Still Lake - Anne Stuart [41]
He went to the passenger door, opening it with an exaggerated flourish. “Not what you’re used to, I know, but it will have to do. Your carriage awaits, madam.”
She approached it cautiously, as if she were expecting spiders to jump out at her. But when she spoke, her voice held a totally unexpected note of reverence.
“It’s an XJ6,” she said softly, her voice husky. “What is it, a ’74, ’75?”
“It’s a ’74,” he said, startled.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, totally entranced. She handed him the plate of cookies and slid into the soft leather of the front seat like an angel entering heaven. She closed her eyes and took a deep, appreciative breath. “It even smells right.”
He didn’t move, just stared at her. Annelise had always hated his car, insisting on taking her Mercedes or his more respectable Lincoln SUV. If he’d ever really needed the four-wheel-drive, it would have been in Vermont, but he’d decided to take the Jaguar on a last-minute whim. The Lincoln Navigator was huge and ominous; the Jaguar deceptively battered. And he’d wanted the excuse to take the Jag out on the highway, see what she could do after all the work he’d put into her.
He hadn’t wanted a soft, flowery woman to practically have an orgasm the moment she climbed into it. Especially when he suspected that Sophie Davis had never had an orgasm in her life.
He opened his mouth to suggest they take her car, then closed it again. So she liked his car. Obviously she had hidden depths, something to recommend her. He took one of the ginger cookies and popped it into his mouth. More than one thing to recommend her, he corrected himself.
She had long legs beneath her flowered skirt, and he closed the door, feeling like a damned footman. She’d settled into the leather like a kitten on a blanket. He wondered if she was actually purring.
He gave himself a shake that was more mental than physical, then moved around the back of the car to climb into the driver’s seat.
Her eyes were still closed, and he wondered if she’d fallen asleep. The leather was soft, but not that soft. He stared at her for so long that she finally turned her head and opened her eyes. She had a dreamy expression in them, like someone in the midst of sex, and he realized he was getting an erection just from watching her. He’d never had sex with anyone in the roomy back seat of the sedan, but clearly Sophie would be someone worthy of the privilege. The privilege of the car, not him, though he intended to make it very much worth her while.
He tried to break out of the erotic spell. “It’s just a car,” he said, not too sure of that.
“You know as well as I do this is more than just a car.” A sudden frown creased her forehead. “Do you have other classics? I suppose you collect them, have someone fix them up for you….”
“No one touches this car but me. And this is my only one. I have a new car for transportation, but this is…” He wanted to tell her the truth. That it was his heart, his soul, the one thing he loved most on earth, more than any human being who’d ever crossed his path. “My hobby,” he finished, deliberately downplaying it.
She ran her hand across the soft leather seat, and he could picture that hand running across his skin. She’d look quite glorious, sprawled naked on the golden leather of his wide back seat. And if he didn’t stop thinking about that he was going to have to put the plate of cookies on his lap to hide his condition.
“It’s quite…” She suddenly seemed to realize what she was doing. She stopped stroking the leather seat, sat bolt upright and blinked, trying to dispel that erotic haze. “It’s quite nice,” she said. She took the cookies from him.
He turned the key, hearing the throaty rumble of the motor with anxious pleasure. He put it into Reverse, backing out the narrow, weed-choked driveway with consummate care. “Don’t even