On Her Side. Beth Andrews
questioned by the cops. And no matter how many times you or your sister—the assistant police chief—ask me, the answers aren’t going to change.”
“But you—”
“So unless you’re having car problems—and are prepared to pay me to fix those problems—there’s really no reason for you to be here. And nothing for us to talk about.”
Inhaling deeply, she sent a beseeching glance at the ceiling, as if asking the heavens from whence she came to grant her patience. “I think we got off on the wrong foot here.”
“Do you?” he murmured, figuring only an idiot would miss the calculation in her blue eyes. And the intelligence behind them.
He’d been called many things in his life, but never an idiot.
“How about we start over?” she asked, holding out her hand again. “Hi, Griffin, I’m Nora. It’s nice to meet you.”
For a moment, he almost believed she was as innocent and harmless as she looked with her perfect face, guileless charm and dry sense of humor.
She was good, he’d give her that. Damn good.
He enveloped her warm hand in his, noting the relief, the triumph that crossed her expression. But when he held on past what was considered the polite amount of time for a simple handshake, that relief turned to unease. The triumph to confusion. He felt no small amount of satisfaction from that unease. And he had no problem using it against her.
“How about this?” he asked quietly, tugging her toward him until she was so close he could smell her light, clean scent. Could hear the soft catch of her breath. Her throat worked, her eyes widened as they met his. “You walk yourself out of my garage, get into your car and drive off my property. Or—”
“Or what?” she asked, yanking free of his hold, her face flush. “You’ll toss me over your shoulder, throw me into my trunk, hook my car to your tow truck and drag me out of here?”
He could easily imagine himself doing the first and wished he could figure out a way to make the second idea work without going to jail for it. “Not that I have anything against those suggestions, but no. I won’t do anything.”
She smirked, reminding him of how Layne had looked a few weeks back when she’d tried to arrest him for the dubious crime of being Dale York’s son. “That’s what I thought.”
No, she thought she had him firmly by the balls. And all she had to do to keep him in line was squeeze.
“I won’t do anything,” he repeated. “I’ll let the Mystic Point Police Department do it for me.”
She blinked. Then she laughed. Bright, tinkling laughter that filled the cavernous space of the garage and seemed to echo back at him.
He was in hell.
“Keep that sense of humor,” he said. “It’ll come in handy when they take your mug shot.”
“Come on,” she said as if inviting him to share in the joke. “You’re not going to call the police.”
“I’m not?”
“Why would you? It’s not like you and the Mystic Point PD have a strong relationship based on mutual trust and admiration.”
Because he was Dale York’s son. Because he’d been a wild and rebellious kid and was an adult who didn’t take shit or back down from anyone.
“I’m a tax paying, law-abiding citizen,” he pointed out, not getting so much as a parking ticket since he turned eighteen and realized he’d be following his old man’s footsteps straight to prison if he didn’t keep his nose clean. Watching her, he took out his cell phone. “Make sure to duck when they put you in the back of the squad car. Wouldn’t want to hit your head and mess up that fancy hairdo.”
“While I’m sure that’s excellent advice—and comes from your own personal experience—I don’t need it. It’s not illegal to have a conversation with someone. Unless, of course, you know something about the law I don’t?” she asked in a sweet, condescending tone that grated on his last nerve.
He raised his eyebrows. “You always have that ego, or did it come with the law degree?”
“It’s not ego. I just meant—”
“I know what you meant.” She wanted to prove how smart she was—so much smarter than him because she went to some fancy college while he was lucky to finish high school. So much better than him by virtue of her last name. “And I don’t care what the cops do with you. Arrest you for trespassing, cite you for loitering or give you a ticket for being a pain-in-the-ass. Doesn’t matter to me as long as they get you out of my hair and out of my garage.”
Biting her lower lip, she regarded him warily as if trying to figure out if he was serious. “Okay,” she said with a decisive nod, “if that’s the way you want it—”
“It is,” he assured her, mimicking her somber tone.
“Fine.” Her sigh was very much that of a poor, put-upon female forced to deal with a brainless, tactless male. “We’ll do things your way. But for the record,” she said, wagging her finger at him like some librarian to a naughty schoolboy—never one of his favorite fantasies, “let me just say I’m not happy about this. Not one bit.”
“Life’s tough that way. Best get used to it.”
“Thank you for those words of wisdom,” she said so solemnly he didn’t doubt she was messing with him. “I will endeavor to keep them in mind.”
Endeavor. Jesus. Who talked like that?
She strode away, her back rigid, her arms swinging like one of those women he saw power-walking in Hanley Park each morning.
Except, she didn’t march her irritating self out the door. She brushed past him, crossed to the long shelf behind the lift and stared at the tools there as if trying to figure out which one went best with her outfit.
A prickle of trepidation formed between his shoulder blades. What was she up to?
Finally she grabbed a small crowbar and held it up as she walked toward him. “I’m borrowing this.”
His muscles tensed, and the prickle morphed into an itch of warning. Not of physical violence—though he didn’t doubt this piece of fluff was capable of it. Everyone was. But that whatever she planned on doing with that crowbar was going to piss him off but good.
“You plan on beating me over the head for not talking to you?” he asked mildly, his hands at his sides, his weight on the balls of his feet in case he had to defend himself.
“Of course not,” she said, passing him by without taking so much as a swing. “That would be a little overkill, don’t you think?”
She walked into the sunshine and he figured his skull was safe—for now. Unable to resist, he followed her, stopping to lean against the door frame as she marched up to her car, raised the bar over her shoulder like a batter ready for a grand slam—and swung hard. Her headlight exploded in a spray of glass. Pieces clung to her dress, sparkling against the dark material. More rained down onto the pavement.
And people thought he was dangerous.
“Lady,” he said, straightening, “you’ve got a sparkplug loose up in that head of yours.”
She strolled over to the other headlight and took it out as well. Cocking one hip, she studied her handiwork for a moment then started whaling away at the grill, the clang of metal on metal setting his teeth on edge.
She didn’t have the strength to do much damage to the grill, though she gave it her best shot—no pun intended. But what she lacked in muscle, she made up for in enthusiasm. She grunted with exertion, her hips swaying in time with her swings, the hem of her dress lifting to show a few more inches of her thighs.
He might have enjoyed the sight