Hot Wheels and High Heels

by Jane Graves

  “I’ll stand here all night if I have to.”

  “How nice. We can watch the sun come up together.”

  “It’s supposed to rain.”

  She glanced at the sky, where a brilliant Texas sun had just slipped below the horizon. “I believe we’d need some clouds for that.”

  He glanced at the hose coiled haphazardly near the front steps of the mobile home. “Not if I haul out a garden hose.”

  She whipped around. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Try me.”

  “You’re a horrible, horrible man.”

  “Why? Because it’s my job to pick up a car that hasn’t been paid for?”

  “No. Because you run a business that thrives on the misfortune of others.”

  “You mean those misfortunate people who refuse to honor their commitments and pay their bills?”

  “Some people are down on their luck. Ever stop to think about that?”

  “Yeah. A few are. But most of them squander their money. That’s not misfortune. That’s misallocation.”

  “I didn’t misallocate anything! It was my husband who didn’t make the payments, not me!”

  “I don’t care who missed the payments. The loan on this car is delinquent, so it’s my job to take it back.”

  “You don’t understand! My husband left me. He took everything. This car is the only thing I have left!”

  John made a scoffing noise and started to tell her she might want to take that up with a divorce attorney, but all at once her challenging expression fell away, and her face crumpled. He froze, overcome by a horrible sense of foreboding.

  Oh, God. She was going to cry. Sure enough, her eyes began to glisten. Her lips tightened.

  “No,” he said, holding up his hand. “For God’s sake, don’t cry.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  John glanced at Tony, who had conveniently turned his attention to the yard next door, where a stray dog was peeing on a crape myrtle tree.

  “Yeah, you can,” John said. “Really. You can help it. Just . . . don’t.”

  But then a tear ran down her cheek, and another, and John knew he was in for a deluge.

  “You have no idea what I’ve been through,” she sobbed. “None at all.”

  “No. You’re right. I don’t. And I really don’t think you should tell—”

  “I came home from a vacation today and found out that my husband had left me!”

  John closed his eyes. Here it came. The whole damned story.

  “He took everything. He sold our house. There was another family living there. I actually walked through the door to find another family living in my house. Can you believe it? And he cleaned out our bank accounts. Ran up our credit cards. Now all I have is my dog and . . .” She ran her hand over the hood of the car, tears rolling down her face. “And my beautiful, beautiful car.”

  She buried her face in her hands, and pretty soon her shoulders were shaking with sobs, and John wished to God he were anywhere else. For a few seconds, though, he wondered what kind of man would sell a house right out from under his wife. But the truth, of course, was that no man would. It had to be a lie. People living in her house when she came home? Please. She was playing him, pure and simple, and it was time he put his foot down, tears or no tears.

  Stand firm. Stand tough. You can do it.

  “It doesn’t matter what your story is,” he told her. “I don’t have any choice about this. All the legalities are in place. Once they send me the repossession order—”

  “Warren gave me this car as an anniversary present last year,” she went on, as if John hadn’t even spoken. “It had one of those big red bows on it. You know. The kind you see on TV commercials.”

  John bowed his head. Shoot me now.

  “It was so beautiful, and I was so excited, but now he’s stopped making the payments and I’m going to lose it.” She flicked her gaze to the mobile home, rolling her tear-filled eyes. “And now look where I’ve ended up. My beautiful house is gone, and I’m stuck living with my parents. And that’s not an easy thing to do, let me tell you.”

  One glance at the mobile home told John that even if she was lying about everything else, she probably wasn’t lying about that.

  She sniffed. “Do you think . . .”

  “What?”

  “Do you think you could give me a break? Let me keep my car long enough for me to make up the back payments?”

  “No. I really can’t—”

  “Please. If you just let me keep it, I swear I’ll get the money together. How much do I need?”

  “You don’t understand. I have to take the car.”

  “How much?”

  He sighed. “Twenty-four hundred dollars.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Twenty-four hundred? For only two months of payments?”

