Playing Dirty. Lauren Hawkeye

And that will just put the next car behind, and consequently yours.” The voice, otherwise sweet in tone, dripped with sarcasm. “And I’m guessing you’re the type who’s in an all-fired hurry to get out of here, so no, I won’t be coming out until I’m done. Leave your keys on the bench, fill out a form, and come back in three hours, or have your car towed back to the north side.”

      Jeremy had said that towing wasn’t an option. This was unacceptable.

      “Three hours?” Ford was indignant. “That won’t work at all. I’ll pay extra to have it bumped up the line, but I expect this car to be finished as soon as possible.”

      His tone was the one he used on the battlefield of the boardroom—the one that always, always got him the desired results. Instead?

      The feet, which had been tapping in time to the music, stilled. A breath of honeyed vanilla hit his nose seconds before the woman rolled out from beneath the Contour.

      He had a brief impression of dark hair and incredibly blue eyes, and then the navy jumpsuit–clad creature was on her feet, not just glaring at him, but actually poking her finger into his chest.

      He knew that he wasn’t going to win any feminist awards, but he was a bit taken aback that the mechanic was a woman—he’d assumed that the voice belonged to a receptionist or assistant of some sort. Not that he thought women couldn’t do any job they wanted—he just hadn’t expected it.

      “Now just a minute—” He wasn’t going to tolerate this kind of treatment from a service provider, not even if she was a woman. No way, no how.

      He didn’t get a chance to say so.

      “As soon as possible will be as soon as I finish this car, and the one after that.” Those eyes shot out licks of cerulean flames that threatened to incinerate him. “Around here we do what’s fair, and what’s fair is for you to wait your turn.”

      “I’m not sure you understand how much money I’m willing to pay—” Ford tried to speak, and the damn woman poked him in the chest again.

      “What kind of person bends the rules for money?” She sniffed, tossed back a long dark braid, and Ford again caught that intriguing whiff of vanilla. The scent was so out of place, layered over the engine grease, it made Ford think of cupcakes.

      An odd thought for him overall, since he rarely indulged in dessert.

      “So you’re saying there’s nothing I can do to speed this process along?” Ford shook aside thoughts of sweet baked goods and grasped his irritation. He found it especially annoying that he couldn’t really see her, this strange creature who had the gall to yell at him—couldn’t see the person in the shapeless coveralls or the skin beneath the thick layer of engine grease. She looked like she’d been grubbing around in a coal mine.

      The woman gave him a sweet smile, but Ford noted that her eyes—the only part of her that was clearly visible—were still glittering as she did.

      “Like I said.” She pointed at the desk. “You’ve already put me behind. So for the love of God, if you want your damn car fixed, go put your keys over on that bench and fill out the form.”

      “I can’t believe I’m stuck here,” Ford muttered as he turned to do as the woman said, and he heard a snort of laughter that made him turn back to her.

      “Actually, you’ll be stuck at the café down the street.” Now her expression was mocking. She clearly didn’t think much more of him than he did of her. “I don’t have a waiting room.”

      With the smooth movement of someone who had much practice, the strange person lowered herself back down to the rolling thing—what was it called?—and again disappeared beneath the Contour.

      Ford’s mind quickly sorted through words and phrases, searching for a witty comeback that would put this impudent woman in her place.

      He had nothing. Nothing that would convey the deference he was used to receiving to this grease-covered imp who clearly didn’t care.

      Scowling, he stalked over to the workbench and all but threw his keys down on the unfinished wooden surface. He took up the stubby-nosed pencil and the order form, then shook his head and instead pulled out a business card, which had all of his relevant information. He clipped it to the form.

       Marchande Motors

       Proprietor, Beth Marchande

      So she was not just the mechanic—she owned the whole garage. Ford didn’t quite know what to do with that information—the woman didn’t fit into any of the preconceived slots he had to classify the female of the species. And he needed to classify—to classify everything.

      What was life without order?

      It seemed that this strange, vanilla-scented woman would force him to take a taste and find out.

       CHAPTER TWO

      BETH DIDN’T HURRY the work that needed to be done on the Contour, or on the massive old truck that came after it. When she hurried she made mistakes, and mistakes hurt the reputation of her business.

      One customer lost meant money lost, and she and her sisters and Mamesie didn’t have a penny to spare. They all hustled to keep them in their family home, and sometimes that meant servicing the cars of assholes when she’d rather tell them to take a hike.

      It was late afternoon when she finally scrubbed the grease off her face and arms, then grabbed the keys that the fancy man had tossed onto her workbench—tossed with more than a bit of temper, which made her lips curl up into a grin.

      She was laid-back by nature, so her sisters always said, but when someone threatened her notions of right and wrong, she did tend to lose her grip on control. And even the fact that the offender was jaw-droppingly gorgeous didn’t ease the weight of his offenses, at least not in her eyes.

      “Of course.” Lizzie huffed out a breath when she noted the Porsche logo on the key chain. The breath turned to a whistle when she trotted around the corner and saw the sleek silver Turbo parked on the side of the quiet, tree-lined road.

      The fancy man was not only sexy...he was loaded. She’d just known it—everything about him had screamed north side. What the hell was he doing out here in the South End?

      Actually, what was he doing with a ten-year-old Porsche? She was pretty sure he could afford a new one. Still, a Turbo was a Turbo, and she couldn’t quite suppress the thrill when she opened the car door. She was halfway in when she realized that while she’d cleaned off her skin, her coveralls were still soaked with grease. And she’d just bet that Mr. Tight Ass would have something to say if she dirtied up his buttery leather seats.

      Shucking her dirty coveralls, she rolled them into a ball and tossed them onto the passenger’s seat. Clad in the ribbed white tank top and bright pink yoga shorts that she wore beneath, she finally slid behind the wheel.

      She couldn’t quite hold back the moan as she ran her hands over the steering wheel. Her joy at being behind the wheel of something like this was almost sexual, it felt so damn good.

      She grinned as she briefly considered giving herself a handsy little ride on the seat, picturing the man’s face if she told him about it after.

      Tempting, but not professional. So instead she eased the vehicle forward, wincing as she heard the death rattle.

      “Transmission.” She didn’t have to look—she was a damn good mechanic, and she’d heard that sound before. But she wanted to give the Turbo a full diagnosis, so after pulling it into the garage, she popped the hood, sighing only a little at the whisper-soft swish of the automated lift.

      Without bothering to put her coveralls back on, she started to poke at the guts of the beautiful machine.

      She was more than a little disgusted with