Gypsy King (Tin Gypsy, #1)(6)

My body betrayed me, the quiver in my core irritating my rational senses. I was here for a story. I was here to steal this man’s secrets one by one, then plaster them across the headlines. This raw, animalistic response was asinine.

But damn, he was hot.

Dash’s black T-shirt strained across the muscles of his chest. It pulled tight around the swells of his biceps. The skin exposed on his arms was tan and smooth, except for the array of tattoos that snaked up both forearms.

Scorching. Smoking. There was another s word somewhere in my mind but as he stepped into our huddle, I lost my advanced vocabulary.

Seriously . . . damn.

I’d always preferred the clean-cut look. Day-old scruff wasn’t my thing. He wasn’t my thing. I liked blue eyes, not hazel. I liked short hair, and Dash’s brown mop had been overdue for a cut weeks ago.

This reaction was purely chemical, likely because I hadn’t been with a man since, well . . . I’d stopped counting the months when they’d hit double digits.

“What can we help you with, miss?” Dash asked, planting his legs wide as he took up the space between the other two men.

“My car.” I rolled a wrist toward the Audi. “It needs an oil change.”

The sun must have inched closer to Earth because it was sweltering. Sweat beaded in my cleavage as his gaze dropped momentarily to my breasts. He didn’t stare at them for more than a fraction of a second, but they’d caught his attention.

Score two for the tank top.

Dash looked to the long-haired man and jerked his chin toward the garage. The man nodded, gave the short-haired man a grunt and the pair left, returning to work without a word.

Was that how they communicated around here? Chin lifts and grunts? That would make an interview difficult. And short.

Dash glanced over his shoulder to make sure we were alone, then he gave me that famous sexy smirk I’d seen from afar. In person, it was dizzying. “We’ll take care of the oil change. Do a full work-up too. On the house.”

“That would be great.” I tried to keep my voice even and cheerful. “But I’ll pay for it. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Dash stepped closer, his six-foot-something frame blocking some of the sunlight.

My natural urge was to scoot back and maintain my space, but I didn’t move an inch.

Maybe he only wanted to stand closer. But I’d learned years ago that arrogant men often tested the strength of their presence over a woman. They’d make little gestures to see how far they could push her around, especially when that woman was a reporter.

They’d touch a lock of my hair to see if I’d flinch. They’d stand tall to see if I’d cower. And they’d move in too close to see if I’d step away.

Either Dash knew exactly who I was and wanted to see if I’d tuck tail and run, or he was so cocky that he thought a grin and an oil change would make me drop to my knees and undo his belt to pay for my on the house services.

“You new around here?” he asked.

“I am.”

He hummed. “I’m surprised I haven’t seen you before.”

“I don’t get out much.” The air was heavy around us, like a brick wall had gone up in place of my personal bubble and the spring breeze couldn’t get through.

“That’s a shame. You feel like getting out, stop by The Betsy. Maybe I’ll buy you a beer sometime.”

“Maybe.” Or maybe not.

The Betsy was Clifton Forge’s infamous dive bar and definitely not my scene.

“You guys must all be into motorcycles.” I turned and pointed at the row of them behind me.

“You could say that. Most of us here ride.”

“I’ve never been on one before.”

“Yeah?” He grinned. “There’s nothing like it. Maybe before I buy you that beer, I’ll take you for a ride first.”

The way he stressed the word ride made my breath stutter. I locked my gaze with his, a flare of heat passing between us. Were we both picturing a very different kind of ride on that motorcycle? Because, despite my best efforts to block it out, the image of me straddling his narrow hips was now the only thing in my head. From the hungry look in his eyes, he had a similar mental picture.

“Which bike is yours?” I asked, shoving the sexual thoughts away.

He raised an arm, his wrist brushing against my elbow in a movement that seemed accidental but had definitely been done on purpose. “The black one in the middle.”

“Dash.” I read the name emblazoned with flames on one panel. “Is that your name?”

“Yep.” He held out a hand between us. “Dash Slater.”

I slipped my hand into his, refusing to let my heart flutter at the way his long fingers engulfed my own. “Dash. That’s an interesting name.”

“Nickname.”

“And what’s your real name?”

He smiled, dropping my hand. “That’s a secret I only tell a woman after she’s let me buy her a beer.”

“Pity. I only drink beer with a man after I know his real name.”

Dash chuckled. “Kingston.”

“Kingston Slater. But your nickname is Dash. Does anyone ever call you King?”

“Not anyone who lived to say it twice,” he teased.