  “Plus the impound fee.”

  And then she was crying all over again.

  Okay. That did it. Tomorrow morning, first thing, he was going to be on the phone with the Subway corporate office, begging for a franchise. From now on, it was going to be just him, cold cuts, and a squirt bottle full of mayo.

  “Listen,” he said, “if you promise you won’t give me any more problems, I’ll give you a break on the impound fee.” He pulled out a business card and gave it to her. “The car will be at my place for thirty days. If you come up with the back payments, I’ll waive the impound fee and you can have it back.”

  “The impound fee doesn’t mean a thing if I don’t have the money for the payments.”

  “That’s the best I can do.”

  She dropped her head to her hands again, and John felt like a total idiot standing there listening to her cry. He didn’t give a damn if she was lying or not. He just wanted it to stop.

  Then slowly she raised her head and wiped her eyes, as if maybe she was getting a grip.

  “Okay,” she said, sliding John’s card into her pocket. “I understand. If you say Warren didn’t make the payments, then I guess he didn’t. And that means you have every right to take my car away from me.”

  Thank God. She was finally coming to her senses.

  “Even if it is the only thing I have left in the whole world.”

  And making him feel like crap in the process.

  “I’d look the other way if I could,” he told her, trying to sound sympathetic even though he sucked at it. “But I can’t. That’s just the way it is.”

  She nodded again. “I know. You’re only doing your job. And I’m sorry I’m falling apart. You shouldn’t have to deal with that.”

  She moved away from the car. The tear that had started a line of mascara trickling down her face erased his image of her as that cold-as-ice, picture-perfect woman who’d raced up to the car a minute ago. Those big brown eyes filled with tears made her look more like Bambi after Mommy Deer got blown away, and he was the big bad hunter who’d done her in.

  “Go ahead and take my car,” she said. “It’s all yours. I promise I won’t give you any more trouble.”

  Against all odds, he was starting to believe she really was telling him the truth. Still, it didn’t change a thing. He had a job to do, and it was time he got to it. He turned to get in the car.

  “Wait a minute,” she said.

  Oh, God. What now?

  She waved her hand. “Never mind. It’s stupid.”

  “What?”

  “I just . . .”

  “What?”

  She let out a shaky breath. “Would you mind if . . . if I sat in it one more time? Just to say good-bye?”

  John grimaced. “Say good-bye?”

  “Please.”

  Surely to God this wasn’t really happening. He glanced over at Tony again, who rolled his eyes and held up his palms, sign language for Sorry, buddy. You’re on your own.

  With a sigh of resignation, John opened the door for her, and she slid into the driver’s seat. She paused for a moment, her gaze wandering around the car. Then she took a deep, cleansing br
eath, lifted her hand, and touched the dashboard, moving her fingertips lightly across the leather surface. In spite of her phony fingernails, John couldn’t help but notice that she had beautiful hands. Small, perfectly formed, looking as soft as the pricey leather she was touching.

  And glittering with precious stones. High maintenance, remember?

  He had no doubt that every fight with a woman like her would cost a man a fortune. Makeup jewelry didn’t come cheap. Still, even though he wasn’t too fond of what was on the inside, it didn’t stop him from admiring what was on the outside in spite of her obvious cosmetic enhancements.

  He watched as she moved her hand to the CD changer, her fingertips tripping lightly over the buttons in a mesmerizing motion, as if she could make it play through the sheer electricity of her touch. He had no doubt she and the stereo made beautiful music together every time she turned it on.

  He shifted his gaze to the curve of her shoulder, let it linger there a moment, then moved it down along her arm, where her lightly tanned skin was so golden and perfect that sun goddesses everywhere had to be crying with envy.

  Look the other way.

  But that was damn near impossible when she turned her attention to the passenger seat and stroked it in a slow, sultry motion, causing her silver bracelets to clink together. An image formed in John’s mind of her hand moving across a man’s body, leaving a trail of scorched nerve endings in its wake.

