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Sinclair tossed an A-okay sign over her shoulder and made her escape. The classic Mercedes 230 roadster was basically her father’s third child. Even in twilight, the glossy red paint stood out against the backdrop of later-model vehicles. She worked her way toward it. Nobody loitered outside anymore, but her silver sandals slowed her down. The high, skinny heels sank into the grassy field that served as the parking area. Eventually she made it to the car and used the old-school key to unlock the door. A lever at the base of the seat tipped the seatback forward. She grabbed the gift bag containing the fancy champagne and returned the seat to its proper position. And if she rushed a bit more than normal, and caused the seat to fall back into place with a heavy thump, there was only one person to blame.
Shane.
She hadn’t actually seen him leave, so it was possible he might be out here somewhere. She absolutely, positively didn’t want to run into him in an empty parking area. Normally, she wasn’t the kind of person who ran from a confrontation, but he’d had his dance, and she wasn’t interested in extending the reunion. Staying on high alert spared her the trouble of telling him she had better things to do than play tour guide.
It took about three seconds to back out of the car and push the lock down. The wind kicked up as she turned away and slammed the door. Her sunk-in sandal heel prevented her from taking what she’d intended as a decisive stride toward the pre–Civil War cotton warehouse now enjoying a second life as an event venue. Before she managed a full step, a hard pull from behind stopped her short.
Uh-oh. With dawning dread, she turned to find the back of her dress trapped in the car door. Dammit. Impulse had her giving it a desperate tug, which accomplished nothing. Don’t panic. Just unlock the door, and… Double dammit. Where were the keys?
The dread turned heavy and landed like a brick in her stomach. Her father’s keys gleamed at her from exactly where she’d left them. On the seat of the car. The locked car. Her gaze automatically scanned the lot for help, but came up empty. Update. The keys were on the seat of the locked car, in the deserted parking lot.
Fuuuuck. She leaned against the door and stared up at the first twinkling stars. You fed your skirt to the Benz, and now you’re stuck here with your ass hanging out until somebody comes along. Just pray to God it’s not—
“I’ve been trained to spot risks, but even I didn’t see this coming. Need some help, Sinclair?”
Chapter Two
Call him a masochist, but the way Sinclair tossed her long, dark hair over her shoulder and said, “No, thank you,” in a voice capable of freezing the balls off Satan made him want to risk kissing the go-to-hell pout off her lips. Then again, he’d been battling the urge to kiss her since he’d arrived at the reception and gotten his first in-the-flesh glimpse of her in a decade.
Instead he crossed his arms and braced a hip against the engineering masterpiece currently holding her skirt hostage. A quick look through the window confirmed what he already suspected. “Locked the keys in the car, did we?”
“No we. It’s not your problem.” She moved the gift bag she held from her side to her chest, like a shield. In an effort to put some distance between them, she took a step away. The sound of a seam ripping stopped her retreat.
Words would be overkill. He simply raised an eyebrow.
“Pack up that look and take it somewhere else.” She wrapped her fingers around the gold foil neck of the bottle in the gift bag, and pulled it free, holding it like a bat. “I can get myself out.”
“A glass bottle makes a lousy key. You could get hurt.” He took the champagne from her and slipped it back into the bag. “Let me help.”
Her little nose went in the air. “I’m fine.”
That she was. Even finer than he remembered, and his body still battled the consequences of having all that fineness pressed up against him. Of course, he remembered a girl—beautiful, headstrong, and out of his league in ways he’d been too much of a dumbass to fully appreciate at the time—but ultimately still a girl. Logically, he knew the same ten years that had transformed him from an eighteen-year-old fuckup to a VP of disaster planning and crisis management had turned her from a sixteen-year-old heartbreaker to a full-fledged adult. But the awareness hadn’t prepared him for the power and glory of the woman. Nothing could have.
When he’d reluctantly accepted this assignment in his old hometown, he’d expected to see her again. Wanted to. For curiosity’s sake, and old times’ sake, but he hadn’t expected to want her again. The strength of the reaction took him off guard—and not much did anymore. He shifted until he had her hemmed in between his body and the car, and watched her pupils expand to round, black islands in the stormy seas of her irises. The small, involuntary reaction sent him flashing back to humid nights alive with the sound of her hitching breaths, and those same dark pupils blown wide from everything he was doing to her. Everything they were doing to each other. He reached behind her and grabbed a fistful of her skirt, liking the jolt of lust he experienced at her quickly indrawn breath. He gave the skirt a testing tug.
“I don’t know, baby girl. I’d say it’s got you good. I could free you in less than five seconds, without putting so much as a scratch on you or the car, and the only thing I ask in return is for you to show me around.”
“No deal. I’ll handle it,” she shot back and braced her free hand in the center of his chest.
He stayed put, letting the tension crackle between them. Chemistry notwithstanding, she very clearly wanted nothing to do with him. That fact had also caught him off guard. Her cool disdain brought out a remnant of his former self he thought he’d outgrown a long time ago—the impulsive kid who acted first and thought about the consequences later. Case in point? He shouldn’t have said he was considering staying in Magnolia Grove. He wasn’t. Haggerty had sent him to do a job. He intended to do it well and be on his way. If, in the process, he showed the haters in his hometown a Maguire boy had made something of himself, all the better. Returning permanently, however, was not part of the plan. But her eagerness to be rid of him had made him want to get under her skin.
Her current predicament only strengthened the urge. How had he forgotten her stubborn streak, or how entertaining it was to mess with her? “Okay, then.” He backed off, and gave her a have-it-your-way shrug. “I’ll leave you to it. No pressure, but I think the whole crowd is coming out soon for the bouquet toss.” With that observation hanging in the air, he turned away and timed his steps to the silent countdown in his head…three, two, one…
“Okay. Wait.”
He stopped, but didn’t turn around. A man proceeded at his own risk when he pissed off a southern woman, and the smile of victory splitting his
face would definitely piss her off. “Yes?”
“I’ll accept your help. I’m sure it won’t kill me to spend a couple hours playing tour guide.”
A couple hours? Fuck no. He wanted more time with her, and he wasn’t above negotiating to get it. He turned, regarded her calmly, and tossed her own words back to her. “No deal. I’ve done some research, and I know at least a dozen new developments I need to check out firsthand. Twelve tours—I pick the destinations.” Drawing on body language to tell her he wasn’t dicking around, he folded his arms across his chest and stood his ground.
“Twelve…?” Her voice trailed off as she digested the demand, and he fought back another laugh when she stomped her foot. “Absolutely not.”
He shrugged again, and started walking. Fortune favored the bold, because somewhere in the distance, a door slammed.
“Two tours,” she countered, but he detected a distinct note of desperation in her voice.
