of him. He’d done his absolute best to present himself as a laid-back and easygoing, slightly unscrupulous Southern Californian. No one had the faintest idea how dangerous he really could be.
Except for Jilly Meyer, who looked like she wanted the floor of the elevator to swallow her up. Her linen was rumpled, her hair was tangled, and she looked sleepy, wary and hostile. It really was an irresistible combination.
He allowed himself the brief, graphic fantasy of slamming his hand against the emergency stop button, shoving her against the elevator wall and pulling up that too short skirt of hers. Those long, strong legs would wrap around his hips quite nicely, he could brace her against the wall while he fucked her, and she’d stop looking at him like she wondered whether he was a scorpion who’d wandered in from the desert. By then she’d know that was exactly what he was.
The doors slid open on the basement level with an audible sigh, and Coltrane’s fantasy vanished, unfulfilled. He punched in the garage code and the door buzzed. He pushed it open, and she walked through, brushing past him, and he wondered if she was going to take off in a run. He might enjoy stopping her.
But she was too well-bred for that. She held out her slim, strong hand to him. Silver rings, he noticed. Elegant and plain. And he took it, touching her for the first time.
His hand swallowed hers, and he used just enough pressure so that she couldn’t keep ignoring him. She glanced up at him through her thick lashes. “I’m not biologically equipped for a pissing contest, Mr. Coltrane,” she murmured.
He released her hand. “Where are we going for dinner?”
“I have no idea where you’re going. I’m going home.”
“Can you cook?”
“Not for you.”
He was baiting her deliberately, to annoy her. He still wasn’t quite sure why he wanted to—she was easy to get to. Far easier to get on her nerves than to seduce her.
Or maybe not. He intended to find out.
There was only a handful of cars in the deserted garage. He wondered whether she owned the red BMW convertible or the Mercedes. And then he saw the classic Corvette—1966, he guessed, lovingly restored, a piece of art as close to an antique as Los Angeles could boast.
He didn’t make the mistake of touching her again, he simply starting walking toward the car, knowing she was going in that direction. “Nice Corvette,” he said.
She cast a wary glance up at him. “What makes you think it’s mine?”
“It suits you. Are you going to let me drive it?”
He might just as well have suggested they act out his elevator fantasy. “Absolutely not!”
“She’d be safe with me. I know how to drive—I’ve had a lot of experience. I’m good with a stick shift. I’d take it slow, I wouldn’t strip her gears.”
Her expression was priceless. “Mr. Coltrane, if you drove her with the same deftness that you’re using in coming on to me then she’d stall out before you could even put her into gear,” she said. “You’re not driving my car or me. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” he drawled. A week, he figured. A week before she’d lie down for him, two weeks for the car. “I don’t suppose you’d give me a ride home.”
“Where’s your car?”
“In the shop. I was supposed to take one of the company cars but I got distracted up there and forgot to get the keys.”
“You can go back up and get them.”
He shook his head. “The door has a time lock. Once the last person leaves no one can get in until morning.”
“What the hell does my father keep up there, the Fort Knox gold?” she said irritably.
“Just private files. Your father’s involved in some highly complex, sensitive business arrangements. It wouldn’t do for just anyone to walk in and have access to them.”
“Just anyone like his daughter? Who’s obviously far too simpleminded to understand the great big complexity of his sensitive business affairs,” she mocked him.
He ignored that. “I live near Brentwood. It’s not that far out of your way.”
“How do you know where I’m going?”
“You said you were going home. You live in that old mausoleum on Sunset with your brother and sister. I’m right on your way.”
“Call a taxi.”
“My cell phone’s dead.”
“Use mine.” She was rummaging in her purse now, obviously determined to get rid of him. A moment later she pulled out a phone, holding it out to him.
“Why do I make you so uncomfortable?” he said, making no effort to take it.
“You don’t,” she said. “I have a date.”
Two lies, he thought, and she wasn’t very good at lying. Unlike the rest of her family. Dean Meyer seemed almost oblivious to the truth, whereas his father used it as he saw fit, mostly to manipulate people.
But Jilly Meyer couldn’t lie with a straight face, and that was oddly, stupidly endearing. Coltrane wasn’t about to let that weaken his resolve.
“Then you’ll probably want to go home and change before your big night out, and my apartment’s on your way,” he said in his most reasonable voice.
“Get in the damned car.” She shoved her phone back into her purse and headed around toward the driver’s side. He wondered whether she’d chicken out, try to drive off without unlocking the passenger door to let him in. She wouldn’t get far—the garage doors wouldn’t open without the right code.
But she slid behind the wheel, leaned over and unlocked the door, pulling back when he climbed in beside her. The Corvette was beautifully restored, perfectly maintained, and he had a sudden moment of sheer acquisitiveness. He wanted this car.
He didn’t want a car exactly like this. He could afford to buy what he wanted on the exorbitant salary Jackson Meyer was currently paying him, and in L.A. you could find anything for a price. He didn’t want a 1966 Corvette. He wanted the one that belonged to Jilly Meyer.
She was strapping the metal-buckled seat belt across her lap, and she threw him a pointed look, but he made no effort to find his. “I like to live dangerously,” he said. Her short skirt had hiked up even higher in the low-slung cockpit of the car, but he’d decided the time for ogling was past. She’d gotten the initial message, he could back off now. At least for the time being.
He didn’t even waste a glance at his Range Rover. Sooner or later she’d see it, but he didn’t know whether she’d figure out it was his. Probably not—he was doing far too good a job at rattling her. She wouldn’t notice any details.
She drove like a bat out of hell, another surprise, though he expected the squealing tires and tight corners were a protest against his unwanted presence. The moment the garage doors
