Free Ugley Business by Kate Johnson Page A

park.
    “Your flowers are dying,” he said without looking at me, and swung through the gate. Arrogant bastard. My flowers were fine.
    I opened my mouth to tell him that I’d changed my mind and I would be going in my car, fuck whatever he’d got, when I walked around the corner and saw him opening the passenger door of an Aston Martin Vanquish.
    A fucking Vanquish .
    An Aston. A Bond car. A machine so beautiful I’d have given Luke up for it. I wanted that car. I lusted after it. I wanted to have its babies.
    “You’re shitting me,” I said, and my mouth went on temporary strike in disgust.
    “Would you like a ride?” Docherty asked, standing there looking cool in black, unaffected by the dying heat of the day, his eyes inviting, the devil asking for my soul.
    And I said, “Yes,” and got in.
     
    The car—well, it was hardly a car, they should sell this thing as a marital aid. I have never ever been turned on by something as much as I was by this car. The seats were red leather and there were big sexy switches and dials all over. Docherty turned the key, flicked the F1-style gear paddles and pressed the great big red starter button and I nearly had an orgasm. The car roared and purred and shuddered, and I was right there with it.
    Docherty lowered the hand brake—thankfully out of my view on his right side, because I think a great big phallic lever like that might have been too much for me—and we were off, slipping out of the car park recklessly fast, sliding to a halt at the end of the drive.
    “Left or right?” Docherty asked, and I stared at him, eyes glazed. “Left or right?”
    I blinked. I had no idea. “Where are we going?”
    “Angel’s.”
    “Oh.” I had to think about it, but I couldn’t remember which word was which direction. Eventually I pointed, and Docherty, smiling, took off.
    God, it was fantastic. When I eventually recovered from the jolt and thrill of the start-up, I began to notice that people were starting to walk into lamp posts at the sight of us. When we stopped at the traffic lights, I saw one of my old schoolteachers standing at the crossing, and gave him a little wave. He waved back, stunned.
    “You like the car?” Docherty asked, glancing over at me. His accent was very strong, Oirish more than Irish, slow and measured, his voice deep and smooth. I felt myself go liquid again.
    “I love the car.”
    “How far is this chapel?”
    I blinked. Chapel ? “What?”
    He grinned. “The chapel where your friend lives.”
    Oh. Calm down, girl. Save it for Luke. Next time I’m not in the mood, all I’ll have to do is think of this car. Luke will never be able to keep up with me.
    “A couple of miles.”
    “Sure you don’t want to go further?”
    God, yes. I wanted to go all the way.
    “No,” I said, my voice coming out very breathy. “Just go straight there.”
    It seemed to take about thirty seconds to get there, and as we rumbled up the wobbly drive, the church doors opened and Luke and Angel came out. Angel looked impressed. Luke looked stunned.
    “Fuck me,” he said in amazement when I opened the door and got out.
    “Later,” I said, then I glanced back at the Aston. “Actually, no, not later. Docherty, can we borrow this?”
    He got out, grinning. “It’s not been Scotchguarded.”
    “I don’t care.” Luke ran his hands over the solid curves of the car. “Jesus, where did you get this?”
    “Aston factory in Newport Pagnell.”
    Luke rolled his eyes. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
    “Nope.” They met each others’ eyes and both gave a little nod in greeting. I don’t suppose Alpha males like them are really into hugging. They even seemed too cool for a handshake.
    Luke tore his eyes away from the car for a few seconds. “Angel, this is Docherty. He’s protected film stars, politicians, big white chiefs on both sides of the Northern Irish conflict. Docherty, this is Angel. She gets about ten phone calls a day from men who are in love