Steele

by Suzanne D. Williams

  Calix gripped the wheel tighter, urging it on, and searched the road for a place to pull off. His gaze lit on an aged sign a hundred yards ahead. “Flynn Auto Repair,” he read aloud. “Fortuitous.” Maybe Flynn could take a look and tell him what was wrong. Tapping the gas, he urged the stuttering vehicle the remaining distance, rolling into the drive on a dead motor.

  “I really need to invest in a decent car like Atlas,” he said, staring at the aged metal structure. That thought wouldn’t help him now.

  CHAPTER 2

  Flat on her back, loud rock music pumping in her ears, Flynn Burckhardt rolled beneath the mistreated four-by-four truck and stared upward at the mud-coated chassis, with one hand adjusting a pair of safety glasses. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t wear them, but had to be prepared to come out from under this particular vehicle with an eye full of sand if she didn’t. Mud-boggin’ was the major reason this truck needed repairs. The owner religiously drove it into uninhabitable places, over brush and fallen trees. Good for her business, but not so much for their wallet.

  “Where’s the damage this time?” she mumbled, roaming her gaze from left to right. A distinct hole in the exhaust pipe shined back at her. “Nice. Need I remind you, your truck isn’t indestructible?” Wouldn’t do any good. As soon as it was repaired, they’d be back at it again.

  “Hello?”

  A male voice called faint between strains of the song, and she switched the player off, scooting out from beneath the truck to a spot under the intense gaze of an extremely attractive man, blond hair flipped back from a smooth forehead, two evenly manicured brows.

  “I’m looking for Flynn.”

  She blinked and sucked in a draft of oil-scented air. “I’m Flynn.”

  His face changed noticeably. He seemed peeved, though he smiled nice enough. “My car broke down on your doorstep,” he said.

  She eyed his trim form for a moment longer from her upside-down perch, then extended a hand. “Help me up.”

  He obliged, but, once again, seemed put out by it. On her feet, she dusted off the seat of her workpants and looked toward the road. “Wow. Nineteen ninety-nine Escalade. Where’d you find that?” Not waiting for his answer, she headed out of the shop toward the injured vehicle.

  The man’s footsteps came quickly from behind. “It was my father’s,” he said. “It isn’t much and apparently, not in good shape.”

  She flicked him a glance. Saying a Caddy was “not much” struck her strange. In nineteen ninety-nine, this vehicle would have cost way more than the average Joe could afford. She kept that to herself. “What did it do?” she asked, instead.

  He pursed his lips. “It started dying at the light.” He nodded toward the intersection. “And gave up right here.”

  That didn’t tell her much. “Pop the hood,” she said.

  He made no move to do so. Flynn leaned her weight on one hip. “You do know how?”

  But it seemed he didn’t, so she rounded the driver’s door and leaned in, pulling the lever under the dash. The hood clicked. Returning to the front of the car, she lifted the safety latch. “Well, there’s your problem …” she said, leaning over the bumper. “Bad spark plugs, for one, but …” She pulled her head out. “When did you have this car serviced last?”

  He blinked. “I haven’t.”

  She made an inquisitive face. “You haven’t?”

  He shook his head. “It always just … runs.”

  This smacked of too much ignorance in her mind, but then, in this business, she’d met all types. So he wasn’t mechanically inclined, he was nice to look at. She suppressed a smile.

  “Well, now, you will,” she replied. “I can do it today and have it ready for you tomorrow afternoon.”

  “You?”

  She took that remark in. He didn’t understand cars and he also had women issues? “Me,” she replied. “Been doing this since I was no higher than my daddy’s knees. You want expertise, I’m it. I’ll give you a fair price as well.”

  At mention of price, he waved one hand. “I don’t care about the price. It was my dad’s car. My mom will want it fixed. But …” He paused, seeming to consider something. “I guess I’ll have to call a cab.”

  He didn’t look like the kind of guy who rode in cabs, and for some reason, that thought stuck in her mind, a bur on a dog’s hide. “Tell you what …” She halted mid-sentence. She was crazy to do this. “I’ll take you wherever you need to go. I have to pick up a few parts anyhow. I only need a minute to clean up.”

