by K. A. Tucker
“Oh really . . . And does Rust know about this?”
“He knows what he needs to know.” I pause. “Relax. I’ll have it off the lot by the end of the day.”
I get Miller’s signature nose flare in return, and then his voice drops to a low hiss. “Rust has been very clear about that coming to this doorstep. This garage runs one hundred and ten percent clean. You need to get it off this property now or your uncle will have your head.”
Miller seems to have jumped to the conclusion that I’m into something below board. Quite presumptuous of him. I could save him all this stress and just tell him the truth—that the car is a legal side project I’ve been working on with my friend Jesse for some extra cash.
Cash that I can say I’ve earned.
I’m more curious about what Miller knows of Rust’s “other” business. Is it more than I do? I know so little that it wouldn’t be hard. But it pisses me off to no end that this fucking asshole might know something that I don’t.
I lock my hands behind my head and grin. “Nope. I don’t think I will.”
Miller doesn’t waste another second, charging for the phone. He lifts the old-school receiver up and points it toward me in warning. “Don’t make me call Rust down here.”
I shrug. “It’s almost lunch. I wouldn’t mind grabbing a bite with him.”
A sneer curls his lips as he punches the keys with his fat index finger. I don’t even bother to hide my eye roll as he glares at me, earpiece jammed against the side of his head. “Rust, Miller . . . you need to get down here . . . It’s urgent . . . About what?” He shoots another scowl at me. “Your nephew, that’s what . . .’kay.” He slams down the receiver.
“Anyone ever tell you that you have anger-management issues?” It thrills me to no end that I can actually say that now. For the year that I was working in the garage, Miller rode my back every day, making my life hell. Now that Rust has moved me inside, making my future position as manager and eventual owner of this garage all the more obvious, Miller can’t get away with the same crap. But he still tries.
“I’m actually going to enjoy watching him hand your ass to you.”
“What is it exactly that you have against me, Miller? Is it that I’m younger? Better looking? Smarter?”
“Have you ever actually worked a day in your life?” he snaps back.
I pretend I don’t notice that the tension in the office has grown to choking proportions as I sort through invoices and answer customer calls, ignoring him. When I spot Rust’s navy Porsche Cayenne pull up outside the window twenty minutes later, I throw a lazy salute and stroll past Miller, glad to get away from him.
I find Rust standing with Tabbs and Zeke, two of his longest-standing mechanics here, hovering over the classic, his fingers sliding across the killer paint job that R&S completed for me.
“Hot damn, Nurse Boone!” Tabbs bellows, using the stupid nickname they slapped me with one week into working here. “This for you?”
I fish the keys out of my pocket. “Why? You wanna buy it?” One turn of the key has the engine purring low and steady. Not loud enough to drown out the bell that announces Miller barreling out the door. With groans, Tabbs and Zeke head back to their respective work to avoid his wrath.
“Is this what that loan was for?” Rust slides his sunglasses off to level me with bright blue eyes that match mine.
I nod. “Picked it up for three G’s. The widow just wanted it out of her garage. Had it restored to original spec.”
“Who did the work?”
“Who do you think?” Rust knows Jesse. He used to work at the garage too.
“He’s still around?”
I level a stern glare at my uncle. “Only for these types of projects. And only through me.” Rust knows what I’m talking about without me having to say it out loud. Jesse’ll never get mixed up with the likes of Rust’s “business associates” again. I wouldn’t want him to, after what he’s been through.
Rust’s hand finds his chin, giving it a thoughtful scratch. “You keeping it?”
“Nah . . . though I could definitely use a new car.” It’d be an upgrade from the ’07 Mustang GT convertible I’m driving now. The first car I ever bought myself, that leaks when it rains. Rust’s strange like that; on the one hand, he spoils me with things no twenty-four-year-old could possibly need, like a Rolex watch and gold cufflinks. But the basic necessities, like a roof and transportation? He makes me work for those. Before he handed me keys to the swank condo that I now live in, I was sharing a shitty apartment with Jesse. I think it’s a life lesson—to make me see what it’s like to struggle like a normal person so I’ll work harder to avoid it.
“I talked to Sully already. It’s going on the block this Saturday. Should be able to make a solid return on it, given it’s an anniversary model and the mileage is low. And I’m lining up two more deals like this as we speak. May need you to front me some cash, though.”
Rust’s brows spike but he says nothing. Sully is his associate, an auctioneer who sometimes helps sell cars for RMT. I don’t know if it bothers Rust that I went behind his back, but I’ve gotten to know Sully pretty well. And, other than his bankrolling the loan for me, I wanted to do this without Rust’s involvement.
I stifle my smile as Miller ambles over.
“Miller . . .” Rust gives a single nod.
The big man jerks his chin toward the car. “I warned him to get it out of here.”
Rust’s lips twist in thought, his eyes shifting between Miller and me. Deciding something. “If Luke says it’s fine, then it is. I trust him not to do something stupid.” Slapping my shoulder, he adds, “Smart investment. These are the kinds of things I want to see.”
Finally. Rust’s praise doesn’t get thrown around often. I don’t miss the grumble of annoyance from Miller. Rust chooses to ignore it, instead turning his attention to the white Audi RS 5 turning into the lot.
