After adjusting the water to a hot spray, she grabbed the safety bar and pulled herself over the side of the tub. The welcomed heat pelted her aching shoulders, pulsating against the tightness from her workout. She closed her eyes, moaning as the water sluiced over her scalp.
From out of nowhere, a vision of Joe Desalvo invaded her mind. For a brief and insane moment, Sally allowed herself to fantasize. Remembering the light touch of his finger skimming her chin, she imagined Joe stroking the skin along her jaw and neck, then lower. The shower spray became his tongue, licking the points of her breasts to rigid peaks. She moaned again, this time from the deliciously painful sting of his teeth grazing her nipples.
She shook off her erotic thoughts. You’ve been without sex too long. She may have crushed her leg in the accident, but not her libido. If only Joe hadn’t asked her out. It wasn’t as if she’d never been asked out before, although, remembering Orel, she had to remind herself that Joe had been the first sober man to ask her out in nine years. And it had stuck in her mind all day, all evening, triggering a multitude of dangerous thoughts.
Tempted to turn the temperature to cold, she roughly soaped her body, then rinsed away the suds. Instead of shaking free of her fantasies, she indulged in another, with Joe sharing the shower, slowly rubbing shower gel across her fevered flesh.
Get a grip, Sally!
As she toweled off, she focused on the ugly scar tissue marring her leg. What man would want to join her in the shower and look at that? Sight of her disfigurement jerked her from her erotic daydreams, dousing her with an icy torrent of reality.
Composed and dressed, Sally later flung clothes into the washing machine, then joined her father in the living room. He didn’t acknowledge her presence, which wasn’t unusual. During a muted commercial break, Sally made a stab at conversation.
“Leo Desalvo’s Darrin doesn’t have an original motor, Dad. But somebody went to a lot of trouble to fake it.”
“They faked it?” Her father glanced at her, frowning. So she’d gotten his attention. “How?”
“Somebody forged an engine number plate, even engraving an authentic-looking serial number. It’s not a valid number, but close enough the average collector wouldn’t catch it unless he checked.”
“Any AACA judge would question it,” he said, referring to the Antique Automobile Club of America inspection. “I hope Leo didn’t pay much for it.”
“Me, too.” Would it have caused enough of a financial loss to make Leo kill himself?
“Have you told his son yet?” Her father’s attention drifted back to the TV.
“Not yet. I’ll tell him tomorrow. Roy’s going to put it on the lift and identify the engine first. It looks like a Ford.”
He un-muted the basketball game, shutting her out by remote control. Sally wanted to talk about the FBI investigation, especially her part in it. If only things were different, she could ask for her dad’s guidance.
Unable to get interested in the game, she dug through the stack of magazines on the floor beside the sofa until she found her latest issue of Healthy Body. She’d try again with her dad during the next commercial if he hadn’t fallen asleep by then.
When she blinked open her eyes to an empty room an hour later, she realized she’d been the one to fall asleep. Closing the forgotten magazine, Sally limped to the washing machine. She needed to stay awake until the dryer stopped, so her unplanned nap was probably for the best. Her dad’s footsteps overhead told her she’d lost her opportunity to seek his advice tonight.
The next day, Roy lowered the hydraulic lift and gave Sally a quick nod. “We were right. It’s a Ford 170.”
“What does the car need to run right?”
He shrugged. “Just a tune-up. Except for the motor discrepancy, it’s in good shape.”
The telephone rang. “I’ll get it, Roy.”
Pleased with her faster gait, she hobbled to the office and answered on the third ring. The additional leg exercises were paying off. “Mustang Sally’s garage.”
“Sally? It’s Joe Desalvo.”
His smooth baritone shot a jolt of pleasure through her. “Hi, Joe. We’re just taking your Darrin off the lift.”
“So you’ll be able to give me that estimate this evening?”
“Evening?”
“I’m asking again, Sally. Will you have dinner with me tonight?”
“And I’m telling you again, no.” Then she added in her sweetest tone, the one she saved for telemarketers who called at dinnertime, “But thank you for asking.”
