What Phoebe Wants. Cindi Myers

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СКАЧАТЬ a good-size rock. The next idiot who made a rude suggestion was going to get it in the windshield.

      I’d found what I thought was a good weapon when a black pickup slowed and pulled in behind me. “Thank God,” I said, walking toward the truck. “I thought no one was going to st—”

      The door opened and a pair of long legs in tan slacks emerged, followed by a pair of broad shoulders and strong arms. I swallowed and grinned weakly. “Hello, Jeff. Imagine meeting you here.”

      He took a long time looking at me, his gaze traveling from the tips of my pink-painted toenails to the top of my coppery hair. “I like it,” he said at last. “Very sexy.”

      I wasn’t sure if he meant my new hair color or me in general, but I didn’t dare ask. “What do you know about cars?”

      “A little.”

      I followed him around to my upraised hood. He looked at it for a moment, then leaned in and wiggled something. Then he slammed the hood. “Broken motor mount,” he said.

      “Is that expensive to fix?” Who was I kidding? Everything about cars is expensive to fix.

      “Shouldn’t be too bad. How long have you had the car?”

      “I just got it yesterday.”

      “Then it should be under some kind of dealer warranty. I’d take it back to where you bought it.” He slipped a phone from his shirt pocket. “We’ll call a wrecker to tow it to the dealer.”

      “Won’t they be closed?” It was almost seven.

      “If it is, the wrecker driver can leave it in the yard and you can stop by tomorrow to arrange everything.” He punched in a number. “What’s the name of the dealer?”

      “Easy Motors. Over on Alameda.”

      He made a face, then spoke to someone on the line. “Ben? This is Jeff Fischer. I’ve got a friend here who has a Mustang with a broken motor mount. Can you tow it for her to an Easy Motors, over on Alameda?”

      He gave the driver directions, then disconnected. “He’ll be here in ten minutes.”

      “Thanks.” Now that the car was taken care of, it felt awkward standing here with him. Cars raced past, stirring up dust that blew back at us in a hot wind.

      He took my arm and steered me toward his truck. “Let’s wait inside.”

      The truck was clean and relatively new. It smelled of leather and Jeff’s cologne. I sat on the edge of the seat, next to the door and found myself imagining what it would feel like to lie back in that cool leather seat, with Jeff slowly undressing me….

      See what kind of trouble hormones will get you into? I crossed my arms and my legs and wondered if Jeff would think I was strange if I asked him to turn up the air conditioner. The air in that cab was definitely too warm.

      “So, Red.” He turned toward me, grinning. “Did I ever tell you I have a thing for redheads?”

      My heart pounded. “Uh…what kind of thing?”

      He slid his hand along the back of the seat, toward me. “I think they’re very…exciting.”

      “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not an exciting person.” But I was definitely getting excited. I squeezed my legs together and tucked my hair behind my ears. “So, did you finish installing the transcription system?”

      His grin never faltered. “Don’t think you’re going to get rid of me that easily. I’m under contract to stick around and teach you how to use the new software.”

      I swallowed hard, imagining hours spent in my little cubicle with Mr. Testosterone. “I’ve been a transcriptionist for years. What’s to learn?”

      His eyes darkened and his voice lowered. “Oh, I’m betting I could teach you a lot.”

      He moved a little closer. I couldn’t decide whether to scream or throw myself at him. Throwing myself at him was definitely winning out when a horn sounded behind us and a purple-and-black wrecker pulled alongside.

      We climbed out of the truck and met the wrecker driver beside my car. He was a whip-thin man with long gray hair pulled back in a ponytail, his denim work shirt rolled up to reveal arms corded with muscle. “Hey, Jeff. How’s your old man?”

      “Doing great, Ben. Thanks for coming out. This is Phoebe Frame.”

      Ben nodded, then turned to the car. “You bought this from Easy Motors?”

      I nodded. “I’ve only had it since yesterday, so it’s still under warranty—isn’t it?”

      Ben made a noise that might have been laughter. “Good luck getting anything out of that bunch.”

      I retrieved my purse and Ben hooked the car up to the wrecker. I started to climb in beside him, but Jeff pulled me back. “Ben can take care of it. I’ll drive you home.”

      I didn’t think that was a good idea, but before I could say anything, I heard clanking chains and tires on gravel and Ben pulled out into traffic, my Mustang hoisted behind him like the catch of the day.

      “Okay. Thanks.” At least driving, he’d have to keep his hands to himself. As for me, I could always sit on my hands.

      “I’m starved. Let’s get something to eat.”

      Eating was too much like a date. I was not going to date Jeff. “I really need to get home,” I said.

      “You have kids?”

      The question jolted me. “Uh…no.”

      “Good.”

      Good? “Why is that good?” Was the world infested with men who didn’t like children?

      “It means you don’t need to get home. And everybody has to eat, don’t they?”

      We ended up at a place called Pizza Junction, which combined Old West decor with Italian food in a sort of spaghetti Western theme. “You’ve eaten here before?” I asked as we made our way past bales of hay festooned with braids of garlic.

      “It’s very good.” He slid into a booth and I sat across from him. “I recommend the Lariat Special.”

      I ordered a Diet Coke and agreed to split the Lariat Special with Jeff. He apparently wasn’t a man who believed in small talk. As soon as the waitress brought our drinks, he looked me over and asked, “How long have you been divorced?”

      I stripped the paper from a straw and wadded it into a knot, avoiding his gaze. “Six months. We were separated six months before that.” Anticipating the next question, and wanting to get it over with, I added. “We were married twelve years.”

      “Was it your idea, or his?”

      I had to hand it to Jeff; he had nerve. I imagined him tackling computer problems this way: find out everything you can so that you approach the problem armed with information. I could have СКАЧАТЬ