Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [25]
“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.