by Louisa Trent
She eyed the pizza box from under the brim of her grimy baseball cap. "Do you want that last slice?"
"No. Go ahead."
She grabbed and gobbled.
When was the last time she'd had something hot in her belly?
"How about that coffee now?" he asked, blaming the java steam for his misty eyes.
At her polite, "Yes. Please," he pushed the dark roasted blend he preferred across the tabletop. Only hers was more cream than caffeine. He didn't approve of young girls drinking coffee.
Before Steve could take a gulp from his own cup, high heels grating on the cement floor had him looking up again.
Ronnie. If that woman didn't have the worst possible timing...
"Who's your little friend, Steve?" his partner asked.
Little?
Steve's heart sank. So... Ronnie thought Emily was a kid too. But she had to be at least eighteen, didn't she? Anything younger was jailbait...
Feeling like a damned cradle robber, he shuffled to his feet, standing to perform the intros. "This is my new mechanic, Lee Packet."
He looked at Emily reassuringly. "Lee, I would like you to meet my business partner, Miss Thomas."
Like a schoolgirl, his mechanic jumped out of her seat, hand extended. "How do you do, Miss Thomas?"
Ronnie winced. "Ever hear of soap, honey?"
Emily looked down at her stained palm. "Oh ... sorry. " She put the offending hand behind her back. "I scrubbed, but oil stains are hard to remove."
Over his mechanic's head, Steve shot Ronnie a menacing message.
A warning she answered with a toss of her lion's mane and a narrowing of her hazel-green eyes. "That's okay, dear. You needn't apologize."
Ronnie turned to him. "You didn't tell me you had hired anyone to help with the car, Steve."
"I didn't know I had to."
"But you usually tell me everything, lover," Ronnie replied, voice tight. "I must say, I just think it's too cute that your new little ... uh ... helper is a young girl."
Young?
Steve coughed back his rising discomfort. "Lee's a pro. She could probably teach me a few things."
"I don't doubt it," Ronnie said with a saccharine smile.
That did it! Ron and he had to get some things straight.
Steve spoke directly to his mechanic. "Why don't we quit early today? I need to speak with Miss Thomas. In private. I'll see you tomorrow."
Emily politely bobbed her head at Ronnie. "Nice meeting you, Miss Thomas," she said. Grabbing her backpack, she headed for the side door.
Before he could stop her, Ronnie hurried after her. "Hold up, dear!"
They talked outside the door. Or, Ronnie talked. Emily's mouth wasn't moving. He wished he knew what his partner was laying on his mechanic, but the buzz of the ventilation fan spinning overhead prevented him from eavesdropping. He could tell Ronnie was using her usual shoot-to-kill style because storm clouds had moved over Emily's features. The one-sided conversation concluded with Ronnie giving Emily a dismissive nod.
Steve folded his arms over his chest as Ronnie wiggled her hips back across the garage, her high heels setting off sparks on the cement floor with each step.
"Well?" he said, and none too happily.
"Well what?"
"Don't do coy with me, Ron. What the hell was that about? And do not tell me girl talk."
"Oh that! I told your new charity case to come to work suitably dressed tomorrow."
Steve shoved his hands in his pockets. It was either that or strangle his partner. "Lee Packet is not my new charity case."
"This is me, Ronnie, remember? I know you. You're forever taking in strays, doling out handouts."
"I didn't give her a handout. I gave her a job. And where do you get off telling my employee how to dress! This is a garage, not the yacht club. I don't expect her to come to work wearing chiffon and pearls."
"Going without underwear is vulgar and distracting and inappropriate in the workplace. You're her employer, she's your employee, and this garage is her place of employment. The hussy needed to be told to strap on a bra."
His gut twisted at what had to have been Emily's humiliation. "Tell me you didn't say that to her!"
"Someone had to. You never would."
"Ronnie, back off. Okay? She's just a kid."
"Goodness! Aren't we protective? Better wake up, Steve! Before that ... that gold-digging teenager rakes you over the coals."
Teenager?
