The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [42]
A short beep-beep broke into her thoughts. Bethie looked down the narrow street to see a little red convertible with New York plates dart around the corner and come flying down the lane.
“My goodness, what is this?” she asked as Tristan came to a screeching halt, ran a hand through his hair, and beamed.
“Your carriage, my lady.”
“Yes, but what is it?”
“The Audi TT Roadster two twenty-five Quattro,” he announced with pride, “based loosely on the 1950s Porsche Boxter. Cute, isn’t she?”
He swung open the driver-side door and came bounding around the front, looking somehow flushed, windblown, and dashing all at once.
Bethie held out her basket, thinking now would be a good time to say something clever, but distracted by the bright, burning light in his eyes, the impact of his smile. “I fixed a picnic lunch,” she stated and instantly felt foolish for the obvious comment.
“Wonderful.”
She nodded, still feeling self-conscious. She returned her attention to the picnic basket. “Champagne, caviar, Brie. I didn’t know what you liked.”
“I like champagne, caviar, and Brie.” He reached for the basket, and his hands lingered on hers. He stood very close, handsome this morning in tan slacks and a deep blue cable-knit sweater. Sandalwood and lemon, she thought and wondered if she’d given herself away by inhaling too deeply.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked, his fingers lightly brushing hers.
“Yes. And you?”
“I didn’t sleep a wink. I was too busy looking forward to seeing you.”
She flushed, but couldn’t repress her smile. “Very smooth,” she conceded.
“Is it? I practiced all the way over.” He grinned. Then, without warning, he leaned over and kissed her full on the mouth. She was still reeling when he straightened again and took the picnic basket from her arm.
“In all seriousness,” he said as he popped the trunk, “I have not looked forward to a day as much as I’ve been looking forward to this one in a very long time. We are going to go someplace marvelous, Bethie. We are going to have an ungodly amount of fun. Are you with me?”
“I could do ungodly amounts of fun.”
“Perfect!”
He closed the trunk, then returned to get her door. The little red roadster really was commanding. Beautiful rounded lines on the outside. A striking black-and-chrome color scheme on the inside. It looked like something a movie star should drive, say Marilyn Monroe or James Dean. Bethie was almost afraid to touch it. Tristan, however, took her hand and without hesitation, helped lower her into the low-slung black leather seat.
“You know what?” he said suddenly. “You should drive.”
“Oh, no. I couldn’t—”
“Yes, yes, absolutely. Everyone needs to drive a sports car once in her life and today, it’s your turn.”
He helped her back out of the car. She was still protesting when she found herself in the driver’s seat, holding a small, rectangular key fob and wearing a very silly grin. The sleek chrome gauges winked at her. The rounded chrome gear stick felt warm and smooth beneath her palm. Tristan climbed into the passenger’s seat. She barely looked at him. She hadn’t even pulled away from the curb, and she was already in love with this car.
“See the little silver button?” He pointed to a small button on the corner of the key fob in her hand. “Push it.”
She did and the tiny silver key shot out of the side of the box like a switchblade. She startled, almost dropped the key, then laughed. “Oh my goodness, who thought of that?”
“Probably somebody in marketing. Pure gimmick, but highly effective. Now love, put it in the old ignition. Here’s the lights, here’s the windshield wipers, and here’s the hand brake. Give it a whirl.”
She stalled the car in first. Jerked them into second as she tried to get a feel for the clutch, then finally spluttered down the road. It had been years since she’d driven a standard, not since her college days. But she quickly discovered that some part of her had missed the feel of a gear stick in her hand, the sense of controlling the vehicle as if