Free Assuming Names: a con artist's masquerade (Criminal Mischief Book 1) by Tanya Thompson Page A

neck, wanting to wring it, and the other braced against the dash, he could only bellow and then plead with me for restraint.
    About ten minutes into the ride of terror, I stalled the Corvette trying to do donuts on the golf course green.
    I was reaching for the ignition key again, finally seeing there wasn’t one, and then Sergiu got my wrists. Hauled straight over the transmission, we were both going out the passenger door.
    I didn’t comprehend but three foreign words of what he was roaring, but I understood the tone. Holding me against the car with one hand, he’d thrown his other open to encompass the circles of torn up grass, and I imagined he was cursing, “A golf course, for Christ’s sake!” and next he was shaking me, saying something about the police.
    Then, one hand around my neck, he was threatening with the other to slap me, but I wasn’t paying attention. I was consumed by something else. Leaning into him to breathe deep, he was just like a horse whose scent had been raised with its blood. I said, “You always smell like Givenchy.”
    Taken aback, he hit the roof of the car instead.
    Then, with his finger in my face, the tirade continued but I hadn’t even flinched; I was still drawing in the fragrance as he demanded, something-something “you crazy?”
    I replied with unaffected serenity, “The asylum said no.”
    Sergiu stalked away only to turn and bound back, slamming both hands on the top of the car’s frame, pinning me to the door, expecting something more than my continued interest in his cologne, but when all he got was me pressing my face into his jacket to inhale, he heaved frustration from his lungs and opened the passenger door to push me in.
    While he crossed behind the car, I saw the ignition key on the floor and reached to collect it. It had been filed down to a thin line, no grooves whatsoever, no grip to hold it in place on a wild ride, but most importantly, it should not have turned over the engine.
    I handed it to Sergiu with a smirk.
    The whole ride back was a long incomprehensible rant that he gave to himself in what sounded like four different languages, and only briefly was one of them English. “This girl is no good. No good. No bueno , no buona , no bun . No more with this girl.”
     
    ~~~~~~
     
    Daniel was on the porch with Tricia waiting for Sergiu, and at the curb, Eugene was adjusting the radio dial in a Saab. All three were driving that night to New York and planned to fly back later in the week. Daniel had said they were working for a wealthy businessman, conveying cars bought at auction to a dealership. And while he confided it was too good of money to pass up, he considered the job strictly temporary until he found something else.
    “Constance, you come to airport for us?” Tricia had already volunteered me in the agency’s car, but Daniel wanted it confirmed.
    But on hearing it, Sergiu erupted in Romanian. Pacing between the curb and the porch, he directed Daniel’s attention to the mud sprayed across the back fenders and then pointed at the golf course, all the while raging loud and throwing his arms wide to emphasize the insolence he’d endured.
    I shrugged my shoulders at Tricia as though the scene playing out across the lawn was utterly inexplicable.
    The close tussle against the car had left me smelling like him, and the scent almost made me want to apologize. I even turned before retiring into the house, had the words “I’m sorry” in my mouth, but he was still seething and I thought it would probably be easier to just go buy a bottle of Givenchy.
    It took all of the days he was away for Sergiu to find anything remotely humorous about that night. He returned with annoyance still pinching at his eyes, informing me we were going to dinner. Once in the Jaguar, he tried to explain his frustration. “You always calm. You,” his hand dropped across his face to erase all but the merest hint of a smile, and he spoke with a near comatose expression, “You