  His body in particular.

  No. Don’t go there. Don’t you even think of going there.

  Before he could rid his mind of the thought, though, she moved her hand to the gearshift. Taking another deep breath, she circled her hand over the knob and flexed her fingers. Then slowly she dragged her hand down the length of it in a long, languorous stroke, and his mouth went dry as dust.

  The whole thing made him feel as if he was peeping through her bedroom blinds, but he couldn’t look away. And just when he thought his mind couldn’t fall any further into the gutter, she took hold of the steering wheel with her other hand and leaned in and kissed it.

  Holy shit.

  Even though the sun had gone down, a hot trickle of sweat ran down his chest and melted into his shirt. Cherry-red lips meeting polished walnut—good God, he’d never imagined what an erotic sight that could be. But then he also couldn’t have imagined when he got out of bed that morning that he’d be jealous of a steering wheel. The only problem with her leaning in to kiss it was that he couldn’t see what mesmerizing things she might be doing with her other hand now.

  Deep breath. It’ll all be over in a minute.

  She held that position for a moment, her lips touching the smooth walnut inlay in a light caress. Finally she leaned away from the wheel and put her hands in her lap, which told John the show was over. Now if he could just get her out of there before she lit two cigarettes and handed one to the car, he might be able to get this vehicle to the impound lot and call it a day.

  He opened the door and automatically reached down to help her out of the car. Now one of those hands that had just made sweet, sweet love to a Mercedes Roadster was nestled inside his, and it was every bit as warm and soft as he had imagined. His thumb brushed against her wedding ring—a multicarat monstrosity that dwarfed her small hand—and he found himself wondering if she really would be getting a divorce.

  Then he wondered why he was wondering.

  After she stood, he tried to pull his hand away, but she tightened her grip and stared soulfully into his eyes.

  “Drive it carefully, okay?”

  Damn it. So much for his plan to take this sporty little vehicle on a pedal-to-the-metal trip down a farm-to-market road just to see what it could do.

  As she walked back toward the mobile home, he slid into the driver’s seat. This had been a real red-letter day. First a kid with a gun, and then a crying woman with a car fetish.

  Oh, hell. As if he was much better? She might have a car fetish, but he clearly had a fetish about watching her act out her car fetish.

  Subway, here I come. And I’m not kidding about that.

  Then he lifted his hand to start the car and got a shock.

  The key was gone.

  He stared dumbly at the ignition. Where was the damned key?

  He whipped around. The woman looked back over her shoulder, and the moment their eyes met, she ran.

  In no time, John was out of the car and flying across the yard, but she already had a big head start. She reached the porch steps, scrambled up them, and scurried inside the mobile home. At the same time John’s foot hit the top step, she slammed the door and flicked the deadbolt.

  He grabbed the doorknob. Rattled it.

  Shit!

  He smacked the door with his fist, letting out a string of curse words so potent they practically wilted the scraggly shrubs beside the porch steps. He couldn’t believe it. He simply couldn’t believe it. He’d bought it. The story, the tears, the fond farewell that would have been right at home in a cheap porn flick. All of it. What was he? Some kind of moron?

  He heard a tapping noise. Turning to the window, he saw the woman looking through the blinds. She held up the key and waggled it, a sly victory smile spreading across her face.

  If John had been pissed before, he was livid now. And when she blew him a kiss, it was all he could do not to plow straight through the window and go for her pretty little throat.

  He spun around, trotted down the steps, and strode back to Tony’s car.

  “So I guess she grabbed the key?” Tony said.

  “You’re very intuitive.” John yanked open the passenger door. “Get in.”

  Tony climbed into the driver’s seat. “That Roadster’s nice and everything, but if I were you, I’d be going after the gorgeous woman.”

  John looked at Tony with disbelief. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Hell, no. She was hot.”

  “She was a lunatic.”

  “Nice body.”

