“And wouldn’t it be more convenient for you to have me chauffeur you than waiting around on a car service all the time?”
He didn’t say anything, just scowled.
She looked at her watch. “It’s after ten now. You don’t have time to wait for a service to pick you up.”
“I can be late,” he said with the confidence of a man who was used to the world waiting on him.
“I’m offering you an opportunity to make your life easier, and you’re being obstinate and unreasonable for no logical reason. Unless you like to depend on a car service.”
“What’s the difference between depending on a service and depending on you? Other than you’re more annoying.”
She held up three fingers and counted down. “I’m cute, you don’t have to tip me, and I’m already here.”
He stared at her for several long moments, then slowly stood and reached for his cane. “You’re not that cute. If you ‘ding’ my car, I’ll kill you.”
She smiled and followed him out of the room. Her gaze landed on his wide shoulders and followed his tapered back to his waist. A wallet bulged the pocket of his dark nylon running pants. There were some men who wore sweats and looked like goof-balls. Then there were men like Mark who made them look good, with his long legs and tight behind. He might have had a serious accident six months ago, but his body was still hard from a lifetime of exercise. “Don’t you get a little lonely living in this big house by yourself?” she asked to fill the silence.
“No.” The way he walked, his cane, and the splint on his hand contrasted with his dominant aura. A clash of strength and vulnerability that was appealing. And which he totally ruined with his rude, abrasive personality. “Until recently, I’ve rarely been here,” he added. “For the last few years, I’ve been meaning to put it on the market. You interested?”
“Sure. What’s your asking price?” She couldn’t afford the lawn care.
“At least what I paid for it.” They moved through the gigantic kitchen with its intricate stone and tile work and professional-grade appliances. She followed him past the pantry and laundry room, and above a built-in mud bench next to the back door, two sets of keys hung from hooks. One set had a Mercedes emblem, the other unmistakably the keys to a Hummer. “I’m probably going to regret this,” he muttered as he grabbed the Mercedes keys with the thumb and fore%">humb anfinger of his bad hand.
Chelsea slid around him and opened the back door,
holding it for him as he carefully stepped down. A shiny gold Mercedes S550 sedan sat in the middle of his five-car garage. The lights blinked, the locks deactivated by the key fob. One of her previous employers had driven a S550. Only older. This one was brand-spanking-new. She shut the door behind them. “Ooh. Come to Mama.”
“You’re going to drive careful. Right?” He turned, and she almost ran into his chest.
“Right.” A hand’s width separated her Gaultier from plain white cotton, and she ran her gaze up his T-shirt, over his throat and stubbly chin, to his mouth.
“I’ve driven this car one time,” she watched him say before she looked up into his eyes staring down at her. “Three days before my accident, I drove it home from the dealership.” He might be a jerk, but he smelled wonderful. Like some sort of manly soap on clean manly skin. He held up the keys, then dropped them into her waiting palm. “I’m not kidding about killing you.”
He looked serious. “I haven’t had a ticket in about five years,” she said as she followed him around to the passenger side. “Well, maybe a parking ticket, but nonmoving violations don’t count.”
He reached for the front passenger door as she reached for the back. “I’m not sitting back there.” The hard splint surrounding his middle finger hit against the door, and he couldn’t grasp the handle with his other fingers. Chelsea pushed his hand aside and opened the door for him. “I can open my own freakin’ door,” he barked.
“I’m the chauffeur. Remember?” Really though, it was just easier and faster if she did it. She watched him slowly lower himself into the car, one corner of his mouth tightening as he pulled his legs inside. “Do you need help with your seat belt?”
“No.” He reached for it with his left hand. “I’m not two years old. I can buckle my own seat belt. I can feed myself, tie my own shoes, and I don’t need help taking a piss.”
Chelsea closed the door and walked around to the side. “Ten thousand dollars. Ten thousand dollars,” she whispered.
The new-car smell filled her head as she climbed inside and dumped her purse in the back. Soft beige leather caressed her back and behind. She sighed and pressed the ignition button. The motor purred like a content little kitten. “You have the premium package.” She ran her hands over the leather-covered steering wheel. “Heated everything. GPS. A place to plug in your iPod. Nice.”
“How do you know about my premium package?”
She ignored the innuendo. “I’m from L.A. We get heated seats and steering wheels even though it hardly ever drops below sixty degrees.” She pushed the garage opener clipped to the visor, and one of the doors slid up. When she engaged the GPS system, it lit up and asked in a perky female voice, “Hello Mark. Where to?” She glanced at his stony profile as she requested the medical center. Then she buckled her seat belt and looked behind her as she backed the Mercedes out of the shadowy garage and into the sunlight. “Whenever I drive an expensive car out of someone’s garage, I always feel So alwayslike Ferris Bueller. I swear I can hear the music in my head.” She lowered her voice and said as deep as possible, “Bow bow—oooohhh yeeeaah.”
“Are you high?”
The garage door closed and she slid the car into drive.
“No. I don’t take drugs.” There’d been a time when she’d toyed with drugs. Experimenting with this and that, but she’d seen firsthand the horrible waste of addiction and she’d chosen not to go down that road. “You’ll be happy to know that I passed a drug test to get this job.” She eased her foot off the brake, rolled past her Honda, and proceeded down the driveway. “Apparently they’re careful about whom they hire.”
“Obviously.” He leaned his head back and brushed his thumb along the handle of his cane. “They sent me a nurse who’d rather play chauffeur.”
“Turn right,” the GPS instructed, and Chelsea headed for the 520. “One mile north. 8.8 miles till destination.”