Page 6 of New Orleans Rush

His stomach tightened. He didn’t remember the last time he’d held a woman this close. She was three sheets to the wind, had vandalized his beloved Mustang, but her distress loosened something in his chest. He glanced again at the jagged letters keyed into his perfect paint job and gritted his teeth. He arranged her boneless body against the side of his car and waited for her to gain her equilibrium.

“Sorry about the prick,” he said, stepping back. “But this isn’t his car. This is my car.”

Her half-mast eyelids shot up. “No, no, no. It’s his black Mustang. 1976. A Cobra! I know this car. There was sex in this car.”

That visual heated his blood, but he reined in his focus. “Sex may have happened in a black Mustang, but this lovingly restored 1977 Mustang Cobra is midnight blue, not black. And it belongs to me.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No, no, no,” she said again. She stared at the paint job, her eyes growing impossibly wide as she traced the white pinstripe on the hood. “No.” This time it was a whisper.

“Afraid so. Which means you’ll have to pay for damages.”

Her tormented gaze didn’t stray from the scratched car. “I can’t believe…I mean, I’m so, so sorry—this isn’t me. I don’t do this.” More tears followed her fumbling apology. “I’ll pay for it. I don’t have a job, or money, but I’ll find a way.” She sucked in a sharp breath and clutched his shirt in desperate fists. “I’m the only one without a mug shot. I can’t be arrested.”

When he caught up with her verbal whiplash, his agitated mind settled, and his call with Ashlynn suddenly became less troublesome. Jobless. Broke. Maybe he didn’t need a long drive to puzzle out his current dilemma. Not when one Miss Beatrice Baker had offered him an answer in a petite, drunk package.

Gingerly, he loosened her fists from his shirt and eased her back against his car. “If you can’t pay me now, and you don’t want the cops involved, I have a solution.”

She bit her lip. “I thought it was his car. I swear. I didn’t mean it.” A dreamy look overtook her sad features. Her attention moved to his face. Like in the bar, she didn’t cringe at his scars. “I really like your hat. And the galaxy.”

Her fascination with his costume was unexpected. As was the animal vocabulary, the mug shot quandary, and her criminal activities. This woman was both mystifying and infuriating. He should still be livid with her, but Huxley found himself entranced by her as she spoke. Beatrice had spectacular lips and stunning gray eyes. Even unfocused, her eyes resembled the stirrings of a rainstorm.

Huxley loved tipping his face up to the rain.

Beautiful women didn’t usually care for his cape or hat or line of work. They often frowned at the burned half of his eyebrow and scarred cheek with disgust. She likely would, too, when sober. “Well, Miss Beatrice Baker, if you didn’t mean to key my particular car, then I might be willing to offer you a deal.”

Her reply: “You’re tall.”

“You’re short.”

“That’s rude.”

“So is calling someone tall.”

She pursed her kissable lips.

“As I was saying, I can offer you a compromise.” When she didn’t interrupt with random nonsense this time, he went on, “I’d like you to work for me.” The proposition wasn’t ideal. It meant living with his father’s defaced car, the insults visible for everyone to see, but he’d dealt with worse.

She scrunched her face. “Are you a pimp?”

“I am not a pimp.”

“Do I have to wear skimpy clothes?”

He considered her request. “Yes.”

“But you’re not a pimp?”

“I am not. I’m an illusionist. You can work for me, as my assistant, until this damage is paid off. But if that doesn’t suit you, I can call the cops.” The threat had a hint of blackmail to it, a new low for him. But the theater came before everything, and letting her off with unpaid work was kinder than charging her.

Her gaze lingered on his cape, in particular on the stars embroidered on the blue velvet. She ran her fingers over the fabric. “People say I’m too trusting. It usually gets me hurt.” Her rainstorm eyes caught him in a downpour. “Can I trust you?”

He was unprepared for the lucidity in her voice, the honesty in her pained gaze. He also didn’t like hearing people had hurt her. “You can trust me.”

“Okay.” She petted his forearm. “Sign me up. As long as you’re not a kerivoula kachinensis.”