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“How do you figure?” he asked. “I felt you come…or was that not what I thought it was.”
Jesska shifted so she could face him. “Lying in a water bed notwithstanding, I think we need to discuss a bigger tub.”
Kaspar smiled. “I will make that happen.”
He kissed her again and they forced themselves out of bed to strip the sheets.
Half an hour later, Jesska curled herself closer to Kaspar as he slept beside her, his even breathing finally indicating he was relaxed. She couldn’t believe how quickly her life had gone from sadness to joy. The man who’d changed everything for her was more than she could have ever asked for or imagined.
She smiled, kissing his chest and wrapping an arm around his waist. Before she succumbed to sleep, she sent up a quick prayer of thanks for the man who’d helped her live again.
About Piper Divenport
New York Times & USA Today Bestselling Author Piper Davenport writes from a place of passion and intrigue, combining elements of romance and suspense with strong modern-day heroes and heroines. She currently resides in the Pacific Northwest with her author husband, Jack Davenport, and an obnoxious YorkiePoo named Pepper who may or may not be an international spy.
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Driven
SIERRA GLASS
Chapter One
Driven is a short romance about Owen and Elizabeth, who have played minor parts in other Concierge, Inc. books. Reading Driven will not spoil the Concierge series.
“Elizabeth. I need you to run the Town Car over to the garage. The intern splashed blood all over the trunk.” At Director Brand’s order, I make an ick face and back toward the door. The Auditor’s intern apprentice gives me the creeps. He’s barely 18 and already takes way too much delight in his interrogation training. “Oh no you don’t.” The Director—who happens to also be my father—pins me with his stare until I raise my hands in surrender.
“Okay, okay. I’ll take the Town Car to the shop.” I try not to look smug, but going to the shop is definitely no hardship. Concierge, Inc., the criminal services network I was born into and now work for, has a fleet of gleaming black automobiles. I try to make a habit of getting over to the network's garage whenever I get a chance.
To be sure, the security guards and other Concierges I work with out of headquarters with are intimidating men, fit and clean-cut when most of the people our age sport beards and long hair. The mechanics, though. They’re another beast entirely. A frisson runs through me thinking of the smells of engine grease and that orange hand cleaner they use at the utility sink in the shop.
“Elizabeth. Town car. Blood. Garage.”
“Right, sir. I’ll head straight over.”
“Here. Charlene left a stack of receipt books and a new phone book for the office over there, too. Make sure you check their books. You know how bad we men are at all that stuff.”
I think to tell him I’m pretty sure I’m worse than anyone at accounting, but it’s a lost cause. Maybe my vagina can do the calculations.
I walk out to the gory metal behemoth, replaying my conversation with the Director, only in my version I tell him to stick it where the sun don’t shine and run his own adding machine. Or maybe stick his adding machine where the sun don’t shine. Either way.
It’s difficult to stay grumpy behind the wheel of the powerful auto, though, and I give a cheery wave as I drive by the front door of headquarters on my way out of the parking lot.
There’s a cool breeze rolling in off the Pacific, blowing the smog inland to the unfortunate folks in the Valley. I’m lucky to live and work down near the port and the water, where the air is the clearest.
A few minutes later I roll to a stop on the crunchy gravel in front of the C.I auto shop. I get a couple of head nods as I walk into the office, where the harried-looking head mechanic, Lenny, has his son, Junior, and his little daughter Jenny at a desk working on homework and coloring. I ruffle the kid’s hair and he rolls his eyes at me while his ears turn red.
“Hey, Old Len. I brought the Town Car over to be cleaned. Martin got carried away again. The Director said if it’s too much of a mess, chop the car.” Lenny and I exchange a sad glance, but it’s inevitable for our vehicles: eventually they collect too much evidence. Besides, it’s an older model. “Oh, here. Charlene sent over new pads books and a phone book.” I plop the heavy tome on the desk with the little carbon copy pads on top of it.
Lenny looks at them distastefully. “I don’t suppose you’d mind—” He sees my look and mutters, “Never mind.” A little louder, he says, “Maybe the new kid knows how to do bookwork. He seems bright enough.”
I perk up. “A new guy? From where?”
Lenny shakes his head at me. “Owen’s from the Houston branch. Leave him alone, Elizabeth. He’s just getting settled in, and he doesn’t need distractions.”
“I’m quite sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” With a huff, I walk out the office door toward the garage bays, ignoring the mechanic's scoff behind me. The garage is hot, even with the bay doors open to collect the breeze and the big fans blowing.
A Zeppelin song on the radio is punctuated by the clanking of tools and occasional curses when they slip and knuckles are scraped. I’m wearing my signature 501’s with a flowy, cool blouse and platform leather sandals. I’m not a short girl, and the wedges make me even taller
