Free Into the Fire by Anne Stuart Page B

enough to be blocking the stereo. He reached past her, pushed the powerbutton, and suddenly the music was blaring in her ears.
    She punched the power button off again, glaring at him. Until she saw the thoughtful expression on his face, and realized she might have misplayed her hand.
    â€œAre you going to get into a wrestling match over Nirvana, Jamie?” he drawled, turning it on again. “I’m game if you are, but I can think of only one way it would end, and the floor of this garage is a rotten place to have sex.”
    She didn’t blush, didn’t flinch, though it took a great deal of effort. “In your dreams,” she said.
    â€œYes.”
    The one-syllable word was even more unsettling, and she wisely decided it was time to change the subject. “Look, you’ve got at least half a dozen cars over there. Surely one of them is in good-enough working order that I could drive it back to Rhode Island. I’d have it shipped back to you, I promise. I just really need to get the hell out of here.”
    â€œMost of those cars belong to other people. That’s what I do for a living—restore cars for rich people who don’t have the soul or the knowledge to appreciate them.”
    â€œYou can’t convince me you haven’t kept some for yourself.”
    He smiled then, a predatory grin that gave her pause. “As a matter of fact, three of those cars are mine, and two of them run. You want to check them out?”
    She didn’t trust him, didn’t trust that faintly smug expression. But it didn’t matter—she wanted to get out of there badly enough to risk it.
    â€œOkay,” she said. “I’m not picky.”
    How could a smile be infuriating, unsettling, and sexy as hell? But then, that could describe everything about Dillon Gaynor, and always had.
    He strolled over to the row of cars along the far end of the garage, pulling the bright yellow tarp off the first one. At that point Jamie would have been willing to drive a stagecoach back to Rhode Island, but the sight of the old Model A Ford stopped her.
    â€œIt runs,” Dillon said. “About twenty-five miles an hour, and the tires have to be replaced every hundred miles, or sooner if you have a blowout, and the hand crank is a bit tricky to start, but you’re welcome to it.”
    â€œI think I’ll pass. What’s next? The Hindenburg?”
    He yanked the tarp off the next one, and Jamie held her breath. It was gorgeous—an aqua-blue Thunderbird from the mid-fifties. “I’ll take it!” she breathed.
    â€œI didn’t know cars got you that excited, kiddo,” he said. “I would have tried it earlier. And no, you won’t take it. The T-bird is waiting for a new engine. It’s not going anywhere until then.”
    â€œYou said you had two working cars. Why bother showing me ones that don’t work?”
    â€œBecause you aren’t the type to take my word for anything.”
    She didn’t bother arguing. “Where’s the other car?”
    â€œOver there,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of a covered vehicle in the far corner.
    â€œDoes it run?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThen what’s the problem?”
    He wasn’t moving, he was just watching her, but she wasn’t about to let him spook her. If the old junker hiding under the blue tarp was her ticket out of there, then she’d embrace it willingly. Anything to escape.
    He was still halfway across the huge expanse of the garage, watching her, when she reached the car. She didn’t hesitate, yanking the plastic away from the machine. The first flash of yellow and chrome should have warned her, but it was already too late.
    It was the car Dillon had owned twelve years ago, the same car she’d driven to that party in, the samecar, the same front seat where he’d kissed her, touched her. The same back seat where…
    Her back was to him, a