“That’s an awfully new car to bring here,” he muses.
“Probably still under warranty,” I add. Why would someone bring a brand-new Audi here and not straight to their dealer? There’s one not ten miles away.
The car rolls to a stop and a pair of pink heels appears from the open door.
“Never seen her before,” Miller mutters as a young brunette climbs out. I wonder if she even knows she has a warranty. Miller takes two steps toward her, but Rust’s words stall him. “Luke, why don’t you find out what she needs.”
I smile. There’s a rule around here—Miller is the only one who talks to the new customers.
Until now.
“Gladly,” I say, heading toward her.
Chapter 4
■ ■ ■
CLARA
I swear, these oversized sunglasses were created for undercover cops.
I watch my target stride toward me, a smug grin on his face. He doesn’t have the first clue who I am. I hide the pleasure of knowing that behind a friendly smile.
Whatever they were discussing—something to do with that shiny Corvette, by the way they were hovering over it—must have been resolved, because Rust Markov heads toward his Cayenne with a light bounce in his step. I do my best not to watch him, afraid that anyone will see my disdain for the man radiating.
Just as clearly as I can see the burly shop manager’s hatred for Luke. If looks could murder, he would have stabbed Luke ten times over with the glare he’s shooting at his back right now.
And I get the impression that Luke couldn’t care less.
“Welcome.” Luke’s bright blue eyes do a quick scan of my black dress pants and low-cut sheer blouse. I fight the urge to cross my arms over my chest, knowing that he can see the lace bra beneath. It’s not something I’d normally ever wear, but three of the women he brought home were wearing something similar.
His attention quickly shifts to the Audi, his han
d sliding over the roof. “Beautiful.”
“I like it.” As I suspected, he doesn’t seem to recognize me from last week’s drink-spill incident at The Cellar.
He dips his head to scan the inside. “Leather interior . . . nav system . . .”
Well, I was right about one thing. Luke Boone loves a nice car. Apparently too much for my purposes. “Would you like some time alone with it?”
He dips his head to the side, giving me another eyeful of that confident smirk. It stills my heart for just a beat. I’m not used to targets looking like this. “How can I help you today?”
“I think something’s wrong with my clutch.” I know something’s wrong with my clutch. I know because Warner had one of his guys mess around with it yesterday, giving me an excuse to bring my car here.
Luke watches me closely. “And what did your dealership say?”
Shit. Warner is sitting in the surveillance van right now, listening to the wire, high-fiving the others because he just made fifty bucks off me. When I filled him in on my idea, he argued that it wouldn’t work. That someone who drives a brand-new eighty-thousand-dollar car doesn’t go anywhere besides their dealer for repairs. I bet him that these guys wouldn’t even mention a warranty, that they’d be only too eager to take full advantage of a twenty-something-year-old female.
I guess I was wrong.
I make a point of folding my arms over my chest and assuming an angry stance. “The dealer said that I need my clutch adjusted and that isn’t covered after six thousand, two hundred fifty miles.”
“And you have . . .”
“Sixty-five hundred miles.”
Luke’s face twists up. “And they wouldn’t let that slide?”
“Nope. So I told them to go to hell and I left.”
“Dicks.” He shakes his head slowly. “Well, we can take a look at it. It’s not covered under warranty here, either, but we’ll make sure we’re at a discount to what they’d charge you.”
“I was told your guys know Audis.” From the reports, Rust’s Garage has a reputation for being top notch for any and all cars. I wonder if it’s because their mechanics are top notch at dismantling any and all cars. Not that we have proof of that.
“My guys know every car. Keys?” He holds a hand out, his clean, filed fingernails hiding the fact that he has a mechanic’s license and was working in the garage up until a few months ago.
“Great.” I let my gaze drift over to the bay windows. Beyond them, hoists sit loaded with vehicles. “You guys look busy in there, so I assume it’s going to take a while. I can get a ride home from you, right?” I make a point of lifting my sunglasses and locking gazes with him, letting him take in one of my finer qualities, the light blue eyes I inherited from my mom. Please let this plan keep falling into place . . .
Twisting his lips in pensive thought that I can’t guess at, he first glances over to where the other manager hovers, and then at the large, dark-skinned mechanic who strolls out from an open door. “Zeke!” The man saunters over. “Can you do me a favor and get this car in to check the clutch? Sounds like it just needs an adjustment.”
“Miller said—”
“And I’m saying let’s not make this lovely lady wait all day for such a minor fix.”
He salutes. “Right, Nur— I mean, boss.”
“Thanks, man.” Luke turns back to me, smiling wide. “Go and grab some lunch. It’ll be ready for you when you get back.”
He’s charming, I’ll give him that. And, dammit, there goes that plan. I struggle to hide my disappointment. It’s one thing when you meet someone and wonder if he’s attracted to you. I need to attract him, if this is going to work. And, now that I’ve met him face-to-face, sober, the clock is ticking.
Placing a hand on my hip, I plaster on a playful smile of my own. “And where are you going to take me for lunch?” Ugh. I hate girls like this.