Steve's heart clutched. Then stalled. "She's in trouble, Ron. I'm giving her a way to make some cash. No, gold-digger spends her day working on her back."
"Oh, really? I would've said that's exactly how a gold-digger spends her day."
"I meant on her back, under a car, working on an engine," he said, his arousal over the image of Emily on her back anywhere filling him with self-disgust.
"Make sure the car engine is all she works on. If she gets her grubby hands on you, her fingers will end up in your wallet."
"Partner, you've got way too much class for this trash talk."
"I'm sorry if I offend your sensibilities, darling, but a man in your position can't be too careful. Who will look after your interests if I don't?"
"You're crossing the line here..."
"You're a wealthy man, Steve. At least make sure you stock up on condoms. You don't want to be a daddy in nine months."
"Enough!" he roared, because at the age of thirty-eight the thought of fatherhood was surprisingly appealing.
Ronnie's mouth gaped. "I don't believe this! You are attracted to her! But she's not your type, darling!"
No, Emily was not his type. And that was the only thing Ronnie said that made sense.
Once, he'd had the same kind of solid marriage as his parents. Once, he'd had a woman to whom hearth and home and family came first, a relationship where the love was deep and enduring. Once, his wife had more than satisfied the heat in his loins. Once, he thought their happiness would carry them through to old age. It hadn't worked out that way, and Steve knew he just wasn't strong enough to put himself through that kind of grief again. He would never remarry, never have a new wife, never have kids.
"A successful man like yourself, Steve, needs a certain kind of woman at his side. A poised lady comfortable in social situations, who possesses the ability to mingle with our extremely wealthy clientele..."
"Someone who's as shallow as a Cape Cod cranberry bog during a summer drought."
"What? You think your mechanic isn't shallow because she has grease under her fingernails? Don't fool yourself!"
He wasn't. But he knew Emily wasn't a gold-digger. He only wished she was! A gold-digger, he could handle. A gold-digger, he understood. He didn't understand Emily. He didn't understand what she was doing here. He didn't understand how a girl like her got herself involved in an art ring. His attraction to Emily threw a wrench in this case, but right or wrong, the attraction was there and it was real. He had to let his partner know, without giving away the real background of his mechanic, that Emily was off limits to her cat claws.
"Ronnie, you and I go to restaurants and parties and art gallery openings with each other because it's easier than finding a date. We have fun. We have laughs. We're a habit. We're friends," he stressed.
A flicker of hurt sped across his partner's green eyes. Just as quickly, it was covered. "We are friends, Steve, and that's why I won't stand by while some car-fixing slut takes advantage of you!"
"Slut, Ron? That girl's no slut. And no one takes advantage of me. You know that."
The situation was getting out of hand. He didn't want to dignify Ronnie's comments, but he felt compelled say something in Emily's defense. Now he was stuck in an adversarial position with Ronnie, a woman whose opinion he respected, who had been his partner and friend for years. And why? Because he was sticking up for a girl who, for all he knew, might very well be promiscuous as well as larcenous. On top of that, try as he might, he couldn't stop his disrespectful thoughts a
bout that girl, masturbatory fantasies in which various parts of her anatomy played a prominent role. His daydreams didn't much care about morality or ethics; his cock sure as hell didn't care that Emily might very well be an under-aged thief involved in a case he was working on. In his carnal imaginings, Emily was his...
"But I had this whole summer planned!" Ron cut into his wayward musings to grouse. "There's the Miller's yacht party over the Fourth, and the excursion to the Vineyard, and rounds of golf at the club in Hyannis. These are important business contacts for both of us! I'm depending on you to escort me!"
Ronnie's peevishness hid hurt feelings, so Steve trod carefully, lest he hurt her feelings even more. "I'll make some of those dates, but not all of them. I've missed my family. I intend to see a lot of them this summer. And as to our clients, I'm supposed to be on vacation."
"I know you, Steve. Family barbecues and movies in Falmouth center on Saturday night will yawn you right out. In a few weeks, you'll be itchin' to get back to your condo in New York City, to all those nights out on the town."