  “Addled brain.”

  “Now, see, there you go again. That brain thing. Which reminds me that I need to call Rhonda. I want to make sure it’s my shoulder she leans on in her time of need.”

  “Rona,” John snapped.

  “What?”

  “Her name is Rona.”

  Tony blinked. “Then why did you tell me it was Rhonda?”

  “Just drive the car, will you?”

  Hot or not, John wanted nothing to do with any woman who was conniving. Phony. Manipulative. Shameless. Particularly when she was telling lies, manufacturing tears, kissing steering wheels, and palming keys.

  This wasn’t over yet. One way or another, he was grabbing that Mercedes Roadster. And when he did, he’d make sure she never set foot in it again.

  Darcy peered out the blinds, watching the 4x4 disappear down the street and breathing a huge sigh of relief. But her heart was still thumping like crazy. Outwitting a man had never been a major undertaking for her, but then she’d never tried to get the better of one who was the size of a redwood tree. She was lucky he hadn’t caught her, or he’d have snapped her in half like a piece of kindling.

  When he’d risen up beside her car to his full six feet, umpteen inches, she’d nearly choked. He had a chest like granite and shoulders so broad they blocked out the setting sun. His thick, dark hair was meticulously clipped, and his tense, watchful eyes were equally under control, fixing on their targets with military precision. His intimidating scowl told her that smiling wasn’t in his repertoire of facial expressions, even in the wake of her heartfelt sob story. Some women would have said he was handsome, but only those who liked men who could chew a sack of nails into a wad of bubble gum.

  She pulled out the card he’d given her. John Stark. Lone Star Repossessions. White card stock. Black letters. No fancy logo. More evidence to support the theory that he was a no-frills kind of guy who came, saw, and conquered. Only now she’d outsmarted him, which meant she’d undoubtedly moved to the top of his hit list.

  Fortun
ately, it was after hours, and he wouldn’t be able to come up with another key from the loan company tonight. But by tomorrow morning she needed to move her car to a place where he couldn’t find it.

  Oh, God. How depressing was that? She was only a few hours into being broke, and already she was thinking like a deadbeat.

  She went back to the kitchen table, stuck his business card in her purse, and picked up what was left of her drink, which she downed in a single gulp. She couldn’t believe Warren had financed a car. She’d always imagined he just wrote a check and that was that. Light was dawning so brightly on her situation that it practically blinded her.

  She went to the living room and sat in her father’s recliner. Picking up the remote, she ran the channels. An infomercial. A country music video. A Friends rerun. When she came to the Jerry Springer show, she laid down the clicker and sat back to watch. It wasn’t her usual choice of programming, but it was the only opportunity she had right now to revel in somebody else’s misfortune for a while and forget about her own.

  By the time Jerry signed off, Darcy’s eyes were getting heavy. Pepé had jumped into her lap and was sleeping soundly. She was about to doze off herself, anesthetized by the drone of the TV, the bourbon she’d ingested, and the mind-numbing predicament that had become her life, when she heard a loud noise.

  She opened her eyes and listened. An engine?

  Yes. A very big engine. Oversized trucks were a dime a dozen in the average Texas trailer park, but this one seemed higher than usual on the noise-pollution scale. She shooed Pepé off her lap and went to the window. When she flicked down the blinds, she was shocked at what she saw.

  The repo man was already back.

  Chapter 4

  Parked at the curb was a large flatbed truck, and Darcy’s car was up on it, secured in place. She had no idea how he’d managed to make that happen. Now he was sliding behind the wheel of the truck, preparing to drive away.

  Darcy let go of the blinds with a clatter and yanked open the door. She hurried down the porch steps and across the yard, muttering a curse every time her heels hit clumps of crabgrass and twisted her ankles.

  “Hey, you! Stop!” She reached the street, circled around to the driver’s door, where the window was down. She had to crane her neck to look up at him sitting in the cab. She pounded on the door. “What do you think you’re doing?”