by Meryl Sawyer
His Gull Wing was great, but this one was fabulous. The only one in existence. How many collectors could ever say that? He lovingly ran his finger along the hood.
He would kill for this car.
“Isn’t she beautiful?”
Brock flinched at the sound of the female voice behind him. He slowly turned around and nearly lost it. The voice belonged to a dynamite redhead with knockers that jutted out like a Bugatti’s headlights.
“She?” He grinned at the broad and managed to sound cool. “Ships and hurricanes are named after women. Automobiles are male testosterone machines.”
“We now have male hurricanes.”
He liked the humor in her voice. He hadn’t had a date in over two years. Between his cars and Obelisk, he couldn’t find the time. A quickie at the auto show would get his rocks off. He’d be set for another two years.
“This Gull Wing’s female. I’m positive.”
“What makes you so sure?” he asked as he calculated how long it would take him to wash his three cars. Afterward they could meet for dinner. He’d taken a suite at the Delano where all the rich car owners stayed. He’d bet the redhead would be impressed enough to hop in the sack with him.
“She’s my car. She told me so.”
Brock blinked to let the words register. “Your car?”
She offered her hand. “Yes. I’m Jordan Walsh.”
“Brock Hardesty.” He barely croaked out the words. A woman owned this priceless classic. Unfuckingbelievable.
“I know you.” The answer had a purring sound to it that resonated in Brock’s groin.
“Really? How?”
“I’ve loved Gull Wings forever. I’ve seen yours at shows.”
“Really?” He must be losing it. Hundreds even thousands of pretty women had admired his car, but surely he would have remembered a knockout redhead with Bugatti tits.
“Yes. I always wanted a car to show, but I didn’t have the money. In the last couple of years, things changed. My XtremeX Web site paid off.”
He didn’t give a flying fuck about her Web site. “Where did you find this car?”
She let out a little squeak of excitement and bounced on the ice-pick heels she was wearing. The Bugattis jiggled and heat rushed to his pecker. “You’re not going to believe it!”
“Try me.”
“My brother sells custom wheels in Sioux City. Some farmer brought—” she pointed to the car’s gleaming wheels with the caper green hubcaps “—her wheels in. He wanted fifty bucks for the set.”
All the air was siphoned from his lungs. A jewel, the only one on the planet had been languishing, unloved, unappreciated with some stupid-ass farmer who didn’t know each wheel on any Gull Wing was worth more than the average farmer made in a year.
“Of course, Danny—he’s my brother—asked about the car. The farmer had it in his barn. In the barn. Can you imagine?”
“Actually, I can. Lots of classic cars have turned up in odd places with people who hadn’t a clue what they were worth. May I ask what you paid for it?”
She winked at him, and he decided she was just his type. A sense of humor. Classy. She had a major set of Bugattis, but she didn’t flaunt them. Her black turtleneck sweater covered her and wasn’t too tight.
“Brock, this is where the story gets good. The farmer wanted five hundred dollars for it. You know, being a Mercedes and all.”
Brock thought he might upchuck. “You paid five—”
“No, silly,” she replied with another sexy wink. “I couldn’t cheat that dear old guy. I paid him twenty-five thousand dollars for it.”
Brock roared. This was one smart broad. If she’d paid him the measly amount he’d wanted and he’d later found out the Gull Wing’s true value, he would have had grounds for a lawsuit.
“I put it on a truck and shipped it back to Falls Church where I had it restored.”
“You live in Falls Church?” When she bobbed her head, he added, “I live in D.C.”
“Oh, my! We’re neighbors.”
This just kept getting better and better.
The light dawned. The fucking Bugattis had distracted him. Restored in Falls Church. The Gull Wing had languished in a barn. It had to be repainted. Trust a broad to add silver to the green. If this wasn’t the original paint, it wasn’t one-of-a-kind. It was merely another restored 300 SL.