He cocks his head to regard me for a moment with curiosity. I wouldn’t call it annoyance. It shouldn’t be. From everything we’ve seen, Luke Boone is attracted to women who expect to be kept on ivory pedestals.
He holds out a hand. “Luke.”
A small sigh of relief escapes me as I take it, letting my polished fingertips graze his palm as I accept his hand. “Rain.”
“Rain,” he repeats. “I was actually just about to head out to lunch. Wanna join me?” He glances down at my shoes. “It’s a few blocks. Can you handle that?”
Should I play agreeable? Or does he expect complaints? Should Rain Martines expect to be driven? It sounds like such a silly thing to consider, and yet some guys are attracted to bitches and I need him to be attracted to me. There’s a fine balance between playing the role I’m supposed to play and being myself, to avoid any bipolar personality changes.
While I spend a few seconds grappling internally with exactly how high maintenance I need to be, Luke begins walking out of the lot. So I grab my purse from the driver’s seat and hurry after him, doing my best to avoid the cracks in the sidewalk.
A quick peripheral scan down the side street finds the navy-blue van, where my cover guys watch behind tinted glass. It’s both comforting and irritating to have people spying on my every move, listening to my every word. But that’s a nonnegotiable part of being undercover. They’ll always be within arm’s reach when I’m with my target, just in case something should go wrong.
Luke falls into step beside me as we make our way along the sidewalk, his hands hanging from his pockets. “So? What’s your story? Where are you from? I’m guessing you’re not a Portland native.”
“Why do you say that?”
His eyes flicker over my clothes. “You don’t look like the type of girl who owns hippie skirts and combat boots.”
“And you don’t look like the kind of guy who wears skinny jeans and penny loafers.”
That’s what Portland’s all about, after all. Hippies and hipsters. If you don’t fit into one of those two groups, then you’re stepping off the pages of a Columbia sportswear catalogue. People like Luke and me—or at least Rain—are a minority around here.
“Fair enough. So?”
I’m more than ready for these kinds of questions, though. “Originally from out east, but I decided to try the West Coast for a while.”
“Why not farther south? California’s nice.”
Valid question. One I can answer with a half-truth. “Would you believe me if I told you I love the rain?”
“You moved across country because you love the rain.” I glance up in time to see his smirk. “I guess you’re well suited to your name then.”
That’s the reason I chose it, I want to say. As part of the cover design, I get to pick my own name—something that would roll off my tongue, that I’d answer to without hesitation. Normally you go with your real first name and your mother’s maiden name, but I’ve used it so many times, I chose my mother’s nickname for me instead. She used to call me Rainy when I was little, because I’d be the kid who threw on her pink rubber boots and grabbed her umbrella at the first sign of showers. I’d spend hours outside, fascinated by the feel of cold drops splattering against my skin as I stomped and splashed through mud, much to my mother’s bafflement. It made the hot bath and curling up under a blanket afterward all the more rewarding.
“So you just decided to move across country and try something new because you love the rain, Rain.”
When he says it like that, in that tone, it sounds suspicious. “And because I needed to get away.” I pause before adding, “Bad breakup.” That confirms that I’m single. Check.
“Hmm,” he murmurs, sounding like he understands a bad breakup. I wonder if he does. “How are you liking Portland so far?”
“It’s nice, but . . . you know, new city. It’s hard to meet people and make friends.” Another seed planted. That’s the guise. Become “friends” with the target. It
’s a deceptive term because we all know what that truly means. I’m supposed to entice Luke, make him want more but not give him too much. Therein lies the ethical dilemma that so many undercover operations face. Where do I draw the line? If my target places his hand on my knee, do I let him? Or do I push his hand away? If he tries to kiss me, how do I refuse him? How many times can I refuse him before he loses interest? How far do I let it go? There was no official rulebook of “can” and “can’t” handed to me when I took this case on.
I have only my gut.
And my moral integrity.
And the respect of my colleagues.
And concern for my safety.
And the reputability of my testimony for this case.
“I’m sure it won’t take you long. Portland’s full of nice people.”
“Well, I met one today, didn’t I?” It’s as close to me handing him a “will you be my friend?” card as I can get without sounding desperate.
Luke merely grins.
We continue on, my heels clicking against the concrete as we weave our way around other pedestrians, most of them also on a lunch-hour mission. A woman ahead juggles a bag of groceries in one hand and a toddler throwing a proper fit in the other, who’s kicking and screaming until she loses her grip on her bag and some of its contents spill out the top. People all around pass by without any offers of help. There’s no way they missed the debacle.
But Luke doesn’t. I watch him as he crouches down and quickly gathers up the contents before offering them to the frazzled mom, who smooths her stray hair behind her ears while blushing. “Stop giving your mom a hard time,” he scolds the little boy with a smile, who in turn sticks a thumb in his mouth and tucks himself next to the woman’s thigh.
And the entire time, I’m watching Luke from three steps behind, expecting to see his hand slide into her pocket or purse and make off with her valuables. Because that’s what thieves do—seize opportunities. Not until he glances over his shoulder at me and then keeps walking do I accept that he was just being a nice guy.