“You have to eat, don’t you? Couldn’t we grab a couple of rolled oysters at Mazzoni’s?”
God, she loved rolled oysters, and Mazzoni’s had the best in the world. Besides, hadn’t Special Agent Ferguson asked for her help? She’d agreed to find out what she could about the Desalvo family’s business. She needed to spend time with Joe, gain his confidence, if she wanted to learn what he knew about his father’s activities.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” A pause. “Is that ‘okay’ as in ‘yes, I’ll have dinner with you, Joe’?”
“You played upon my one weakness.”
“Hmm.”
She cleared her throat. “Rolled oysters.”
“Darn. And I thought it was me.”
He sounded so wounded she burst out laughing.
She still laughed hours later as she scrubbed her face in Mustang Sally’s small restroom. Looking into the tarnished mirror, she pulled a stern face.
“You are acting like an adolescent, Sally Clay. You know nothing will come of this. It’s way dumb to go out with the guy in the first place.”
She doubled over in laughter again.
A quick appraisal of her stained work clothes sent her home for something decent to wear. Her father wasn’t in the house when she arrived. He was probably cloistered in the old garage workshop in the rear, where he repaired lawn mowers and trimmers to earn beer money.
She didn’t want to leave Roy alone at the garage too long, so she rushed. She’d finished a load of laundry last night and had clean clothes, but they were mostly jeans and coveralls. Digging through her closet she discovered an almost new pair of navy slacks, a Christmas present from her cousin Maggie. A pale yellow shirt and her tweed blazer, usually saved for church, completed the ensemble.
She stole a quick glance at her reflection in the dresser mirror as she turned to leave. “You clean up fairly well, Sally.” Maybe the fashion police wouldn’t arrest her, after all.
Sally’s giddy mood vanished when Joe Desalvo strolled into her office at six o’clock. His leather loafers and Rolex wristwatch reminded her she was in over her head. What had she been thinking, anyway? The guy just invited her to dinner, probably a one-time thing. She had no reason to be grinning like a lovesick puppy.
As if an omen, the sky darkened, then dumped sheets of rain.
At Mazzoni’s, Joe bit into crusty cracker breading, savoring his first rolled oyster in ten years. “Yum-m-m.”
“As yum as you remembered?” Sally asked.
He nodded, his mouth full from stuffing the rest of the deep-fried treat into his mouth. Sally’s gusto matched his as she indulged in her meal of rolled oysters, French fries, and coleslaw. “Thanks for letting me drive your Mustang tonight. It would’ve been even better if we could’ve lowered the top.”
“It’s a little chilly, even if the rain stops.” Taking a sip of her soda, she shrugged. “Although, my cousin Maggie and I rode around in it with the top down in February the first time I had it running right. Of course, we had the heater on full blast.”
Joe chuckled. “April’s not much warmer.”
Sally swallowed another bite of rolled oyster, then lowered her fork. “We have to talk.”
“Sounds serious.” Her troubled frown sobered him. “What is it?”
“It’s the Darrin, Joe. It isn’t authentic. Someone’s forged the engine identification number plate.”
All air left his lungs.
He bristled at her unspoken words. “And you think Dad did it?”
“No!” Reaching across the small table, Sally patted his arm. “Your dad was a stand-up guy. Besides, he didn’t own the Darrin long enough to do anything like that.”
“The guy in Indiana he bought it from, then? What was the name on that bill of sale?”
Staring at her hand on his arm, Sally plucked it back as if she’d touched a hot griddle. “Howard Steele? Maybe.”
“But—?” Joe dragged out the word. He’d known Sally Clay all of two days, but he sensed more trouble.
She shrugged, her eyes downcast. “Leo wouldn’t have bought that Darrin, Joe. He’d been in the business too long not to recognize the difference between an F head Willys 161 and an overhead Ford 170.”
Say what? But he didn’t ask for a translation. “Dad did buy the Darrin, though.”
“That’s what bugs me.” Sally picked up her fork, punching the air with it. “Why?”
