She stopped by the driver’s door and snapped a selfie with Neil and the car behind her. “Proof of life for my friend,” she explained, laughing, as she sent the picture off into the ether. Then she settled into the red curves of the driver’s seat, giving him lovely thoughts of leather and her ass meeting without jeans in between.
Suzanne’s knuckles were white as she made her way through the herd of mountain bikers, but she was already having fun.
By the time she’d been on the highway for half an hour, she had second thoughts about selling the Mustang. The power of the engine, the warm leather seats, the sheer fun of driving something so big and red and shiny, something that turned heads. She snapped another car selfie when they stopped for coffee and sent it to Janice with the text SELL OR KEEP?
Janice might just urge her to keep it, if only as a form of revenge through good living. And this car was definitely good living. No wonder Frank had loved it so much. Damn selfish of him not to share it with her.
Then again, he hadn’t shared much with her. Neil had already opened up more in the short drive than Frank typically would in a year. Not that Neil was a chatterbox, but she’d learned from his words that he’d inherited his grandparents’ two-family house in Dorchester, and that he and his father, a retired cop, restored cars and other vehicles together. The vintage motorcycle he’d arrived on was one of their projects.
And she knew from his eyes and the inflections of his voice that he loved his father, even though he’d told a few hilarious stories about them butting heads.
She knew he was dedicated to his work, knew he wasn’t a detective yet, but hoped to be one within the year.
From the way his big hand stroked the dashboard or the leather seat when he thought she wasn’t looking, she could tell that he lusted after the Mustang, but the smile that lit up his incredible blue eyes told her he enjoyed watching her getting acquainted with a car that was technically hers, but that she hadn’t enjoyed until now.
She wondered if Janice would playfully suggest keeping Neil or selling him. He’d been in the picture too.
Suzanne would keep him if that were an option. Alas, it probably wasn’t.
Should she sell the car to him or not? It wasn’t like she needed the money. Hell, she didn’t need her job, in financial terms. Frank’s persnickety nature, annoying as it had been when he was alive, meant he’d left their finances in excellent shape—a small fortune, well invested, and no unpleasant surprises. His will, to her astonishment, stipulated that she would have been his primary heir even if they’d gotten divorced, as long as neither had remarried at the time of his death.
And the car was incredible. She could see why Frank wanted to keep the pleasure to himself.
But she’d be thinking about Frank every time she drove it. No point in having the sort of car meant to plaster a grin on your face offer bitter memories instead. By the time they turned off into the parking lot for Nauset Beach, she’d made a decision. If Neil wanted the Mustang, she’d sell it to him at a good price. He’d enjoy it without his fun being dimmed by association, and he’d enjoy keeping it in tip-top shape instead of needing to farm its upkeep out to a specialty shop that would overcharge her because she wouldn’t know enough to call them on their bullshit.
She’d use the proceeds to buy a sexy car that would be all hers, with no memories of Frank attached. A modern convertible might not be quite as spectacular as this one, but it would still be great to drive. It would also have a warranty and readily available parts, and might get more than six miles to the gallon or whatever this relic of a more optimistic age got.
There, that was settled. She felt a little wistful as she looked out over the ocean, smelling salt air and luxuriating in red leather, but it was the best solution all around.
Maybe Neil would take her for a ride sometimes. Yeah, as if…but didn’t that bring all sorts of interesting, sexy images to mind?
Suzanne sat back in the red leather driver’s seat and turned to him. Her sunny yellow T-shirt was a startling contrast to the seat and he liked the effect. She stretched like a cat, obviously luxuriating in the sun and the ocean view. “So, what do you think?” she said.
“About what?” About how much he’d love to see her naked on that red leather? About how he’d like to kiss her senseless and let things escalate into spanking, bondage, and anything else that seemed like a good idea to both of them? About the alarming way her smile knocked him sideways? Yeah, pretty sure she wasn’t asking about any of those thoughts, but a guy could dream.
