Читать книгу On Her Side - Beth Andrews - Страница 9
ОглавлениеCHAPTER ONE
IT WAS THE RARE—and what her sisters would probably describe as blessed—day when Nora Sullivan was struck speechless. But try as she might, she couldn’t articulate any of the thoughts flying through her head. Not after the bombshell Layne had oh-so-casually just dropped.
Luckily her other sister, Tori, had no such problem. “What did you say?”
At the head of the table, Layne tightened the band around her long, dark ponytail. “I asked you to pass the Italian dressing.”
Tori shoved the bottle at her. “Before that.”
“You mean when I asked if you wanted a beer?” Layne soaked her salad with the dressing, releasing the scent of olive oil, vinegar and seasonings, then licked a drop off the side of her thumb. “Because there’s some in the fridge.”
“No, smartass. What did you say after that?”
“Oh. You mean that Ross and I are seeing each other?”
“Yeah,” Tori said, taking a big bite of her pizza before reaching for a paper napkin from the pile in front of her, “that’s what I thought you said.”
How could they both be so cavalier? Nora wondered as Layne dug into her salad. This wasn’t just huge, it was momentous. Shocking. And possibly the dumbest, most reckless thing Layne had ever done.
“Wait, wait. I think my head’s going to explode.” Nora pressed her palms against her temples in case her brain went boom! and splattered over their dinner. “You’re sleeping with your boss?”
That was so wrong on so many levels, and so unlike her usually cautious sister, Nora didn’t even know where to start. Though she was pretty sure Have you lost your freaking mind? was as good a place as any.
“Isn’t that against the law?” Tori asked as she got a beer out of the fridge and twisted it open.
“He’s my superior officer,” Layne said dryly, picking out a second slice of cheese pizza and setting it on her paper plate. “Not my brother. And there are currently no rules against departmental relationships.”
Nora speared a cherry tomato from her salad with her fork. “Well, gee, if there aren’t any written rules against it, we should all hook up with our bosses and damn the consequences.”
Tori dropped the cap from her beer into the trash can. “Considering my boss is a woman, and our father’s girlfriend, I guess I’m out.”
“This is serious.”
“Please. Cancer is serious. Kids going hungry is serious. This is sex between two single, consenting adults. What it should be is fun. Hot. And, if they’re doing it right, and often enough, exhausting.” She sipped her beer and sat back down, wiggled her eyebrows at Layne. “So, is it any of those?”
Nora deliberately set her fork down so she wouldn’t be tempted to stab Tori in the hand. Breathing deeply, she centered herself. “Look,” she said to Layne, “Chief Taylor seems very…capable—”
Tori snorted. “Just how every man dreams of being described in bed.”
Nora’s lips twitched and she had to clear the humor from her throat. “I meant at his job. God, get your mind out of the gutter.” And capable did aptly describe the big, silent, watchful police chief. “But that doesn’t mean you should risk your career for…for…”
“A few rounds of slap and tickle?” Tori interjected helpfully.
Reaching across the table, Layne plucked the beer from Tori’s hand and took a long drink. “Whoever said sisters are one of the nicest things to happen to anyone never met you two.”
“Hey, I’m on your side.” Tori took her beer back. “I don’t blame you for wanting some good times with Chief Taylor. He’s completely hot. All controlled and commanding and in charge.” She gave a little shiver that, if it’d been any other woman, would’ve looked like a convulsion. But with Tori it was just sexy. “Plus he has a top-notch ass.”
“I’ll be sure to mention to him you think so.”
Tori grinned sharply and shook her hair back. The caramel highlights in the dark, shoulder-length strands caught the setting sun as it streamed through the French doors. “Oh, I’d be more than happy to pass that information on myself,” she said in a seductive purr that went perfectly with her tight dark jeans and off-the-shoulder yellow top.
She would, too. Of that, Nora had no doubt. Tori was confident and sensual and used to men falling at her gorgeous feet. Layne, while more reserved, was no less beautiful. When Nora was younger, she’d envied her sisters for their long legs, dark hair and sharp features. Until she’d realized being blonde and curvy had its own rewards.