“I guess we’ll never know. Just another mystery he took to the grave with him.” He flinched at his own words.
Sally’s uplifted fork froze. Her liquid brown eyes gazed at him with concern. “Joe, I’m sorry. You’re still getting used to the fact that your dad is gone. I hate that I’ve added to your grief.”
Joe nodded, finding comfort in her simple words of sympathy. His mind flashed briefly to the women he’d dated in Atlanta. His latest, Tracy Steadman in Client Services, had told him to call her after he’d had time to process his grief, whatever the hell that meant.
“It’s okay, Sally. I got you into this.” Whatever this was. “You’re doing the job I asked you to do.”
She looked away, as if he’d said something to make her uncomfortable. “The only job you need me to do is a tune-up. The Darrin’s engine may not be original, but it’s still a neat car, if you’d like to drive it for fun.”
Fun. Now there was a concept. Right now Joe doubted he’d ever have fun again. As if reading his mind, Sally wrapped her fingers around his wrist.
“I know you can’t think about having fun and enjoying life. For what it’s worth, I know what it’s like to lose one of your parents. I won’t tell you you’ll get over it. I never have. But it will get easier.”
“You lost a parent?”
She nodded. “My mother.”
“ I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.” She released her grip on his wrist, returning her attention to the remaining rolled oyster on her plate.
“How long ago?”
“I was six.”
“What happened to her?”
“It was sudden. She’d had this bad headache all day. I remember her lying down after meeting me at the school bus. She coaxed me into taking a nap with her, just until Dad got home. By then, she was in terrible pain and we rushed her to the hospital. Uncle Sal and Aunt Susan met us there and took me home with them.
“Later, Dad came and held me, and we cried together that we’d never see Mommy again. I didn’t understand words like aneurysm at the time, but later found out that was what killed her. An aneurysm of the brain.”
“That must have been rough for you.”
“Yeah, it was. Dad sank into a deep depression. She was just so young to be gone from our lives. He never remarried.”
“So you have no brothers or sisters?”
“No. It’s just me and my dad.”
He’d glimpsed the sadness in her eyes before she looked away. Was it grief for her mother or something else? He wondered about her leg, whether she had suffered an injury, disease, or birth defect, and hoped in time she’d tell him about it.
In time?
Too undecided about his future, he shoved the thought aside. He had a career and a condo waiting in Atlanta. But his mother needed him in Louisville, and he vowed he’d take whatever time was needed. He wouldn’t be too busy for his family. Not anymore.
He and Sally ate the rest of their meal in a comfortable silence. Many women were uneasy with lapses in conversation, a trait he found annoying. He relaxed more with Sally than with the other women he’d dated.
Women he dated. Was he dating Sally Clay? The prospect of knowing her better filled him with unexpected pleasure. A pang of guilt seized him. Pleasure? How could he feel anything remotely like happiness when his father had killed himself the previous week?
Or had he?
Your father was murdered.
Brushing aside his confusing thoughts, Joe settled the check, then held Sally’s blazer as she slipped into it. Grabbing his nylon windbreaker, he guided her through the small restaurant, cupping her elbow with his hand. Heads turned as they passed, but not because of their slow pace. Men were eyeing Sally, with her rich brown hair, exotic mouth, and vibrant eyes. He wondered if she was aware of their appreciative stares.
He pulled into the stream of Friday night traffic on Taylorsville Road. Sally seemed comfortable with the silence in the car, leaving him to concentrate on the slick streets and other cars. As he neared Jeffersontown, Joe switched off the windshield wipers. The rain had stopped.
Sally directed him down a side street shortcut to the garage’s rear entrance. Except for the convenience store, businesses like Mustang Sally’s that faced Watterson Trail were closed for the evening. Joe and Sally met few cars on the side street except a speeding pick-up splashing through the puddles. Pulling the Mustang behind his Dodge, Joe parked on the deserted street, then shut off the engine.
“Thanks for dinner, Joe.” Sally seemed absorbed in unbuckling the old-fashion lap belt.