“About the car, silly.”
Yeah. Things just deflated at the reminder he was only enjoying her company thanks to the Mustang. “I lust after it…” He chose the words deliberately because he was only human and he needed to flirt a little with the lovely Suzanne. He glanced out over the beach and the restless, blue gray water while he chose his words. He came up with half a dozen dodges in half a dozen seconds, but in the end decided on the truth. “I’d love to drive her some more, maybe poke around under the hood. But honestly, I’m not sure I can pay you what she’s worth.”
“Once you’ve had a chance to do your driving and poking, make me an offer.” He didn’t pick up a hint she was talking about anything but the car, but she looked so beautiful in that driver’s seat, September sun glinting in her red hair, that Neil couldn’t help thinking of all the offers he’d like to make her.
He hesitated, trying to fight back the words and worse yet, the impulses that filled his brain. He wanted to offer her his naked body, a bed, a chance to explore her naughtiest, kinkiest fantasies. Wanted to offer to strip her down and taste every inch of her luscious flesh. Wanted to offer her an afternoon that would at least start to make up for what sounded like a craptastic marriage, and then a week, a month, however long it took for them to get the other out of their system.
Inappropriate much, Callahan? He and Suzanne had a flirtatious vibe, but that would definitely be pushing it. Probably to the point where she’d order him out of the Mustang and make him walk back to Bellwood to collect his motorcycle.
With a struggle and some deep breathing, he forced his words, if not his growing erection, back under the control of his brain. “I’m going to have to do some research. John gave me the impression the car was a fixer-upper, but it looks like she’s had nothing but TLC.”
A strange look flickered over Suzanne’s face but fled before he could interpret it. “It’s had TLC all right,” she said drily. “The appraiser said it was actually over-restored.” She snorted. “Kind of like some of my friends, but you didn’t hear that from me.”
He ran his hand over the silken surface of the dashboard. “In this case—though maybe not your friends—the results are beautiful. But I know what your appraiser meant. A lot of us prefer a car that shows its history, even if it has some dings and scratches, to one that looks showroom new thanks to a lot of replacement parts.” The dashboard felt almost alive beneath his hands, sleek and animal, but instead of reveling in it, he was imagining Suzanne’s skin. Imagining her lips, glossed with something soft and slick and kissable.
He couldn’t help himself. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered.
Suzanne snorted. “Right. It must be the nicks and dings.”
“Partly. You have history. A beautiful patina of experience.” He leaned forward.
She met him halfway. “I was hoping you’d make this kind of offer,” she said, her voice husky.
And then they were kissing in the beach parking lot, with families milling around them, carrying all the gear needed for a day of fun in the sun.
Body boards, beach umbrellas and picnic coolers were all very well, but kissing a beautiful woman was the kind of fun in the sun that Neil preferred. Better than taking his Indian on the Kancamagus Highway, better than cruising top down in a classic convertible, better than any thrill he’d ever experienced. The fact that he and t
he beautiful woman were doing their necking in a sweet red ’65 Mustang only made it better.
Chapter Four
Suzanne’s last coherent thoughts were, I can’t believe I’m doing this! Followed by, Why the hell shouldn’t I do this? She’d been a good, faithful partner to Frank for all the years they’d been together, long after she realized that his passions were more intellectual than physical or emotional, and his vanilla ways less a preference than an unwillingness to step outside his comfort zone. That he liked her balance of good nature and occasional bouts of redheaded temper that made her willing to stand up to his stubbornness, but in the way you’d admire those traits in a top-notch executive assistant.
Even when she was sure their marriage was over except for the paperwork, it made a difference to her that she kept the promises she’d made so long ago.
Only they were promises made to a dead man. They didn’t count anymore.
And if she shocked a few sun-tanned moms of toddlers, or retirees on vacation enjoying the last glorious days of New England summer, did it matter?
Then she forced her conscious mind to shut up and threw herself into the kiss.