Like the ability to get away with just about anything because you were pretty and looked as if your head was filled with pink cotton candy, happy thoughts and sugarcoated dreams.
Nora may not be as brazen as Layne—who bulldozed her way over opposition—or as inherently sensual as Tori—who flirted and charmed her way into getting what she wanted—but she was smart.
Smart enough to have learned long ago to forge her own way instead of following in her sisters’ footsteps.
Bobby O, Layne’s black Rottie/Lab mix with floppy ears and a squared off snout, nudged the side of Nora’s thigh then dropped a worn tennis ball at her feet. She kicked it softly so that it rolled across the wooden floor into the family room. Bobby raced after it, his tail wagging furiously as he skidded to a stop, taking the burgundy-and-brown throw rug with him.
“I’m having a hard time processing this,” she said. “Have you considered what could happen to your job, your reputation, once this gets around?”
“Of course I have,” Layne said, as if a few of those brain cells Nora had tried to hold back earlier had seeped out anyway. Which was crazy. Because anyone who knew Nora would never accuse her of being stupid. And her sisters knew her best. “I just… I think he’s worth the risk.”
“Wow.” Stunned, Nora sat back. “You… He… Wow. Wow.”
“Very articulate.”
“Sorry, but you’ve never been big on the whole relationship thing before.”
Any relationship. Layne was a rock, an island in their family. Nora had always thought she preferred it that way. After all, while Nora and Tori shared secrets and clothes, good times and bad, Layne maintained her distance. But maybe that had less to do with her wanting to be alone and more to do with how she’d cared for her sisters from such a young age, had set their bedtimes and helped with homework. Had given them attention, love and, when needed, discipline. Things their father hadn’t been around enough to do, their mother was too selfish to do.
Nora wondered if Layne would ever forgive their parents for being so much less than perfect. If she’d ever stop resenting her sisters for needing her.
Layne tore her pizza crust into small pieces. “I tried to ignore my feelings for Ross, hoped that if I pretended I didn’t care, whatever I felt for him would go away. But it didn’t work. Today he stopped by and I realized what a coward I was being by not taking a chance on him. On us. I don’t know what’s going to happen—with our jobs or this relationship—and that terrifies me, but…” She brushed the crumbs from her fingers. “I’m not willing to let him go.”
“Look who realized she can’t control everything,” Tori said, lifting her bottle in a toast. “I thought this happy day would never come. But I doubt the only reason you invited us over for an impromptu pizza dinner is to share with us that you finally have a sex life.”
“I wanted to tell you before it got around town.”
Tori picked a carrot slice out of the salad on her plate and popped it into her mouth. “And?”
Sighing, Layne pushed her plate aside. “And I wanted to talk to you about Mom’s case.”
“Did something happen?” Nora asked, hope rising that after three weeks the Mystic Point Police Department finally had a lead. “Did they find Dale?”
“No.” Layne got to her feet and began to pace, Bobby on her heels, the ball in his mouth. “There have been no bank or utility records in his name, no credit card statements, payroll information or tax returns filed. It’s as if he ceased to be when he left Mystic Point.”
“Why don’t you quit chewing on whatever it is you have to say,” Tori suggested, “and just spit it out?”
Layne stopped, gripped the back of her chair with both hands. “We have to face the fact that we may never find him.”
A roaring filled Nora’s head. If they never found Dale York, they’d never punish the man responsible for their mother’s death.
“So he gets away with murder?” she asked incredulously, her fingers curling into her palms. “No. Unacceptable.”
“It’s more than likely Dale skipped the country all those years ago. Or he’s dead. The truth is, even if we did catch a major break and find him, the chances of getting a conviction are slim to none. We have no concrete evidence linking him to Mom’s murder and no eyewitnesses.”
Layne was using her reasonable I’m Assistant Police Chief and therefore know better than you tone. Nora wanted to toss her salad in her sister’s face, rub Ranch dressing into her hair. God, how dare she stand there so poised and rational? This wasn’t just another case they were discussing. This was their mother. She’d never understand how Layne could stay so detached.