  “You’ll take me?” he asked.

  She nodded, and her next remark slipped out, unheeded. “That is, unless you think women can’t drive?”

  She evidently hit the target square because he stepped backward twice. Several minutes passed, and he dipped his chin. She wiped her hand on her soiled shirt and extended it. “Flynn Burckhardt.”

  He stared at her fingers, then tipped them into his palm, and for some odd reason, she half-expected him to kiss them. He didn’t. Nor did he offer his name.

  “Give me ten,” she said. “I’ll put on something clean.”

  Shedding her work clothes, she dug out a tank top and blue jeans, then ran a wash rag over her face. She exited the shop, her pony tail swinging between her shoulder blades, and stretched upward for the garage door. Giving it a tug, she closed it and twisted the lock.

  He was standing exactly where she’d left him, model-like, as if he’d been chiseled from stone. His eyes followed her forward and around to the side of the building. “Car’s back here,” she called out. “I’ll back out.”

  Her gaze moved to her most prized possession. She laid one hand flat on top, the cool metal smooth beneath her palm. Nineteen sixty-eight Chevy Malibu with a five-point-zero liter V8 engine, two hundred horse power. She’d built it from the ground up, poured her heart and her love of cars into every bolt, every hinge, every glossy painted surface.

  A smile fit on her lips, and she unlocked the doors and slipped into the seat, breathing in the scent of leather protectant. Cranking required two minutes of blissful silence, the rumble of the motor settling deep in her soul. Then her task returned, and she shifted into reverse.

  “Hop in,” she shouted through the passenger-side window.

  The man’s face was a mixture of things – disbelief being foremost. But she couldn’t tell if that was disbelief he was there with her, disbelief in the car she drove, or disbelief in her, in general. Nor was she about to ask. But him seated, the car headed down the street, he seemed to want to explain.

  “My apologies,” he said, “for any negative feelings I’ve given.”

  One hand on the wheel, the other in her lap, Flynn glanced his direction. “I get it I think. You were surprised I was a girl. It’s happened before.” Though not from someone she couldn’t quit staring at.

  That was really her biggest problem. Something about him was distinctly different, and for the life of her, she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what that was.

  She’d seen attractive men before, mostly on television and not in person, also, not so … polished. That was part of it. He wasn’t your average run-of-the-mill Joe who stumbled into the shop, one hand on his crotch. She’d had enough of those, to tell the truth, but in the auto repair business testosterone was generally high and estrogen kept around solely to pump up men’s egos.

  She wasn’t inclined to cooperate where that was concerned, to the point she avoided dating. She wanted nothing to do with self-centered, self-absorbed men, nor one night stands, nor the stigma of becoming “his” next thing. She’d worked hard to prove she could run equal with anyone else in this business and developed a loyal, albeit small, clientele. Most days, she worked alone, but she had a couple part-timers who helped fill in during a crunch. She was self-sufficient and liked it that way.

  All of that said, she had a fantasy-slash-dream of what the perfect relationship would be like. He’d appreciate her uniqueness, encourage her to do what she had a true talent for, yet trea
t her like a woman. She needed that, needed to feel like it was okay to be herself, that some guy out there could love her for it.

  The fact he hadn’t given her a reply to her last statement settled over her. She decided to let it go. Whoever he was, whatever his problem was, she’d fix his car and be done with it. “So where’m I taking you?” she asked.

  He cleared his throat. “The Bryant.”

  She met his gaze then. The Bryant was way above her pay grade, way above the pay grade of anyone she’d ever met. In fact, she’d never had the nerve to go inside, this despite being raised in this town. “That’s …” she began. She didn’t finish her statement, incredible being the final word. He had cash, then, and that’d be part of what else she couldn’t figure out about him.

