Don't Go Stealing My Heart - Kelly Siskind Page 0,4
her rearview mirror. She drank her not-a-Coke and drove, but her foot eased off the gas pedal. Her Prius glided slowly. Too slowly. Below the speed limit, actually.
What the hell is wrong with me?
She should have had the pedal to the metal, making up for lost time, hurrying to Whichway so she could scope out the town. Yet here she was, her speedometer decelerating at a rapid rate.
When she spotted a car curbside, its hood up and its owner leaning over the engine, she yanked over to the shoulder.
I’m just doing my Good Samaritan work, she told herself. I’m not delaying this job or my role as Samantha Rowen.
She hopped out of her god-awful Prius and shaded her eyes, assessing the old Jaguar across the road. The car was gun-metal gray, with splashy chrome styling, but rust had taken a few bites from the fenders. Nowhere near as pretty as that Chrysler had been. Not that she could judge, considering her present vehicle.
When her gentleman in distress stood from behind the hood, her focus shifted to him, and her heart raced faster than an Aston Martin Vulcan.
Six-foot-and-then-some, with his cuffs rolled and the top buttons of his dress shirt undone, he was one hell of a man. Thanks to the heatwave, his damp white shirt clung to his broad chest, declaring its wearer a fine male specimen.
She fanned her face, but her hand created little breeze. “Car trouble?”
He dragged his wrist along his forehead. “Car disaster.”
“What happened?”
He eyed the innards of his Jag’s engine. “I was on the road about an hour, no issues, then there was a loud pop and I started losing power. Aside from that, your guess is as good as mine.”
Clementine’s guess wasn’t as good as his. It was miles better. The only thing she loved more than cars was her bearded dragon. “Mind if I take a look?”
“I’ll take all the help I can get. My meeting starts in”—he grimaced at his watch (a genuine Rolex)—“thirty minutes, and it’s forty minutes away.”
Even his grimace was sexy. She tried not to stare at his generous lips, the masculine cut of his jaw. Like with friendships, she’d given up on dating a couple of years back. Developing a relationship when you couldn’t share job details or commiserate about work stress was a challenge. My last heist almost went south when I got chased by a pit bull and twisted my ankle wasn’t typical Friday night chitchat. Tinder hookups had sufficed for a while, until the one-night stands exacerbated her loneliness, emphasizing what she didn’t have.
Which left her staring at this man’s large hands as they tunneled through his dark hair, leaving the strands even more askew. Sweat gathered on her clavicle. His blue eyes darted to the spot, upping her already hot temperature.
He cleared his throat. “Thanks for stopping.”
“No problem. Cars are kinda my thing.”
Tall, dark, and handsome was also her thing, and the urge to interact with a real, live human reared its dangerous head again. She should have learned her lesson last month, but he was easy on the eyes, and it was nice to admit she was a car junkie. Something she couldn’t do in Whichway—never smart dropping clues to your true identity. But if this man had already driven an hour, he’d be from Headlow or Brandock, or one of the farther counties.
She maneuvered in front of the engine. The man didn’t step back, and his long body bumped against hers. Firm. Damp. Warm. “Sorry,” she murmured. Sweat dripped down her cleavage.
He shuffled backward. “No. I’m sorry. You’re nice enough to stop and help, and I’m in the way, standing like an idiot.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Me being in the way?”
“You being an idiot.”
He barked out a laugh.
“Just teasing.” She winked at him, feeling loose and bubbly. More herself than she’d felt in ages. “I meant I don’t mind helping. I travel with emergency supplies, just in case. Nothing worse than car trouble when you’re on the road.” Or fleeing the scene of a crime.
“Considering this baby belonged to my granddad, and hasn’t been on the road in a while, I shouldn’t be surprised she got temperamental.”
That explained the rusted fenders, but it didn’t tamp her rising temperature. She tore her hungry gaze from his transparent shirt. Nothing to see here. Move along. She focused on the car. The engine issue was easy to spot. “Your baby’s vacuum hose is cracked. Too much air passed through the power brake line and the engine backfired. Turned