The Hot One(70)

I shake my head. “Black.”

Then David says good-bye and heads off, and I’m left with the vexing vixen who hates me.

She stares at me. Like a cat who won’t look away. I don’t break her showdown.

“Black,” she repeats, tapping the toe of her red suede pump as she glares with dark brown eyes full of fury. “Like your heart.”

Have I mentioned the last time I saw her she marched out of my shop in a blaze of glory and cursed me in what sounded like twelve different languages.

Might be because I fired her sexy ass five years ago.

Yeah, there’s some bad blood between us.



* * *



Chapter Two



* * *



Henley Rose and a hot car went together like peaches and cream, like fine Scotch and a long, dirty night.

Which meant working with her was like walking into the Garden of Eden every single day.

It was a test of willpower because the woman could craft a car like it was an erotic dance.

Not a strip tease.

Not an in-your-face pelvis thrust.

But a beautiful fucking ballet of woman seducing machine. Those hands, the way she wielded tools, the intensity in her focus. It was sensual, and it was sinful, and it was this man’s fantasy made flesh.

Imagine what it was like working with her for one hard-on year.

I mean, hard year.

But I survived the challenge because she was the best in the class. And I never treated her differently because she was a woman, or because I thought about her naked an obscene amount of time. I treated her like anyone else—specifically, all the people I work with who I never ever imagine in anything less than full-on Siberian winter garb, complete with the thermals and Michelin Man coat.

“Black heart. That’s an upgrade from cold, dead heart,” I say coolly, reminding her of the words she uttered the day she stormed out.

“So you had the ticker replaced then?”

I tap my sternum. “All new model. But apparently, I’m still just the same cruel bastard,” I say, using another favorite phrase of her from the last day I saw her.

She arches a brow. “Shame. You should have let me work on that part of you. I’m good at making all sorts of clunkers run better.”

Jesus Christ. She still takes no prisoners. “I’ve no doubt you have all the tools to fix anything, and if you couldn’t find the right one, you’d use a blowtorch.”

She adopts an expression of indignation. “There’s nothing wrong with using a blowtorch,” she says, taking extra time on the first syllable.

How the fuck did I ever last with this woman? Before I can even fashion a comeback, she taps her toe against the tire on Wagner’s car. “I see you still like to make your cars with such big, manly wheels.”

I roll my eyes, then make a “give it to me now” motion with my hands. “All right, Henley. Deliver the punchline.”

She bats her lashes. “What punchline?”

“Big? Manly? You’re going to say it’s some of substitution thing going on. That’s what you always said about the guys who wanted the biggest cars, with the biggest wheels.”

She smirks. “Was I wrong in my assessment?”

I laugh. “I don’t know. I didn’t check to see how that added up for them.”

“Nor did I. My focus was always on the work.”

“As well it should be.”

“That’s what you taught me.”

“I’m glad you learned that lesson.”

“I learned so many lessons from you.”

I take a deep breath and change directions. “What was up with the badass tiger comment out of nowhere? Couldn’t just wait till I was done to say hello?”

She winks. “C’mon. I was just having fun.”

“Fun? More like trying to get involved in everything.”

She feigns shocks, then dances her fingertips along the hood of Wagner’s car. “I was merely being helpful and trying to land you a client. Don’t you remember? I was always trying to help you.”

I park my hands on my hips. “Why do I feel like you’re here to taunt me rather than deliver your generous humanitarian aid?”

She clasps a hand to her chest. Her ample chest. “Taunt? Me? You? I was just excited to say hello to my former mentor. Forgive me for my exuberance,” she says, in a too-sweet tone. “How are you these days?”

“I can’t complain.” I cross my arms. I don’t know what to make of her, and I don’t know that I want to let her in. “What about you? It’s been a while.”

“Five years. Three weeks. And two days. But who’s counting?”

“Sounds like you’re counting.”

She shrugs like that’s no big deal, then pops up on the hood and parks her sweet ass on Wagner’s car. Wagner won’t care. He likes pretty ladies, especially when they’re on his prized ride. The problem is he’ll probably want to bang Henley when he returns from signing autographs, and that’s not going to fucking happen on my watch.

Not that I have any control over who she’s banging.

But I’ll do everything I can to make sure it’s not a client of mine who gets his hands on her.

“What brings you to this neck of the woods?” Last I heard from her she’d gone back home to Northern California to work with a rival builder there.