This realization cheered him so much that he chuckled. He could hardly wait to report this infraction of the strict rules to the attention of the committee chairman, Gilbert Everhardt. He was a tight ass bent on upholding even the most minor rule.
“What’s so funny?”
“I thought this was the original paint. Caper-green. I’ve never seen a caper this color. No wonder. It’s been repainted. Whoever did the blending was a little off.”
“You’re wrong about that.”
Brock resisted a cutting remark. After all he intended to screw this broad’s brains out.
“The car hadn’t been properly cared for. The paint was beyond restoration. I might not have bought it.” She smiled sweetly. “You see, I didn’t want just another Gull Wing. So I called Germany, and guess what? They still had the original paint.”
Fuck. Double fuck. Trust the Nazis to keep paint for fifty years, and it would still be good. His cell phone chose that moment to vibrate. He pulled it off his belt. It was his source at the DoD.
“Excuse me,” he told her. “I’ll be right back.”
He walked out of hearing range. “Yeah.”
“I just heard from the vet.”
That was their code for finding out something about the Defense Department’s top secret project.
“Give me your number.”
He memorized it and went to find a pay phone. His operative was already at a pay phone. He hated leaving the Gull Wing and the broad, but this was business. A bank of pay phones lined the side wall of the convention center.
He found one not in use, dialed the number and his operative picked up before the first ring was over. “I know the location of the device they’re testing.”
“What is it? I’m not wasting money sending one of my guys after it until I know if it’s worth it. The DoD tests lots of crap that’s just a waste of taxpayer dollars like thousand dollar toilet seats.”
“It’s worth it. Believe me.”
Brock listened to the description of the handheld device that could use thermal imaging to track people even at night.
If Brock brought this device to Obelisk, he could leave the bunker and take over the CEO’s job. This technology, provided it worked, would revolutionize surveillance.
“I’ll see you get a bonus.”
He hung up without another word and called Operative 777, a new man he’d put in the field after the debacle in Santa Fe. This agent wouldn’t hesitate to kill if necessary, but he wouldn’t muff it.
Excited, Brock hurried back to the broad’s Gull Wing. It was still there, but Jordan Walsh was gone.
KEKE SNUGGLED into the crook of Paul’s arm. They’d finally gotten Lui to sleep, and they were down the hall in their own bed. The plantation style shutters were wide-open. Fragrant plumeria scented the darkness, mingling with the loamy earthy smell of the tropics.
“Lui’s just like Chad was,” Keke told Paul. “He never needed sleep like other little boys. There would be noise in the middle of the night, and we would find Chad in the kitchen playing with his Erector set. That was the best case scenario. Often he was getting into things. Once he wanted to learn how to use the electric can opener. He opened every can in the pantry and had them displayed on the kitchen table when we got up. He couldn’t understand why my parents were upset.”
Paul kissed her forehead. “Look on the up side. If we can survive Lui’s youth, he’ll make millions and support us in his old age, the way Chad helps everyone in the family now.”
Keke peeled back the sheet. Lordy, was it warm tonight. Where were the trades when you needed them?
�
�Hey, speaking of Chad, how did your day with what’s-her-name go?”
They made a pact not to discuss things in front of the children. Lui was too likely to repeat anything he heard—or saw. She hadn’t told Paul about today’s foray into Chinatown.
“Her name is Devon Summers. As you might expect, knowing my brother, she’s smart and very attractive.”
“Blond, no doubt.”
“You know Chad has a weakness for blondes. But this woman is different. I can’t explain it exactly. She’s nice but not too friendly. I asked her a few questions about where she came from. You know, normal stuff. She answered, but it was almost as if…I don’t know exactly, but I had the feeling she would rather live in the moment.”
“What a surprise. How many people move here to get away from something? Thousands every year.”
“Devon is different. I can feel it.”
“Sweetie…mind your own business.” He ran his hand up the curve of her thigh, and she knew he wanted sex.
“I am. I haven’t said anything to either one of them about the other, but I am worried about Chad. I think he’s in over his head with this woman.”