Ah, those nights on the town! Talk about a yawn. One superficial conversation on top of another, talking with trendy people about trendy subjects he didn't give two shits about. He loved his job and so he would return to New York-Ronnie was right on that score-but he was tired of glitz.
"Why don't you tell me what you have planned for our date tonight?" he asked, feigning interest he didn't feel.
As Ronnie animatedly related the agenda of yet another public relations evening, his glazed eyes drifted to the garage door. He hoped Emily was staying someplace safe tonight. He hoped she had something hot to eat. He hoped she didn't get sick. She was so damned pale...
CHAPTER SIX
The next morning, just like the day before, Steve Gallagher waited for her at the garage door. Today, though, it wasn't a coffee cup he held in his hands.
"Here. Change into this," he mumbled, and placed something gray and bulky in her arms.
Emily smoothed a hand over the rough fabric. "What is it?"
"Coveralls. To protect your clothes."
"Protect my ... my c-clothes?" she sputtered, following him into the garage.
He slammed the door down after them. "That's what I said. Coveralls. To protect your clothes"
Was he nuts or clueless? She wore the same stolen black jeans and faded tee-shirt as the day before. What was she supposed to protect?
Then, Emily remembered her discussion with Steve's partner.
She crossed her arms over the real reasons why Steve Gallagher wanted her to wear a coverall. "Fuck! Miss Thomas must've told you about our conversation."
"No, she didn't tell me-I asked. And watch the language."
Her boss rubbed the back of his neck. "Ronnie means well. She's just looking out for your welfare. And I think, for all concerned, that overalls aren't such a bad idea. See? I'm wearing 'em."
She took a forward step. "Are you also wearing a bra?"
"About that ... don't let Miss Thomas' comments get to you. Try not to take them personally, you know? It's not like I don't know you have ... uh ... breasts." His eyes narrowed on her chest before darting away.
Her mouth twisted. "I think we should just get this over with. Right here. Right now. "
Bring on the brazen babe act...
Reaching for the hem of her tee shirt, she whipped the faded black jersey off over her head.
"There!" she said boldly, standing bare-breasted before Steve. "Now wondering how my boobs look won't interfere in our working relationship."
"This sort of behavior is not appropriate, young lady. And I don't think I've done anything to deserve it."
"Well, boo-hoo. Poor you. Cry me a river, why don't you?"
Her bratty behavior was teenage angst at its worst. And she was about to go one step further, carry it to the next repulsive level, when her nipples hardened and she wimped out.
She just wanted to die. Still, to cover her embarrassment, she brazenly offered, "Want me to drop the jeans so you can get a look at my cunt too?"
Why, Steve Gallagher was actually blushing. That made two of them, though her blush was on the inside where it wouldn't show.
To be fair, Steve wasn't a perv. He wasn't ogling her; in fact, at her suggestion to drop her pants, his eyes had lifted swiftly to her face. And not because he didn't want her. He wanted her; a woman could always tell.
"Don't use coarse language," he said quietly. "I don't like it."
It took all her courage to put modesty aside and place her hands on her hips, hussy-style. "What a prude..."
"I'm no prude, but there's no need for a gutter mouth. "
"Miss Thomas doesn't approve of you hiring me. Your partner believes I'm after your money. Because I need this job, I didn't say anything. But it got my ass to be called a gold-digger and take it!"
"Then, don't take it," he said calmly.
"Fuck." She hit her forehead with the heel of her palm with enough force to make her bare boobs bob. "Why the hell didn't I think of that?"
"What I say about the language? You drop the 'F' bomb one more time and you'll be looking down the end of a bath size bar of soap. "
"Sorry. Didn't realize I was talking to Sister Stephanie here." She brushed a finger over a nipple, flicking a tiny spot of black tee-shirt fuzz from the hardened end. She couldn't remember her nipples ever getting this hard and huge before.
