The Closer. Rhonda Nelson

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      She’d need to do it in ten.

      It was obscene how much that pleased her.

      * * *

      “WHAT THE HELL,” Griff muttered, his gaze trained on the rearview mirror. He’d first noted the red Camaro—the retro-kind Chevy had debuted a few years ago—more than half a mile back when it had first appeared in the distance.

      It was damn hard to miss.

      Candy-apple red, white racing stripes from hood to trunk, and the way it had moved seamlessly in and out of traffic, smoothly passing everything that interrupted its path had certainly drawn his attention. A little admiration, even.

      Now, as the car drew nearer to his bumper—so close that he could read the tag on the front, which appropriately read Faster—irritation was quickly dimming the original sentiment. He was moving five miles past the speed limit on a two-lane highway with a double yellow line. The driver couldn’t pass without breaking the law, and he refused to go any faster.

      Though he couldn’t make out much beyond a lot of dark curly hair and sunglasses, he knew it was a woman behind the wheel and he’d admit, she seemed more than capable of handling the powerful, if impractical, car she drove. But if she didn’t get off his damn bumper, they were going to have a serious problem.

      He slowed a little, just to infuriate her. “I’m in front of you, lady. Get over it,” he muttered.

      She dropped back as they mounted a small hill, and Griff had just congratulated himself for making her retreat, when the yellow lines changed in her favor and she roared past him. He barely caught a glimpse of her pleased smile, but it was enough to make him want to hit the accelerator a little harder and take off after her.

      Which was irrational, of course, so he put the thought firmly out of his mind. He was a grown man on his way to an important job, his first as a civilian. Playing cat and mouse with a girl—one who had a much faster car, no less—was a distraction he couldn’t afford, and it rather startled him that he’d been inclined to do it in the first place. Chasing after her would have been pointless and, as a rule, he didn’t pursue things he knew would be a waste of his time.

      Feeling strangely unsettled, Griff watched the red car disappear over the next hill and released a pent-up breath. He drummed his thumbs against the steering wheel, suddenly restless, and shifted in his seat. He’d been on the road for almost eight hours already and knew that at least another four would be in his future today, if he planned to stick to his schedule. Which he did, of course, otherwise what was the point in having one?

      He’d allotted eight minutes to pick up the bra and his Rossi escort, another seven for a bathroom break, and planned to arrive in Hagerstown no later than eight o’clock tonight. Dinner would be a little late, but not terribly, and that would put them within four hours of their ultimate destination. They’d hit New York City by noon tomorrow, which gave him a two-hour window to check out the venue before the press junket started. The bra would officially be on display—on the runway for the reveal—at noon on Saturday.

      Payne had provided the building specs, which were certainly helpful, but Griff preferred to do an in-person review. He wanted to know every stairwell, elevator, exit and access point. He didn’t expect any problems, but would be remiss if he didn’t prepare for them anyway. Besides, he liked to be prepared. There was a certain comfort in knowing that things were in order.

      Big, round hay bales lay in the fields on either side of the road and Queen Anne’s lace and wild black-eyed Susans bobbed in the lazy breeze along in the ditches as he drove on. Nestled in one of the many valleys of the Appalachian Mountains, Shadow’s Gap suddenly came into view, a quaint village of white clapboard houses, red bricked shops and well-manicured grounds. Though the leaves had begun to turn, fall hadn’t quite gotten a foothold yet. Varying shades of green blanketed the hills rising up over the valley, creating a verdant landscape that would look perfectly at home on a postcard.

      Following the signs for the Historic Town Square, Griff made the necessary turns and began scanning the various storefronts for Rossi’s Fine Jewelry. It was then that he saw it, the red Camaro, and his pulse gave an inexplicable little jump.

      Wonder of wonders, it was parked directly in front of the jewelry store.

      Clearly “Faster” had a taste for the finer things. Irritatingly intrigued beyond reason, Griff took the empty parking space next to her car, then exited his Suburban and entered the shop. Though he automatically noted everything about the store—two workers, one old, one teenager, royal-blue carpet, rich wood-paneled walls, gleaming glass cases filled with equally gleaming jewels—she was what drew his gaze and held it.

      At least the back of her, which was all he could see at the moment.

      But it was enough.

      She was tall with a slim waist and especially generous hips—which she needed to complement her extraordinarily lush ass—and long legs. She wore a thin-knit pink sweater, perfectly fitted jeans and a pair of worn cowboy boots, which had been embellished with vines and pink roses. Her hair wasn’t merely dark or brown, but a deep decadent sable that didn’t so much absorb the light as catch it, and it sprung from her head in a riot of big, wavy curls, then cascaded over her shoulders. It had energy, that hair. In fact, everything about her was vibrant, wholly alive, for lack of a better description.

      His stomach gave an odd little jolt and a swift blaze kindled in his groin.

      “I’m not late,” she insisted to the older man, presumably Frank Rossi. “I arrived with a minute to spare.” She huffed a breath. “Why on earth are you complaining? He’s not even here yet.”

      “You’ve got to stop treating the town square like it’s the track, Jessalyn,” the older man said, as though he hadn’t heard her argument. “Screaming in here on two wheels? It’s unseemly. What would your mother think?”

      She muttered something that Griff didn’t quite catch, but whatever she said made her father frown.

      Her father...

      But if— Did that— But surely— No worries, Major Wicklow. You’ll recognize her soon enough.

      Oh, hell.

      “And of course, he’s here,” Mr. Rossi told her, looking past his daughter to meet Griff’s undoubtedly confused gaze. “He’s a professional. Being late wouldn’t do.”

      He heard her gasp, then she straightened and turned around.

      The picture hadn’t done her justice, Griff thought as a prickly heat spread from one end of his body to the other, then turned abruptly cold and made the return trek. He felt as if he’d been dipped in scalding water, then dunked in the Arctic Ocean, much like forged metal.

      Naturally, only one part of his anatomy hardened.

      The photograph could only depict so much—the shape of her face, the color of her eyes and hair—but it was the animation of the features, the sheer vitality of her being that couldn’t be captured with something as mundane as a camera.

      She glowed.

      Her eyes rounded briefly when she saw him, then undoubtedly recognition dawned, and the corner of her lush mouth twitched. “Suburban, right?” she said, looking out into the street for confirmation. She didn’t need it, СКАЧАТЬ