“Hul-lo! They haven’t even had a date. How could a Delta Force guy who specialized in Black Ops be in over his head anyway?”
“I don’t know but I have this feeling. Ane told me—”
“That old crone? Gimme a break.”
Paul’s heritage was Japanese. He didn’t understand about women like Ane. She reminded Keke of her own mother. They clung to the traditions and customs of old Hawaii, a time whose sunset was fast approaching.
“I know you don’t believe in the tales of the past, but one of the most widely held beliefs is that Pele, the goddess—”
“I know. Her ghost takes the guise of a young woman who is found along the side of the road—”
“With a dog. Devon has a golden retriever named Zachary.”
“So? She wasn’t found along side of the road.” Paul sounded exasperated and she knew his cultural background made it difficult to appreciate Hawaiian lore.
“I know, I know. It’s bad luck not to help her.”
Kids on Hawaii, of any ancestry, knew the myth, but those with native Hawaiian blood were notoriously superstitious. There had always been a cultural divide between Paul and Keke. His father had accepted her, but he’d died shortly after their wedding. His mother was never going to forgive her for not being at least part Japanese.
“I was raised with these stories, Paul. There’s a kernel of truth in them.”
“Show me the kernel in the Pele’s ghost myth.”
“It’s bad luck to turn your back on someone who needs your help.”
Paul heaved a sigh. “God save us from women.”
“Oh, save yourself—” she slipped on top of him “—if you can.”
“I love you.”
Keke smiled, her warm belly against his. “I’ve never loved you more than when Lui asked about your pee-pee, and your mother wanted to know what show they’d been watching. You think on your feet. I would never have thought to say it was a Jockey commercial.”
He ran has hands over her bare bottom. “I’m good at other things, too. Wanna see?”
“You’re not having lurid thoughts, are you?”
CHAPTER TEN
BROCK CONGRATULATED himself as he walked away from the front desk at the Delano. Jordan Walsh had checked in as he thought she would. The Web site for 300 SL Coupes owners—GullWings.com—had announced the group would be staying here.
Each year when the show came to Miami, the group stayed at the Delano. Why? Brock didn’t have a clue. Every friggin’ room was white. White walls, pillows, chair, sheets. Nothing but white.
Some idiot had put a bed in the lobby. People sat on it instead of chairs. Made no sense to Brock. At the prices they charged, the hotel could afford a few comfortable sofas like the Four Seasons.
A young punk with tattooed biceps and a diamond stud in his nose lay sprawled on the lobby bed. Chattering groupies surrounded him. Some rock star, Brock decided as he walked by. The place was always crawling with butt-ugly punks who made megabucks with music that fractured eardrums.
He figured they stayed here because the place was as weird as they were, and Madonna owned the hotel’s Blue Door restaurant. The food was good, but the view of the palm-lined pool with nearly naked babes everywhere was the best thing about the place.
He left the lobby and walked toward the martini bar. It was a long narrow table set at an odd angle, tall barstools lining both sides. Tiny glass halogen bulbs dangled from filament wires to give the bar a touch of light while leaving the surrounding area in shadows.
He spotted Jordan Walsh sitting alone at the far end of the bar. She had changed into a black dress with a V-neck. It showed off enough of her Bugatti tits to be sexy but not slutty. Her red hair provocatively brushed her shoulders and glistened in the glow of the halogens.
“What are you drinking?” he asked as he walked up and saw her with a Martini glass full of black liquid.
“A Black Dahlia Martini. Vodka with Chambord. It’s yummy.”
Looked and sounded gross but he kept it to himself. “I’m a single malt guy.”
He slipped onto the barstool beside her, and sneaked a look at the swell of those Bugattis just visible along her neckline. Soft, creamy white skin, the kind a true redhead would have. No doubt she had a flaming pussy, too.
“Which is your favorite?” she asked.
“Knockando,” he replied without hesitation. The waitress drifted by them and he ordered the Scotch on the rocks.
“Ah, a Speyside malt.”