At first it was awkward. It had been so long since she’d kissed anyone other than Frank, who had his own style. Not a bad style, sweet and comfortable like the old married folks they were—except that pleasant but tame kisses started when they were way too young to settle for that. At least his kisses still felt affectionate, in his detached, distant way, even after he started with the late nights, the unexplained absences, and the second, password-protected phone she was pretty sure she wasn’t supposed to have found.
But she had to reach back into the mists of the early 1990s to remember this kind of kiss, the kind full of passion and possibility and curiosity. The kind that asked all kinds of questions, starting with “Do you think I’m hot?” heading to “Do you want to…?” and then taking a left turn to questions about love, sex and the meaning of life that were impossible to put into words.
She didn’t have answers to those questions. Didn’t even know, anymore, how to ask herself anything that deep and searching.
And maybe it didn’t make sense that she thought she might find the right questions, if not the answers, in the arms of this sexy, much younger cop.
But Neil’s lips reminded her she was truly alive, not just going through the motions of living. His lips and his tongue, the tickle of his rebel scruff, so charmingly at odds with his short, neat cop hair. And oh, those muscled arms around her, pulling her close, making her feel small and soft, but at the same time powerful, desirable. And not powerful because she was desirable. She was both.
Her body filled with almost forgotten hunger. Oh, she remembered desire, felt it often, but for the last few years, even while Frank was alive and well and occasionally having sex with her, desire had grown from fantasies rather than reality. A handsome actor looking buff and commanding on a movie screen, a sexy passage in a book—her Kindle was full of BDSM romances and erotica, some good, some schlocky, but all featuring scenes that set her imagination and libido soaring—a stray thought that sent her mind to dark, delicious places where hard hands and strong bodies and the occasional whip, paddle or toy worked their magic on her.
This wasn’t fantasy desire. This was specific. All about the taste of Neil Callahan’s lips, the way his tongue invaded her mouth…no, not invaded, because invaders weren’t invited in and welcomed with ticker-tape parades, and if her mouth could, it would be throwing a parade right about now. All about the way he smelled like gingerbread in the salt air with its hint of suntan lotion. The way one big hand cradled the back of her head, controlling and tender at the same time. The way his broad chest and back felt as she scrambled to touch as much of him as she could, and if she was making a spectacle of herself, well, it was about time.
She hadn’t thought about it when Frank was still alive, but she’d always been in his shadow, the brilliant man’s pretty wife who stayed in the background. Or was kept there. He was never mean about it, but his work was his life, and his cars were his escape from work, and she didn’t have a role, other than “supportive cheerleader,” in either area. She’d given him the occasional verbal slap down when his confidence veered into arrogance or when he walked over her without even noticing he was doing it, but she let him do his thing because both Mayhew Robotics and the cars mattered so much to him.
Now it was time for her.
Seagulls’ cries and the hush and roar of surf mingled with the wet sounds of kissing, sharp intakes of breath, little groans she was startled, then amused, to realize she was letting loose. She’d worked one hand under Neil’s Dropkick Murphys T-shirt, getting to know roped muscle. He stroked her bare back and side underneath her shirt until she expected the prim little twist-front top to burst into flames from her rising heat. His hand crept forward and up and she thought—hoped—prayed—he’d touch her breast right there in the parking lot, under the cover of their twined bodies but still in public.
His hand ceased its journey, to her aching disappointment, but he kissed his way along her jaw to her ear, little, delicate brushes that made her shiver.
“We’re being watched,” he whispered, between small nips on her earlobe.
“Duh.” She didn’t bother to whisper. “We’re a little blatant with the PDA. I’m fine with that.”
He gripped the base of her ponytail, sending a thrill through her whole body, and tilted her head. He opened his mouth, let his teeth rest lightly around her throat. No pressure, just pure, primal possessiveness, and her body responded in kind, turning limp and liquid and compliant, ready to do whatever he suggested or demanded next.
