own wide peasant ones.

There was no traffic, no taxi she could hail, even if she had the money to pay for it. No one she could even hitch a ride with. She stood still in the deserted street and closed her eyes for a moment.

And then opened them again. Someone was watching her. She turned, slowly, but there was no one. She looked up at Dillon’s ramshackle garage, up to the windows on the second and third floor, and for a moment she thought she saw movement behind the frosted glass. She blinked, but then there was no one, and she shook her head. There was no one in that garage but Dillon and her, more’s the pity. Unless the rats had made their home on the third floor and had taken to spying on the human inhabitants of the place.

But she hadn’t heard the scrabbling sounds of rodent feet last night.

Granted, she’d been exhausted, but she’d been edgy enough to be freaked by any unlikely noise. If the building was infested with rats then they all kept regular hours.

She must have imagined the movement at the window. The narrow footprints disappeared into the scuffed snow, and she told herself she was letting her imagination run wild with her. Not enough sleep, not enough food, and the shocking effect of seeing Dillon Gaynor again had managed to make her even more neurotic than usual. She never would have thought seeing him would have such an effect on her. After all, it was ancient history, she’d moved on, and one bad night shouldn’t have the ability to color her entire life. It hadn’t. Until she looked up into Dillon Gaynor’s cool blue eyes, and suddenly she was sixteen again.

But she wasn’t. She was twenty-eight, with a master’s degree, a good job, a loving mother and a sense of satisfaction in her life. While she wasn’t in a relationship at the moment, that didn’t mean she couldn’t be if she wanted one. She’d had offers. She just wasn’t ready. Besides, she was secure enough that she didn’t need a man to make her feel complete.

There was no sign of Dillon when she walked back into the warm kitchen. Her borrowed sweater was covered with snow, and she shook it out all over the cracked linoleum floor before hanging it back up on the peg. It was probably the first water that floor had seen in twenty years, she thought wryly. But surprisingly enough, on a closer look, the floor didn’t even need sweeping. Someone must look after Dillon.

For some reason the notion came as a complete shock. It had simply never occurred to her that there’d be a woman in Dillon’s life. And how idiotic of her—there’d never not been a woman in Dillon’s life.

The type of women Dillon had been involved with had never seemed the type to be interested in housework, but twelve years could make a lot of changes. Not that much in a unregenerate bad boy like Dillon, but maybe enough to appreciate someone who’d sleep with him and clean his house at the same time.

No, not Dillon. He’d never be that practical. He’d always chosen girls by the size of their breasts, the bigger the better. It was a good thing that Jamie was still a meager 34B. Not that Dillon was a serious threat to her.

He was trying to intimidate her with his suggestive comments. It would shock the hell out of him if she called his bluff. He had no interest in her, and never really had. That night so long ago had been a fluke. He’d been drunk, and bored, and mischievous, but the moment he could he’d handed her off to someone else.

She wasn’t going to think about that. Ever again. She was going to grab that box of soggy crackers and head back upstairs. She was going to sit in her room and try to figure out what the hell she was going to do. And try not to worry about whether there were rats crawling up the curtains in the room above her. Or ghosts.

She didn’t believe in ghosts. If it had been up to her she wouldn’t believe in rats, either, and if she’d never had to see Dillon again she probably wouldn’t have had to deal with an oversize rodent.

It wasn’t fair that she was stuck here, with the last person in the world she’d ever wanted to see again. She’d done it for her mother, thinking she could dash in and out without ever having to look Dillon in the eye. She hadn’t counted on her car giving out. Or her purse being stolen.

And she hadn’t counted on the fact that when she looked up into Dillon Gaynor’s cool blue eyes she’d feel like a vulnerable sixteen-year-old once more. Just as frightened. Just as wary.

And just as fascinated.

OceanofPDF.com