Not that she’d question her sister about it. She’d done that once, the night they’d discovered their mother was dead. She’d never seen Layne so angry with her. So hurt. She’d never felt so guilty for causing that pain. Nora never made the same mistake twice.
“You’re just giving up?” Tori asked Layne.
“The case will remain open—”
“But you don’t believe Dale will ever be found.”
Layne met Tori’s gaze, then Nora’s. “No. I don’t. As much as I want to see that son of a bitch brought to justice, we have to realize that this isn’t some police show on TV. Not every case gets solved. Real life isn’t fair. It isn’t easy, tidy or guaranteed to end happily.”
“I think we’re all familiar with those concepts,” Nora snapped. She sure didn’t need her sister reminding her of them. But despite the realization that life sometimes sucked the big one, Nora did her best to maintain a positive outlook, to hold on to the hope that no matter how rough the waters got, there’d be smooth sailing ahead.
That motto, combined with a healthy dose of optimism and a natural, sunny demeanor that bugged the hell out of her sisters—a nice bonus—made it possible for her to become a fairly well-adjusted adult, despite being abandoned by her mother. She’d done her best to maintain that healthy balance even after she and her family discovered everything they thought they knew about their past had been a lie. Valerie Sullivan, their beautiful, charming, imperfect mother hadn’t left her husband and daughters to run off with her lover eighteen years ago.
She’d been murdered.
Brutally attacked and then left to rot in the woods outside of town where her remains were found over three weeks ago. And though the police had little to go on in the way of evidence and the most likely suspect hadn’t been seen or heard from in eighteen years, Nora fully believed justice would be served. The truth, after all, always wins out in the end.
She’d make sure of it.
“You need to talk to his son again,” Nora said. “Make him tell you where Dale is.”
Layne gave her a look of exasperation mixed with indulgence. As if Nora was a precocious seven-year-old instead of an intelligent adult with a damn good suggestion. “Ross has already questioned Griffin and his mother and I spoke with Griffin about it when I ran into him a few weeks ago. Neither one of them have heard from Dale since he left town.”
“So they claim.” But what if they were lying?
Layne crossed her ankles and leaned back against the large, granite-topped center island, one of the few changes she’d made to their childhood home after she’d bought it from their father five years ago. “What would you have me do? Get out my rubber hose and beat the information out of them?”
“Maybe you haven’t asked in the right way,” Nora said.
“I asked in the only way I know how and it didn’t work so don’t think you’d have better luck.”
Nora widened her eyes. “Did I say anything about my speaking to either of them?”
“You didn’t have to.” This from Tori. “It’s written all over your face.”
Nora started to lift a hand as if to wipe her expression clean but then slowly lowered it. Sent a bright smile at her gorgeous, overbearing, irritating sisters. “Now you’re both just being paranoid.”
Layne and Tori exchanged a long look. Nora hated when they did that. It was as if despite their many, many differences, they still had the ability to read the other’s mind. “Stay out of it,” Layne told her.
“More importantly,” Tori added, “stay away from Griffin York. He is nothing but bad news. Do you understand?”
“First of all,” Nora said as she rose and began clearing the table, her movements fluid despite the anger starting to sizzle in her veins, “save that mother tone for Brandon. I’m way past the age where it’ll work on me.” Not that it had worked on her twelve-year-old nephew lately, either. He was still mighty pissed at Tori for divorcing his father over six months earlier. “Secondly, what on earth gave you the crazy idea that I planned on speaking with Griffin York?”
“Because you always think you can succeed where mere mortals have failed,” Layne said.
Tori nodded. “Because you fully believe you can charm what you want out of anyone.”
Since both of those statements were true, Nora did her best to project sweetness and light and innocence. “I’m flattered you two think so highly of me. But honestly, you don’t have to worry.”
“Just promise us you won’t do anything stupid,” Layne said, watching her carefully.
Nora laid a hand over her heart. “I promise.”