  There were a handful of eligible wealthy males in the city. The news liked to call them The Billionaire Boys Club. She, like most other single females, would read about their lives and daydream, then promptly quash it with a good dose of reality. Whether this guy was in that bunch or not was up for debate, but living at The Bryant, he could be.

  Not her business. Nor was she willing to go there in her head and admit she had her shallow, female moments, the anti-Flynn times when being indulged on the arm of some rich playboy sounded nice. Those went against the grain. She couldn’t be proud of who she was and want to fall into a cliché.

  Dreams like that never came true anyhow, not for simple, hard-working girls like herself. Best to keep her head square on her shoulders and her mind clean.

  “More than my dad would have allowed,” he said.

  Him talking drew her back into the car. “He didn’t like to spend money?” This was the obvious conclusion from that remark, one he substantiated with a dip of his chin.

  “Was a skinflint. He’d debate on whether to spend an extra dime for a newspaper or a phone call.”

  “Is that so bad?” she asked. “Think of it like your car. You keep it because it was his. It’s a legacy, of sorts. I do the same. I got into mechanics because I loved putting things together, but, really, my strongest reason was it made my dad happy.”

  He stared across at her, and, for a moment, she thought she could read his thoughts. “He didn’t care about a woman in a man’s world?”

  “He promoted it,” she returned. “He said I could be anything I wanted. I chose to be just like him.”

  “I’ve tried my whole life to be different,” he replied. He turned his gaze ahead. “I moved into The Bryant because he’d hate it.”

  An interesting admission, especially from a complete stranger. She felt sorry for him. Whoever his father was, he must’ve been a hard taskmaster.

  Flynn spun the wheel and pulled through the porte cochere in front of the Bryant. She paused, temporarily blinded by so many expensive cars. “If I could get my hands on some of that machinery,” she said. She let the statement die and returned her gaze to his face.

  “Every kid needs to be loved,” she said, instead. “It’s what makes the world go round.”

  He evidently had no comment about that because he opened the door and got out, but leaned his head inside. “My car?”

  “Oh, right. You have a number?”

  He nodded and his head disappeared. Taking out his wallet, he flicked her a business card between two fingers. “My private number’s on the back.”

  She turned it over. “I’ll call. Should be late afternoon. I can pick you up if you like or bring it to you.”

  “Sounds good. Goodbye, Miss Burckhardt.” He smiled at her, and this time it was different than the others. He looked … interested. Like a man gazing at a woman he admired.

  Had to be in her head.

  He turned and walked away, his steps firm and confident. The doorman tugged the large, glass entrance door open with a nod.

  Flynn turned the business card over. She read the front once, twice, a lump forming in her throat. “Dear God in heaven, hallowed be thy name …” She muttered, her gaze returning to the now closed door.

  That not only was one of the Billionaire Boys Club. He was the wealthiest one of them all. Calix Steele, the card read, President, Steele Enterprises, Inc.

  His cell phone tucked between his ear and shoulder, Calix entered the code on the keypad by the front door, unfastening the lock, then pushed it inward with his free hand.

  “It’ll have to wait,” he said. “I don’t have any transportation. My car’s in the shop.”

  Pulling the phone away, briefly, he removed his wallet from his back pocket and tossed it on the table in the foyer. “I don’t know what’s wrong. I expect she’ll tell me.” He exhaled. “Yes, she. Not like I had a choice, I broke down right by her shop. Ironic … Okay, sure, call me. But it’ll be Wednesday before I can get there. Bye.”

  The phone screen went dark and, taking a seat on the couch, he released it to his lap. He kicked his feet up on the small, glass coffee table directly ahead.

  She was an auto mechanic. An incredibly attractive auto mechanic. Slim with entrancing golden-brown eyes framed by long lashes, clear skin, and two perfect lips.

  “Why?” he asked aloud. Why would a woman who looked like that choose to fix cars? Put her in a skin-tight sleeve dress and six-inch heels, and she’d blow any man’s mind. Yet there she was, her face smeared with dirt and grease that he’d almost desperately wanted to wipe off. If only to touch that milky skin.