Steve's mouth straightened. When he opened his lips again, he said softly, maybe a little too softly, "If Ronnie puts her nose in your business, tell her to back off. And that goes for me too. If I do something or say something you think is unfair, call me on it. You won't lose your job over a difference of opinion. Just keep in mind that no one will walk over you if you refuse to lie down."
"Jeez, didn't I once read that on the back of a teabag?"
The already hard lines of Steve's face went to stone. "I'm trying to help you..."
Like the belligerent teenager she attempted to portray, she said, "You talk a good game, but I don't believe your bogus rap for a minute. All women get down for men. It's just the way it is. So ... do I drop my jeans or drop to my knees?"
Steve went very still. "Keep this up, young lady, and the only dropping you'll do will be over my knees for a spanking."
"Hey, I have no problem with foreplay. Whatever does it for you..."
"Foreplay." He coughed, his tanned complexion turned ruddy, but his voice never escalated. "Change into that overall. Please."
She was here to investigate Steve Gallagher's knowledge of a stolen painting. She wasn't about to go all soft and dreamy-eyed because of a sentimental spiel about self-respect. She wasn't about to be taken in by his brand of kindness. Bad enough her knees turned to jelly whenever she was around him; she wasn't letting him turn her mind to jelly too.
She squared her shoulders, ready to do battle. "Get the fuck out of my face, Steven Gallagher."
"Change-into-the overall," he said. "And while you're at it, remove the hat so I can see your face when I speak to you."
She changed tactics, played it teenage-sweet. "Okay-dokay. Anything you say, boss." Her fingers went to the snap on her jeans. A pull, and the metal fastener popped open. She was yanking the zipper down its tracks when Steve Gallagher went ballistic.
"No!"
She thought perhaps the gentleman protesteth too much.
She smiled. "You don't want it here? Fine. Just give me a minute to get my panties down and you can fuck me wherever and however you like. I bet you're an anal man, huh?" She winked. "I can always tell with a guy. And that's fine with me. It's all good. I give good anal."
"You keep your anal in your jeans. Take the coveralls and change up those stairs," he blazed at her.
"Don't stroke out over it, sir. You don't want to admit to your dominant side-that's cool. We'll do this your way."
This was only a role she was playing, Emily repeated to herself. She would not give into the urge to cover her chest. Besides, on t
he French Riviera women wore a lot less than what she wore now.
"Be right back," she said teenager-flip, and sashayed bare-breasted away.
A shrill whistle caught her up at the top of the stairs. "Hey, Miz Mechanic!"
As she opened the door on the landing, she turned back. "Yes?"
Steve washed his hands over his face. "Sometimes Ron ... Miss Thomas says things she shouldn't say, hurtful things she doesn't really mean, and I don't want you to feel bad because of them. Underneath, Ronnie has a good heart. The only reason I suggested the overall was to save you some quarters at the Laundromat. I don't care what you wear or what you don't wear to work. All I'm interested in is getting the job done, and getting it done right." He shook his head. "I'm wringing my partner's neck the next time I see her for putting me in this position. Now this discussion is over! Got that?"
"Got it," she answered, turning 'round again.
Once the door was closed behind her, arms crossed over her naked boobs, she collapsed. Where had she gotten the nerve to do what she had just done?
Desperation, she decided, looking around.
The loft was large, but it was a bare bones sort of space with the skeleton showing: rough studs and plywood walls and ceiling beams all remained exposed, the attic to the garage unfinished and unfurnished. But yellow ribbons of sunlight streamed in through the skylights in the roof, dressing up the empty shell, lending the storage area promise.
Every morning on the way to work, Emily passed a used furniture store. Every morning, she stopped for a minute or two to admire a bed and chair in the window. Those two pieces would transform this unused space into a charming one-room apartment. The brass bed needed polishing, and the over-stuffed upholstery on the chair was a little ratty, but so what? She didn't need much to make a home. Well, maybe a plant to water...
Silly daydreams! She had never belonged anywhere...
Everyone has a home, somewhere. Everyone has a place to return to. For a lucky few, there was someone special waiting-parents, siblings, a friend ... a lover. Someone to come looking if you weren't back at the expected time and day.