An easy enough vow to make. She didn’t do stupid. But she did do whatever she had to in order to get her own way. If that meant facing down big, bad Griffin York, then so be it.
* * *
GRIFFIN CLIMBED DOWN from the tow truck and reached back inside for a copy of the day’s Mystic Point Chronicle. Tucking it under his arm, he grabbed his cup of take-out coffee and sipped it as he shut the door. The cool, early morning breeze ruffled his hair, brought with it the briny scent of the ocean as he walked toward the garage.
Though the tow truck and building both carried the name Eddie’s Service, they—along with the quarter acre lot they sat on, the tools and equipment inside the garage and the monthly small business loan payment—were his. All his.
It gave him a jolt, as it always did, to see it. To realize what he’d accomplished with little more than a high school diploma and a talent for taking cars apart. An even bigger talent for putting them back together again.
Surprise and pride mixed together to make that bump in his belly, along with a hefty dose of pure satisfaction that his father had been wrong.
He wasn’t worthless.
Which was a hell of a lot more than he could say for Dale York.
More than that, Griffin had made a place for himself in this small town despite his last name and his father’s reputation. Now, for good or bad, he was a part of Mystic Point. But that didn’t necessarily mean he was accepted there, that he belonged.
Didn’t mean he wanted to be either of those things.
Typing in the code on the security system’s keypad, he waited while the bay door rose. Across the street, the Pizza Junction, a long building with a flat roof, was dark, the sign reading Sorry, We’re Closed hanging at an angle on the glass door. Next to it, the pounding beat of some synthesized dance tune threatened to shatter the windows of Leonard’s Fitness. Why people needed Marty Leonard, with his overdeveloped muscles and penchant for tight, bright running shorts—short running shorts—to tell them how to exercise and what they could and couldn’t eat, was beyond Griffin. Then again, he’d never been much of a joiner.
Or one to take orders well.
Inside the garage, he flipped on the overhead lights before turning on the iPod in a docking station in the corner. Aerosmith’s “Deuces Are Wild” floated through the sound system he’d rigged throughout the building so that when he stepped into his office, Steven Tyler’s voice met him.
Tossing the paper aside, he sat behind his cluttered desk and did a quick check of the day’s work schedule: four oil changes and two inspections this morning, plus Kelly Edel was to bring her Expedition in for new tires. That afternoon he’d work on Roy Malone’s ancient Chevy’s transmission and, if that alternator cap he’d ordered last week came in, he’d be able to get George Waid’s precious Trans Am finished.
He stretched his arms overhead then picked up his coffee, took a sip. Not a bad workload for a Monday. Barring any unforeseen emergencies, mishaps or time sucks, he’d start his week on schedule and be out of here today by five.
One corner of his mouth lifted. His days never went according to plan. There were always flat tires, fender benders, overheated engines or breakdowns to deal with. Hell, some days he dealt with all of them and then some.
He loved every minute of it.
He ran a successful business. One that had far exceeded the expectations he’d had when he’d bought out Eddie Franks five years ago. He knew what people thought when they saw him. That he was trouble. Dangerous. Like his old man.
He’d gotten tired of trying to prove them wrong. Had long ago stopped caring what other people thought.
So he’d kept to himself, kept his head down and worked his ass off. Now they brought their vehicles to him because they trusted him to keep their minivans and SUVs and pickups and sedans running safely. And they came back because he was damn good at his job.
That was enough for him.
He heard a car pull into the lot. Frowning, he checked the Kendall Motor Oil clock on the wall. Kelly was early, he thought as a car door slammed shut. No skin off his nose—unless she expected him to fit her in earlier than scheduled.
But when he stepped out into the garage, it wasn’t a middle-aged, overweight mother of two walking toward him.
It was a blonde. A young blonde in a light purple dress that wrapped around her waist in a wide band, the skirt flaring out slightly and ending above her knees. Her legs were bare, her feet encased in a pair of pointy toed high heels the color of sand. She’d pulled her hair back into some sort of twist, showing off a delicate neck and a pair of diamonds glittering at her ears.