“I’d like to do this again.” He unfastened his safety belt and twisted in the seat to face her. “Could we?”
“I-I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Look at me, Sally.” He waited until she lifted her head to face him. Even in darkness, he sensed her anxiety. “Before you dismiss me, get to know me better.”
She slowly nodded. “I suppose that’s only fair.”
He smiled, suddenly struck by inspiration. He knew just what Sally needed. Nina, his irrepressible younger sister. “Great. Let me take you with me to Mom’s for Sunday dinner.”
“Oh, Joe. I-I don’t know about that.”
“Think it over before you refuse. She’d really like to meet you.”
“This must be a rough time for her. Are you sure she’s up to company?”
“Trust me. It does her good.”
“Okay, I’ll think about it.” A short silence followed. “Do you want me to tune up the Darrin? I can have it ready Monday afternoon.”
“Sure. I’m thinking about driving it. My lease is almost up on the Intrepid, and the Darrin is a unique car. The average person won’t know it’s a fake.”
He opened the car door and the dome light came on, giving him a clearer view of Sally’s pensive face. After hurrying to open her door and helping her from the low-slung bucket seat, he offered her his arm, guiding her around to the driver’s side of the Mustang.
“You don’t think I should drive the Darrin as an everyday car?”
Sally didn’t answer immediately. Biting her bottom lip, she either needed all her concentration to control her leg or she was considering his question. “It’s still a valuable car. Unfortunately, it’s worth a lot less than what Leo paid for it.”
“Yeah. I need to get to the bottom of that. Think I’ll run up to Carmel, Indiana and pay this Howard Steele a visit.”
Sally’s eyes widened with alarm. She pointed behind him, all the while moving her mouth without sound.
“What is it?” He spun around, following her gaze, and swore.
She pushed away, hobbling at an impressive speed toward the back door of Mustang Sally’s. A ribbon of smoke curled from the edges of one garage door, flames dancing behind its narrow window.
Chapter
FOUR
“Sally, wait!” Joe shouted.
Sally ignored him. Mustang Sally’s was her livelihood. Her life. She wouldn’t let fire or anything
else destroy it. Her hamstring muscle burned in protest, but she pushed on. Judging from the glow through the garage door windows, the fire was confined to one service bay—the one with the Darrin! If she hurried, she had time to contain the damage.
She made it to the back door, grabbed for the handle and cursed. “Joe, the keys,” she yelled. “Bring me my keys.”
Joe raced back to the Mustang, returning seconds later with her key ring.
Shaking, she fumbled with the keys. Identifying the correct one, she couldn’t steady her hand enough to insert it into the door lock.
“Let me try.” Prying the key from her quivering fingers, Joe unlocked and opened the door. “Where’s your fire extinguisher?”
“Right here.” She pushed ahead of him, then hoisted the cylinder from its bracket by the door.
“Sally—” Joe coughed from the mounting smoke.
“Got it!” Thank God Uncle Sal had drilled his employees on fire safety. She pulled the pin. Inhaling and holding a deep breath, she headed toward the flames, aimed the nozzle and stumbled. “Damn leg.”
Joe rushed to her side, grabbing the heavy cylinder. “Here. I’ll hold it and you shoot.”
Together, they spewed dry chemicals over the flames, extinguishing the fire in minutes—minutes that seemed like hours. Sally’s eyes burned. Her leg buckled, careening her to the concrete floor. Landing on her elbow forced all air from her lungs.
Joe abandoned the fire extinguisher, then stooped beside her. “Sally? Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, unable to talk, both the smoke and fall robbing her of breath. Gingerly, she pushed herself from the concrete, then tested her breathing. Her ribs ached from the impact, but nothing seemed broken.
Joe reached for her, then hesitated. “Let me help you up?”
She smiled in spite of the trauma of the fire. Most men would take charge of a woman in distress. Give orders. Not Joe. He asked. “Yes,” she managed.
Joe snaked one arm under her and lifted, pulling her against him as he stood with her. “Okay?”
She nodded. “Help me turn on the lights.”
Restore My Heart Page 4