  He crossed his arms over his eyes to erase the image, but it became stronger, every lovely curve seemingly there for his grasp. This was unlike him. He’d never been hung up on a woman, could take them or leave them.

  And he had plenty to choose from. There was always one vying for his attention. Catch Calix Steele and you’re set for life, or so went the rumors. He’d refused to be caught, setting high standards, making, what now sounded like excuses to avoid them. Lame excuses. All he needed to change his mind was a beautiful creature wearing a man’s work pants and shirt.

  Calix exhaled, his heated breath warming his arms.

  Had he really changed his mind? She was all the things he hated in a woman … the independent, free-thinking, self-sufficient female who didn’t need a man for anything. Why, if that was true, was he willing to overlook it?

  Because he was attracted to her. Was he that superficial? No, he expected her to be that superficial. She was supposed to only want to go to the spa, have her nails done, buy shoes, and never challenge the status quo he’d formed in his mind.

  Pointless. Because she’d done that from the start and strongest at the end. Every kid needs to be loved. It’s what makes the world go round, she’d said.

  He hadn’t had that, ever, that he could recall. Setting aside his dad’s tight purse, his father had also been hands off. As a boy, he’d entertained himself, more often than not … without a hug, a kind word … nothing but, “Stand taller … fix your tie … tuck in your shirt.” He’d been an object, not a child.

  The truth stabbed Calix in the chest, and his arms fell away. The sudden slash of light made him wince.

  An object like he expected her to be. Did he really want the woman in his life to be all the things he hated? He couldn’t answer, didn’t, in fact, know the answer, except to say he couldn’t wait to see her again and wasn’t going to let her walk away.

  An idea rose in his head, and he reached for the phone. She liked cars. He happened to know someone with several amazing ones. Surely, he wouldn’t wear out his welcome calling Atlas twice.

  Flynn’s fingers trembled over top her cell phone, the thought of whom she was calling coursing through her mind. That’d plagued her for the last twenty-four hours. Calix Steele. She’d been with Calix Steele. She was working on Calix Steele’s car. In the interim, she’d developed a nervous tic, which now threatened to keep her from dialing his number.

  Squeezing her fingers into a fist, she inhaled. He was one guy that’d needed his car fixed who happened to have a lot of money. No big deal.

  Huge deal because he was Calix Steele
, and he’d been in her shop. They’d carried on a conversation in which he’d shared personal thoughts about himself, something she had a feeling he never did, and he’d looked at her like way more than a mechanic. She wasn’t dumb.

  “Just call,” she mumbled to herself. She returned her hand to the phone and dialed, then brought it, quivering, to her ear.

  “Steele.”

  At his voice, her mind blanked and her hand went numb.

  “Hello?”

  Flynn moistened her lips. “This is … Flynn.” The silence from the other end was deafening. She cleared her throat. “Y-your car is ready … done … and …”

  “Are you free this afternoon?” he asked.

  Free? She pulled the phone away and stared at it. Why’d he want to know that?

  “Miss Burckhardt?”

  Flynn snapped awake and returned the phone to her ear. “I … guess. I have a tranny to change out, but they’re not expecting it for a few days.”

  “Yes, well …” Calix paused. “I’d like to take you somewhere if you have the time.”

  “Take me? But I’m just Flynn, and you’re …”

  Again, the hum of the phone line took over. He ended it this time. “Forget who I am,” he said. “Come pick me up. Drive your car. We’ll get mine later.”

  It came to her to salute, but feeling foolish, she didn’t. “Okay,” she replied, instead. An instant later, he was gone. She dropped her phone as if it was scalding and leaned back in her chair long enough to catch her breath.

  Then her reflection in the window glass glowed back at her. She couldn’t possibly pick up Calix Steele dressed like this. For that matter, how did a girl dress who was with Calix Steele? Unable to answer that question, she pilfered through her closet for the next fifteen minutes, finally choosing an off-the-shoulder blouse and thin-strapped tank with one of her better pairs of blue jeans. Brushing her hair out, she dabbed on some makeup and stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. “Not too shabby.”