He narrowed his eyes. There was something…familiar…about her. Something more than his seeing her around town—though in a town the size of Mystic Point most everyone looked familiar.
But then it clicked and he realized who she was. And he could make a damn good guess why she’d come.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” he asked softly as she stepped inside. “A Sullivan in my shop. Has hell frozen over? Or is it just the end of the world as I know it?”
Instead of scowling—the reaction he’d expect from a Sullivan—the blonde blushed, pink spreading from the small V of skin visible at her chest, up her throat to her face. But her eyes stayed on his and she even smiled as she approached him.
“Griffin York, right?” she asked, holding her hand out. “Hi. I’m—”
“I know who you are.” His coffee in one hand, he shoved the other into the pocket of his jeans. After a moment, she slowly lowered her arm. He raked his gaze over her. She was pretty—in an angelic sort of way. He’d never been much for angels. Or Sullivans. “You’re Layne and Tori’s sister.”
Her megawatt smile dimmed a fraction. “Actually I usually go by Nora. Seems easier for people to say.”
He lifted a shoulder. “You having car trouble?”
She blinked. “What? Oh, no. No,” she repeated, holding on to the strap of her purse as if it was a lifeline, “my car’s fine. I—”
“Then I guess there’s no reason for you to be here.” He nodded toward the parking lot where her silver Lexus blocked the entrance to his garage. “See you later, Nancy.”
“Really? That’s the best you can do?”
“Not sure what you mean.”
“Yes, you do. You’re trying to prove to me that I’m so unimportant, you can’t even be bothered to remember my name.” That damn smile was back to full power, as if he amused her to no end. “Aren’t you clever to target my tender feelings that way? Is this the point where I’m supposed to take my broken heart and scurry away?”
Studying her over the rim of his cup, he sipped his coffee. “That sounds about right.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” she said, and he wondered how she managed to convey such sincerity when she sounded as far from sorry as humanly possible. Must be that face of hers. Someone who looked like she kept a spare halo in her pocket could get away with quite a few sins before anyone realized she was like every other poor slob walking the earth.
Flawed, untrustworthy and only out for herself.
“I’m not ready to leave yet,” she continued. “I was hoping I could talk to you about your father.”
He figured that’s why she’d come, but hearing her say it still gave him a twinge of guilt, of nerves, both of which pissed him off. He wouldn’t be held accountable for his father’s mistakes or his crimes. Wouldn’t feel responsible for them.
“You don’t always get what you want,” he said smoothly, rubbing the pad of his thumb along the faded scar under his jaw. “That was one lesson the old man taught real well.”
Tossing his coffee cup into the trash, he walked over to the car on the lift, his stride unhurried, his movements easy as he opened the driver side door. But when he reached inside, he gripped the keys tightly, cranking them so hard the engine whined in protest.
The back of his neck heated. He gave the steering wheel a sharp rap with the side of his fist. Damn it. Damn her. This was his place. She had no right to waltz in here, looking all untouchable and superior, and bring up his bastard of a father.
Ducking back out of the car, Griffin walked to the shelves along the far wall without so much as a glance to see if she’d left or not. He took down a funnel and tossed it on the rolling cart next to the plastic jug he used to store old oil.
Blondie couldn’t change the rules because she had a bug up her ass about something. He never set foot in the Ludlow Street Café, the restaurant her father’s live-in girlfriend owned, where her sister Tori worked. Even back in school when he and Tori were in the same grade, Layne two years ahead of them, he’d kept to himself. He never, ever, stepped over the invisible line that had kept the Yorks and the Sullivans separated for the past eighteen years. Pretending the other family didn’t exist—let alone that they lived in the same town—had worked pretty damn well for both the Sullivans and him and his mom.
Had worked until Valerie Sullivan’s remains were found outside the old quarry, proving she hadn’t taken off with his father like everyone in town had believed. Bringing up the very real possibility that his father had killed his lover before he’d left Mystic Point.