Startled, Brock stared at her. Few women knew much about the great scotch distilleries.
“I’ve traveled extensively in Scotland,” she told him. “I’m familiar with the Highland malts, the Lowland malts, the Island malts. Speyside is in the heartland of whiskey distilling. Glenfiddich, Glenlivet, and Macallan are better known, but Knockando is right up there.”
He bristled a little, wondering if she were implying he’d selected a great malt but one that was inferior to the really big single malt names. He hadn’t begun drinking single malts until he’d come to Obelisk where Kilmer Cassidy guzzled it. He’d taken to drinking Knockando because it was a little off-beat.
He refused to be one of the herd. Those other single malts could be found in any supermarket. You had to look a little harder to find Knockando. Of course a five-star hotel like the Delano would have it.
“This my first show,” Jordan told him. “I’m nervous.”
“People will ask a lot of dumb questions,” he replied, deciding he was being too sensitive. Jordan didn’t disapprove of his taste in liquor. “Just remember not to let them touch the car. Oil from their hands will ruin the paint.”
She took a tiny sip of her martini. He couldn’t help noticing her delicious red lips. He imagined that succulent mouth around his cock. He had a woodie in half a second.
“Do you have dinner plans?” he asked, his mind actually on getting her up to his room after eating.
“I’m having dinner with Horst at Nemo’s.”
Shit! Horst Trensen IV was the Gull Wing Association’s president. The cocksucker had never worked a day in his life. He’d made his money the old-fashioned way—he’d inherited it. Well, one day soon Brock was going to be just as rich. He would leave Obelisk and devote himself to collecting cars.
Maybe Jordan would be willing to sell hers. The glamour of the show circuit would wear off after a few shows. If she refused to sell, there were other ways to take care of the problem. It was one of the perks of his job.
“I’m free tomorrow night,” Jordan said.
“Great. I’ll make reservations at Tuscan Steak for eight o’clock.”
The waitress delivered his scotch, and he asked, “Would you like another martini?”
Jordan shook her head. “More than one and I do crazy things.”
Brock would have to
remember that. He scribbled his room number on the tab and added a five percent tip. He saw no reason to overtip cocktail waitresses for doing basically nothing.
“There’s Horst. He’s early.”
Brock saw Horst swaggering toward them. Picking up his drink, he said, “I’m taking this up to my room. I’ve got work to do.”
“Really? What do you do?”
“I’m at the Pentagon. Top secret stuff. If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.”
She laughed, a mellow tinkling sound. “Go on. You don’t mean it.”
Brock chuckled. The broad had no idea just how much he did mean it. He would allow her a little fun with the car and himself time to have fun in the sack with her. But if she didn’t sell him the car, he would kill her.
CHAD STOOD in his empty living room and watched Keke, Hana, and Nola drape folding chairs with the red fabric and tie it in place with big bows. Off to the side, Devon was covering a table. His sisters were chattering about their children, but Devon had hardly said a word.
He’d checked the references she’d listed on the employment form Eddie had given her. Both the Cress Creek Country Club and the Four Seasons had called him back with the information. Devon had been an excellent employee and was welcome to return at any time.
He’d Googled her, but came up with nothing, which seemed a bit odd. Most people had their name in the paper occasionally, and it went onto Google’s database. He’d originally told himself that he was doing this to protect Eddie, but he wasn’t fooling himself now. The mysterious Devon Summers must be up to something.
He walked up to her asking, “Where’s Zach?”
She glanced briefly at him just long enough to be polite. “I left him at the office. I didn’t want him shedding on your beautiful floors.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Her back was to him and she was bending over. Great buns. Every time he got close to her his pulse rate spiked. He was undeniably attracted to her, but she didn’t seem to feel a thing for him.
“Zach’s welcome any time. Bring him tomorrow.”
“Thank you. I will.”
There was a smoldering quality to her remarkable eyes. This close he could see it, feel it. Her subtle yet provocative citrus scent conjured up X-rated images.