Free License to Thrill by Lori Wilde Page B

you?”
    He gritted his teeth hard. Calm down. Breathe deep. “You don’t understand.”
    “Control freak.”
    “Woman,” he ground out and sent her a don’t-mess-with-me warning, “you have a talent for pushing a man to the limits of his patience.”
    “I’m trying to get you to quit your yammering and get on the road before something serious happens to our grandparents. We’re wasting precious time.” Charlee tapped the face of her wristwatch.
    “I’m not so convinced a crazed trip through the desert is the most prudent move. How do we know for sure that’s where they’re going?”
    “We don’t, but do you have a better idea?” She cocked her head and spread her arms wide. “I’m open to input.”
    He paused, then admitted, “I don’t have any better ideas.”
    “Okay then, Slick. Let’s hit the highway.”
    Thirty minutes and twenty-five desert miles later, Charlee was seriously regretting goading Mason into the road trip. He’d been on his cell phone to his secretary, instructing her to report his credit cards stolen and wire money to him in Tucson.
    He had also talked briefly with his father but Charlee noticed he didn’t give many details about what had happened. He just told him that he had discovered Nolan was on his way to Tucson and he was following him. He never mentioned either Maybelline or herself.
    It was strange listening to the one-sided conversation. She had the feeling Mason tiptoed around a lot of hot button topics with his father. Like stolen wallets and Elvis impersonator kidnappers and sassy lady private investigators who didn’t drive to suit him.
    He had hated giving her the keys to his Bentley, but when she suggested he go ahead and take the wheel even though he didn’t have his license, he had actually lectured her from the highway safety manual.
    She could tell by the way he had painstakingly pulled the keys from his pocket he would much rather have a tooth extracted without Novocain than let her behind the wheel of his vintage vehicle. But apparently his sense of right and wrong was so deeply engrained he couldn’t conceive of driving without a license.
    Too bad for him. Nice for her. She got to pilot a Bentley.
    Ah, but at what cost.
    “Slow down,” Mason demanded, his face the color of a yucca in full bloom as Charlee took a bump in the road at seventy-five miles per hour. The Bentley glided through the dip on marshmallow shock absorbers—smooth and sweet. “What’s the speed limit through here?”
    “Control freak.”
    “If you say that one more time…”
    “You’ll what?” she dared, surprised by the quick thrill of pleasure pulsing through her at his threat. “Take me over your knee and spank me?”
    “Not that you couldn’t use a good spanking.” He glowered. “But I don’t strike women.”
    “Not even if I like it?” She winked, both terrified and turned on by her naughty boldness. He was so damned stuffy, she couldn’t help but try and shock him. Shocking this uptight blue blood, however, was a bit like dynamiting carp in a horse trough.
    She was so busy teasing him, the right front tire left the road and strummed irritatingly across those wake-up-you-desert-hypnotized-ninny strips.
    “Keep your eyes on the road,” he yelled.
    Startled, she jerked the steering wheel, ended up overcompensating and weaved slightly into the northbound lane. Luckily, there was no oncoming traffic.
    “Shit!” Mason exclaimed and lunged for the wheel.
    She jabbed him in the rib cage with her elbow before he could slap his hands on the steering wheel. “Back off, I’m driving.”
    “Oww.” He rubbed his ribs. “You’re a lunatic. You know that?”
    “Don’t grab the wheel when someone else is driving.”
    “Where the hell did you get your driver’s license? Britain?”
    “That’s a pretty good one actually. Maybe you do have a sense of humor.”
    “I wasn’t trying to be funny. Stop the car.”
    “Don’t get your knickers in a knot. Nobody was