Shadows At Sunset - Anne Stuart [7]
The doors slid open on the basement level with an audible sigh, and Coltrane’s fantasy vanished, unfulfilled. He punched in the garage code and the door buzzed. He pushed it open, and she walked through, brushing past him, and he wondered if she was going to take off in a run. He might enjoy stopping her.
But she was too well-bred for that. She held out her slim, strong hand to him. Silver rings, he noticed. Elegant and plain. And he took it, touching her for the first time.
His hand swallowed hers, and he used just enough pressure so that she couldn’t keep ignoring him. She glanced up at him through her thick lashes. “I’m not biologically equipped for a pissing contest, Mr. Coltrane,” she murmured.
He released her hand. “Where are we going for dinner?”
“I have no idea where you’re going. I’m going home.”
“Can you cook?”
“Not for you.”
He was baiting her deliberately, to annoy her. He still wasn’t quite sure why he wanted to—she was easy to get to. Far easier to get on her nerves than to seduce her.
Or maybe not. He intended to find out.
There was only a handful of cars in the deserted garage. He wondered whether she owned the red BMW convertible or the Mercedes. And then he saw the classic Corvette—1966, he guessed, lovingly restored, a piece of art as close to an antique as Los Angeles could boast.
He didn’t make the mistake of touching her again, he simply starting walking toward the car, knowing she was going in that direction. “Nice Corvette,” he said.
She cast a wary glance up at him. “What makes you think it’s mine?”
“It suits you. Are you going to let me drive it?”
He might just as well have suggested they act out his elevator fantasy. “Absolutely not!”
“She’d be safe with me. I know how to drive—I’ve had a lot of experience. I’m good with a stick shift. I’d take it slow, I wouldn’t strip her gears.”
Her expression was priceless. “Mr. Coltrane, if you drove her with the same deftness that you’re using in coming on to me then she’d stall out before you could even put her into gear,” she said. “You’re not driving my car or me. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” he drawled. A week, he figured. A week before she’d lie down for him, two weeks for the car. “I don’t suppose you’d give me a ride home.”
“Where’s your car?”
“In the shop. I was supposed to take one of the company cars but I got distracted up there and forgot to get the keys.”
“You can go back up and get them.”
He shook his head. “The door has a time lock. Once the last person leaves no one can get in until morning.”
“What the hell does my father keep up there, the Fort Knox gold?” she said irritably.
“Just private files. Your father’s involved in some highly complex, sensitive business arrangements. It wouldn’t do for just anyone to walk in and have access to them.”
“Just anyone like his daughter? Who’s obviously far too simpleminded to understand the great big complexity of his sensitive business affairs,” she mocked him.
He ignored that. “I live near Brentwood. It’s not that far out of your way.”
“How do you know where I’m going?”
“You said you were going home. You live in that old mausoleum on Sunset with your brother and sister. I’m right on your way.”
“Call a taxi.”
“My cell phone’s dead.”
“Use mine.” She was rummaging in her purse now, obviously determined to get rid of him. A moment later she pulled out a phone, holding it out to him.
“Why do I make you so uncomfortable?” he said, making no effort to take it.
“You don’t,” she said. “I have a date.”
Two lies, he thought, and she wasn’t very good at lying. Unlike the rest of her family. Dean Meyer seemed almost oblivious to the truth, whereas his father used it as he saw fit, mostly to manipulate people.
But Jilly Meyer couldn’t lie with a straight face, and that was oddly, stupidly endearing. Coltrane wasn’t about to let that weaken his resolve.
“Then you’ll probably