His lips returned to her ear. “No,” he whispered. “Well, yeah. A few people are gawking. But I swear the guy from your driveway is in one of the other cars.”
Chapter Five
The conflagration in Suzanne’s body changed to an ice storm, and the gasp she let out had nothing to do with passion. “Why?” was all she managed to say at first.
It occurred to her as soon as she did that Neil was likely as clueless about that as she was. But being a cop, he might have answers to some more immediately important questions. “What do we do now?”
She pulled away, smoothed her hair with a quick, instinctive gesture.
Neil pulled her back. “First, I want to make sure I’m not imagining things.” He kissed her again, a more playful kiss this time, deliberately rumbling the hair she’d just smoothed. “Would you like an ice cream?”
It took Suzanne’s addled brain a few seconds to catch he was inclining his head toward the ice cream stand at the far side of the parking lot. She tried to look casual as she glanced in that direction.
Between the Mustang and the stand was a gray Lincoln MKX SUV with its motor running and its windows rolled up. She couldn’t make out the faces of the people inside, but on this warm, beautiful September day, both men were incongruously wearing sports jackets, as if they’d just come from a business meeting.
Just like the guys who’d been so rude earlier.
She shuddered. “Yeah. Ice cream. I see what you’re getting at. Good time for a walk.”
Her imagination was full of scenes from the action movies and TV crime dramas she loved, the only frames of reference she had for this situation, so it took her a while to understand his next question. “What flavor?”
Not something she could make her mind about easily at the best of times, and this was hardly the best of times. But a stroll to the ice cream stand wouldn’t be convincing if it ended without ice cream. “Anything but vanilla.”
Neil grinned. God help her, even with some creepy guys possibly stalking them, he promised her all sorts of delights she could hardly imagine yet yearned to experience. “Anything but vanilla. My kind of woman. Although vanilla can be good with the right…topping.”
Had he just said that? Had
he meant what she read into it?
It hardly seemed like the time to ask.
But as he sauntered toward the ice cream stand, strutting the cocky walk of a man on a hot and possibly illicit date, she couldn’t help wondering.
Even as she noted the way his seemingly casual strut and sightseer’s gawk were carefully calculated to disguise how he observed everything around him.
Including the occupants of the Lincoln.
She’d always hated those pretentious jumped up vehicles anyway. Now she had a reason.
Neil had done this dance before, something more than a dozen times, less than a thousand. Done the dance of pretending to be doing anything on earth other than paying attention to potential criminal activity.
The difference between those times and this one?
For one, the many times he’d done it as part of his job, he’d been armed, and there’d been backup, even if the backup hadn’t always been close enough to do much good if, as his dad said, the excrement really hit the air-conditioner.
The bigger difference between just about any surveillance-type situation in police work and this one was that at work he had an idea why the person was behaving suspiciously. Knew, in general, if he was dealing with a known drug dealer or a possible burglar, a potential pedophile or a suspected murderer. This time, he had no clue what was going on, no idea why or how the guy may have followed them all the way to the Cape, or whether he was stalking Suzanne or himself. Not exactly reassuring to know so little, especially not when someone else was involved.
Was she an innocent bystander in whatever the hell was going on or did she know something? What did he really know about Suzanne Mayhew anyway, other than she’d inherited (supposedly) a gorgeous Mustang and she kissed like someone possessed by a succubus? Not a hell of a lot.
Part of his mind was wandering in all directions, but most of it was observing. No one else appeared to be watching him or Suzanne with intense interest, though he got a couple of glances. Suzanne’s car was definitely drawing admiring looks, but then people moved on. It was hard to keep track of all the people milling around the lot, not to mention he was more interested in keeping an eye on Suzanne and on the people in the gray Lincoln anyway. He waved at Suzanne, smiling goofily like a doting boyfriend and was rewarded with her blowing him a kiss.
Drive: Cougars, Cars and Kink, Book 1 Page 3