And just like that, Griffin and his mother had been yanked back into the past. The police chief had wanted to know if they’d heard from Dale, if they had any idea where he was, how he could be reached. They hadn’t and they didn’t, but that didn’t stop the rumors from flying. Wouldn’t stop people from remembering that his mother had once been married to the man suspected of Valerie’s murder. Reminding them all that Griffin was his son.
“I spoke with my sister yesterday,” the youngest Sullivan said, standing in the middle of his garage as if nothing short of a dynamite blast would move her. Which he was starting to seriously consider. “The assistant police chief?”
He shut off the car and slammed the door shut. “Not interested.”
“Layne said you claim not to know where your father is,” she continued as if Griffin’s words had floated in one ear and out the other without meeting so much as one working brain cell as resistance. “Is that true?”
“I thought you were the smart Sullivan sister,” he said, pressing the button to raise the car on the lift.
She crossed her arms, for the first time looking uncomfortable—and wasn’t that interesting? “I don’t see what my IQ has to do with—”
“But in case you’re not as bright as they say, let me make myself very clear.” He tapped his fist against his thigh as he closed the distance between them, stopping in front of her. Though she wore two-inch heels—and he topped off at five-ten—she still had to tip her head back to maintain eye contact. “I’ve already been questioned by the cops. And no matter how many times you or your sister—the assistant police chief—ask me, the answers aren’t going to change.”
“But you—”
“So unless you’re having car problems—and are prepared to pay me to fix those problems—there’s really no reason for you to be here. And nothing for us to talk about.”
Inhaling deeply, she sent a beseeching glance at the ceiling, as if asking the heavens from whence she came to grant her patience. “I think we got off on the wrong foot here.”
“Do you?” he murmured, figuring only an idiot would miss the calculation in her blue eyes. And the intelligence behind them.
He’d been called many things in his life, but never an idiot.
“How about we start over?” she asked, holding out her hand again. “Hi, Griffin, I’m Nora. It’s nice to meet you.”
For a moment, he almost believed she was as innocent and harmless as she looked with her perfect face, guileless charm and dry sense of humor.
She was good, he’d give her that. Damn good.
He enveloped her warm hand in his, noting the relief, the triumph that crossed her expression. But when he held on past what was considered the polite amount of time for a simple handshake, that relief turned to unease. The triumph to confusion. He felt no small amount of satisfaction from that unease. And he had no problem using it against her.
“How about this?” he asked quietly, tugging her toward him until she was so close he could smell her light, clean scent. Could hear the soft catch of her breath. Her throat worked, her eyes widened as they met his. “You walk yourself out of my garage, get into your car and drive off my property. Or—”
“Or what?” she asked, yanking free of his hold, her face flush. “You’ll toss me over your shoulder, throw me into my trunk, hook my car to your tow truck and drag me out of here?”
He could easily imagine himself doing the first and wished he could figure out a way to make the second idea work without going to jail for it. “Not that I have anything against those suggestions, but no. I won’t do anything.”
She smirked, reminding him of how Layne had looked a few weeks back when she’d tried to arrest him for the dubious crime of being Dale York’s son. “That’s what I thought.”
No, she thought she had him firmly by the balls. And all she had to do to keep him in line was squeeze.
“I won’t do anything,” he repeated. “I’ll let the Mystic Point Police Department do it for me.”
She blinked. Then she laughed. Bright, tinkling laughter that filled the cavernous space of the garage and seemed to echo back at him.
He was in hell.
“Keep that sense of humor,” he said. “It’ll come in handy when they take your mug shot.”
“Come on,” she said as if inviting him to share in the joke. “You’re not going to call the police.”
“I’m not?”
“Why would you? It’s not like you and the Mystic Point PD have a strong relationship based on mutual trust and admiration.”
Because he was Dale York’s son. Because he’d been a wild and rebellious kid and was an adult who didn’t take shit or back down from anyone.
“I’m a tax paying, law-abiding citizen,” he pointed out, not getting so much as a parking ticket since he turned eighteen and realized he’d be following his old man’s footsteps straight to prison if he didn’t keep his nose clean. Watching her, he took out his cell phone. “Make sure to duck when they put you in the back of the squad car. Wouldn’t want to hit your head and mess up that fancy hairdo.”
