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Besides, Melinda wasn’t one to avoid responsibility, and responsibilities had to be met. A social life was an indulgence she couldn’t afford.
She stared past the flash of cement walls outside the train.
Fine. She might lack heart, but her writing kept her fed and housed. That should be enough. That was more than enough.
Melinda squared her shoulders and stepped from the train into a sea of people shuffling urgently but resignedly toward the escalator. She leaned on the escalator’s black rubber handrail. What was “urgent but resigned” in the world of food? TV dinners, maybe? Potato chips? As she reached the top, she realized resigned food would have to wait until she had coordinated the last leg of her journey.
Melinda debated the Light Rail. It was more economical by miles. But wine. And Michelangelo.
Melinda turned away from baggage claim and liberated her smartphone from her duffel. One percent battery. Stay with me and get me a car. Don’t make me take the train. She opened the Kaar app, requested a car, and watched the spinning dial indicate its progress. The screen registered success and she set off to meet Gerald in his luxurious navy sedan.
~
A Mercedes Maybach screamed “felony” at airport pickup but there was nothing to be done about it now. Grant Samson hunched over the wheel of the black four-door and scanned DIA’s Arrivals loop for the woman whose picture illuminated his cell phone. Melisa Moorehouse was dark-haired and dark-eyed. Beautiful, if reserved-looking.
She had arrived from Phoenix at 5:17 p.m. and would request a Kaar. All Grant had to do was intercept her path to the real Kaar.
Fuck. Why not just steal the Crown Jewels?Grant rubbed his calloused hands together. Worn work gloves waited on the seat next to him for when he and Melisa reached the mountains. For now, the luxury vehicle’s heating system was adequate. But not for nerves.
Nearby vehicles collected passengers as Grant inched forward, the corner of one eye trained on the parking sharks. He’d already circled the airport twice. What the hell kind of favor is this?
There. Acid flared high in his stomach as Melisa strode through the glass sliders. At least Paul “Moneybags” DiMario can afford my bail. His foot crept off the brake.
Melisa was taller than he’d expected, half a head above the average female travelers around her. Grant watched her shrink into her coat, then scan the line of cars and settle on his. Her eyes sought the Kaar sticker taped to the inside of his windshield, and she pulled her phone from her pocket.
Melisa closed her eyes and appeared to think for a long moment. Presumably, miraculously, the color of the car sent to meet her matched his own vehicle well enough and she shoved the phone into her bag as she walked toward him.
What are the odds. DiMario, you lucky son of a bitch.
Grant tracked Melisa as she crossed the sidewalk, dodging luggage and antsy children. She moved fluidly but carefully. There was a deliberateness to her steps, as if she anticipated the unexpected.
Grant eased the car forward to meet her and rolled down the passenger window as she approached. He breathed deep to soften the stress from his face. She reached his car and leaned down to peer at him.
Her large, dark eyes met his directly, without hesitation or coyness. Oh, hell. The phone picture had done nothing for her. Grant inhaled as a veil of glossy black hair obscured Melisa’s face momentarily as she twisted to give a luggage cart clearance behind her. She turned to face him again and the ground dropped away.
Against his will, Grant’s eyes fell to her mouth, wide, softly sculpted, a muted mauve that wore no augment. Grant felt his own lips part in anticipation of—What the hell? his mind interrupted. Get it together.
Paul had never mentioned that she was Indian. She was Indian, wasn’t she? At least half. That mouth. His mind scrambled for traction. Where was he? What was he doing? Shut the hell up! he yelled silently. This was Paul’s woman. His girlfriend, and probably very shortly his fiancée, if Grant’s guess was correct. Get your mind out of the gutter, Samson.
Because it was there. The gutter. The delicate, feminine gutter. He imagined brushing her hair from the nape of her neck and leaning down to kiss—Dammit.
This was going to be difficult.
“Mel—” he began.
“Gerald?” she asked, breathless from the cold, and smiled as he nodded. “Great. My phone froze but I thought this was you.” Her voice was honey. Tempered by the frigid air, but honey nonetheless.
Gerald. I guess that’s my name. And you’ll be Gorgeous, Gorgeous.
“I aim to please,” Grant said. He left the engine running and rounded the car’s nose to stand before her. His fingers twitched. Steady, now. He kept his gaze level and reached for the strap on her shoulder. Melisa jerked her face to his.
“I can keep it with me,” she said, reflexively grabbing at her bag. A black luggage tag embossed with a gyroscope-like design bobbed with the movement.
“I know.” He held the bag between them like a monster. I know? his mind parroted. Smooth, Don Juan. “Or...I can stash your stuff up here with me. Get it out of your way?” Grant’s nerves flailed and spun along with the bag’s ID tag. This was not typical Kaar driver behavior.
Melisa eyed her bag as it dangled from his fist.
“That’s okay,” she said slowly. “You don’t want my bag cluttering up your front seat. Plus, I don’t like to be more than a few inches from my phone at all times.” A wry smile played on her lips and he laughed, but he knew he had lost.