“While I’m sure that’s excellent advice—and comes from your own personal experience—I don’t need it. It’s not illegal to have a conversation with someone. Unless, of course, you know something about the law I don’t?” she asked in a sweet, condescending tone that grated on his last nerve.
He raised his eyebrows. “You always have that ego, or did it come with the law degree?”
“It’s not ego. I just meant—”
“I know what you meant.” She wanted to prove how smart she was—so much smarter than him because she went to some fancy college while he was lucky to finish high school. So much better than him by virtue of her last name. “And I don’t care what the cops do with you. Arrest you for trespassing, cite you for loitering or give you a ticket for being a pain-in-the-ass. Doesn’t matter to me as long as they get you out of my hair and out of my garage.”
Biting her lower lip, she regarded him warily as if trying to figure out if he was serious. “Okay,” she said with a decisive nod, “if that’s the way you want it—”
“It is,” he assured her, mimicking her somber tone.
“Fine.” Her sigh was very much that of a poor, put-upon female forced to deal with a brainless, tactless male. “We’ll do things your way. But for the record,” she said, wagging her finger at him like some librarian to a naughty schoolboy—never one of his favorite fantasies, “let me just say I’m not happy about this. Not one bit.”
“Life’s tough that way. Best get used to it.”
“Thank you for those words of wisdom,” she said so solemnly he didn’t doubt she was messing with him. “I will endeavor to keep them in mind.”
Endeavor. Jesus. Who talked like that?
She strode away, her back rigid, her arms swinging like one of those women he saw power-walking in Hanley Park each morning.
Except, she didn’t march her irritating self out the door. She brushed past him, crossed to the long shelf behind the lift and stared at the tools there as if trying to figure out which one went best with her outfit.
A prickle of trepidation formed between his shoulder blades. What was she up to?
Finally she grabbed a small crowbar and held it up as she walked toward him. “I’m borrowing this.”
His muscles tensed, and the prickle morphed into an itch of warning. Not of physical violence—though he didn’t doubt this piece of fluff was capable of it. Everyone was. But that whatever she planned on doing with that crowbar was going to piss him off but good.
“You plan on beating me over the head for not talking to you?” he asked mildly, his hands at his sides, his weight on the balls of his feet in case he had to defend himself.
“Of course not,” she said, passing him by without taking so much as a swing. “That would be a little overkill, don’t you think?”
She walked into the sunshine and he figured his skull was safe—for now. Unable to resist, he followed her, stopping to lean against the door frame as she marched up to her car, raised the bar over her shoulder like a batter ready for a grand slam—and swung hard. Her headlight exploded in a spray of glass. Pieces clung to her dress, sparkling against the dark material. More rained down onto the pavement.
And people thought he was dangerous.
“Lady,” he said, straightening, “you’ve got a sparkplug loose up in that head of yours.”
She strolled over to the other headlight and took it out as well. Cocking one hip, she studied her handiwork for a moment then started whaling away at the grill, the clang of metal on metal setting his teeth on edge.
She didn’t have the strength to do much damage to the grill, though she gave it her best shot—no pun intended. But what she lacked in muscle, she made up for in enthusiasm. She grunted with exertion, her hips swaying in time with her swings, the hem of her dress lifting to show a few more inches of her thighs.
He might have enjoyed the sight if he didn’t want to wring her pretty neck.
Griffin glanced behind him. He could go back inside, close the door and pretend this whole bat-shit crazy episode had never happened. He was tempted, sorely tempted to do just that. But he had customers scheduled to arrive soon and traffic was picking up along Willard Avenue. It was only a matter of time before someone noticed what the psycho blonde was doing.
And wonder what he’d done to drive her to it.
He stormed over and grabbed the bar on one of her upswings, plucking it from her hand. “Knock it off,” he growled, frustration eating at him, making him think about taking a few swings at the vehicle himself. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“I’m done anyway,” she said, breathing hard. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright—with temper? Or insanity? “Now, let’s go inside so we can discuss how you can help me track down your father.”
