Authors: Mary J. Williams
THERE WERE DAYS when sweat poured down Colleen McNamara's body. When she smelled like someone had dipped her in gasoline and there seemed to be more motor oil under her fingernails than in the car she worked on. Days when her boss bellowed for her to speed it up. When she arrived at the garage at the crack of dawn, leaving well after the sun had set.
It was on days like that—like today—when she wondered if her mother had been right. The very thought sent a chill down her overheated spine. But there it was. Perhaps Colleen should chuck her job at
Dole's Auto Repair
and apply for beauty school. In less than six months, she could be elbows deep in hair spray and permanent wave solution.
No more dirty garage floors, stifling heat, or permanently stained coveralls. Colleen could trade it all for air-conditioned comfort surrounded by pink… everything. From the salon curtains, the tiles on the floor, and her mother's hair. Pick a shade. Everything inside the
Cut and Curl
looked like an advertisement for cotton candy.
And that was the problem. There was nothing frilly or sweet about Colleen McNamara. And, for the love of God, she hated pink.
"Move your ass, Mac."
"If you say that one more time, Dole, I swear I will shove this spark plug up your ass."
"Shit," Dole huffed. "Is it that time of the month again?"
Because Colleen respected her tools, she carefully set down her screwdriver before calmly turning toward her lunk-headed boss.
"Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing."
"Men don't get PMS, girly."
"Then why are you bloated and bitchy?" Colleen looked him up and down. The beer belly. The bloodshot eyes. The nose that would have put Rudolph out of his reindeer job. Shaking her head, she heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Oh, that's right. It isn't PMS. It's Wednesday. And Thursday. And Friday. And…" Colleen trailed off. She made her point, no need to run it into the ground.
"You better watch your mouth, Mac."
"And if I don't?"
His face the shade of an overripe eggplant, Dole took a threatening step in her direction. Colleen simply raised an eyebrow, crossed her arms over her greasy coveralls, and planted her feet as if to say,
take your best shot. I dare you
. Dole didn't dare. It wasn't that he had a problem with knocking women around. His wife knew what the back of his hand felt like. He fantasized about putting Colleen in her place—on her knees, sucking his dick.
There was one major problem. Dole wasn't certain he could take her down. He outweighed her by two hundred pounds—at least. But it was ninety percent blubber. Before his first cup of coffee—which he chased down with a box of
Entenmann's
—Dole was already four cigarettes into his first pack of the day. There was always someone hanging around the garage. It was bad enough that Colleen spoke to him like he was trash under her feet. He would never live down the humiliation of her besting him physically.
"I'm still your boss," Dole muttered. Sending Colleen one last glare, Dole shuffled back to his office.
Colleen waited until Dole was out of sight before returning to work. She knew that she intimidated the hell out of him. But she never made the mistake of turning her back on him when he was angry. If that mass of man fell on her, it would be game over.
With a sigh, Colleen lay down on the old wooden dolly, rolling herself under a jacked-up Blazer. This was her job, and she needed it. It would be smart to keep her mouth shut, but sometimes she had to let off steam or explode.
Dole was an uneducated, misogynistic pig whose father, the original Dole of
Dole's Auto Repair
, had left him a thriving business. Five years later, he had all but run it into the ground. Then Colleen came along. It didn't take long for word to spread. She had the magic touch. And that touch was going to get her out of Midas—soon. The stash of money she had been saving since her first job sweeping hair at her mother's salon was almost where it needed to be. Barring a disaster, in less than a year, Colleen would be gone from Midas.
Unfortunately, there always seemed to be some kind of disaster. Six years ago, Colleen had her bags packed when her mother had been diagnosed with lung cancer. Two packs of Camels a day finally caught up with her.
Unpacking her bags, Colleen did what anyone would have done—she stayed. The beauty parlor needed a manager, and her mother needed a caretaker. Months of radiation and chemotherapy followed by a long recovery of her general health and the cancer was gone. Thank God. But so was Colleen's money. Bills had to be paid.
More determined than ever, Colleen started from scratch. She worked with single-minded devotion. Long hours putting up with Dole and crap equipment. Doing jobs on the side. It had finally paid off. Colleen could see a future away from Midas. Where didn't matter as long as it was bigger and better. In other words, any place but here.
Colleen rolled out long enough to turn up the volume on the old radio. For a second, she closed her eyes, letting the song and its pounding rhythm soothe her mind. Soon, she promised herself. Closing her eyes, she pictured her favorite fantasy. Behind the wheel of her restored fifty-five T-Bird, the wind blowing through her dark red hair. Straight ahead was an old sign. Faded, bent on the tips and riddled with bullet holes, it was the most beautiful sight on Earth.
Two words that made her heart beat with hope.
Leaving Midas.
SMOKE ROLLED FROM under the hood of Dalton's Porsche. Then the car coughed. Sputtered.
Shit
. The car was practically brand new. If it couldn't survive a little six-hundred-mile road trip, what good was it? Naturally, it had to happen as he pulled into Midas. The sense of doom and gloom that began its descent over him about an hour ago grew heavier.
Was this a sign? A portent of things to come? There was no law that said Dalton had to stay. He could call a tow truck. Phoenix was about fifty miles east. Civilization beckoned.
As his car limped along, Dalton glanced to his right.
Dole's Auto Repair
. Now
that
was a sign.
Unless things had changed, it was the town's one garage and not equipped to deal with a high-performance sports car. However, it was conveniently located—right in front of him, to be exact. At this point, he didn't have an option. Dalton had come all this way to see his sister—and exorcise of a few old ghosts. If he had to do it in a borrowed car, so be it.
Dalton stopped beside the one gas pump. If he were lucky, the problem was a dry radiator. But in his experience, Midas and luck did not go hand in hand. Then again, he wasn't the same man he once was. Perhaps Midas had changed, too.
As soon as the thought popped into his head, Dalton broke out laughing. Who was he kidding? Deep down he was the same. A little more polished but there were enough rough edges left that the old Dalton would have easily recognized the new one.
And Midas? The town looked exactly the same. Scratch that. It looked like an older, dirtier, more rundown version of the old, dirty, rundown town from seven years ago. Back then, the place needed a makeover. Now, it needed a bulldozer. Time changed everything. Not always for the better.
The longer Dalton waited, it became apparent nobody was coming to find out if he needed help. He could sit in his car until hell froze over—or in this case, Midas—or he could move his ass and search it out on his own.
There was no preparing himself for the blast of inferno-like heat. Great, another hell reference. Dalton needed to change his attitude. He wasn't here by force. It had been his decision. Yes, it was hot. He had sweated through worse. The last time being a July concert in Texas. By the end, there was a pool of sweat under his chair the size of a small lake—though hot and much saltier. If he could survive that, he could manage to walk twenty feet from his air-conditioned car to the open door of the garage.
Admittedly, neither Los Angeles nor Texas carried the added memory of having his face shoved in the scorching dirt while two police officers held him down and another cuffed his hands behind his back. Only Midas had that particular distinction.
Shaking the image off, Dalton adjusted his sunglasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose. Half a dozen steps and his black boots were coated with dust, dulling the shine of the expensive leather. The sight didn't help to raise his spirits. The sound of a bell ringing was a welcome distraction. A short, solidly built young man—Dalton would have guessed him to be in his late teens—exited the office, a can of Coke in one hand, a set of keys in the other.
"Excuse me," Dalton called out. "Is there a mechanic on duty?"
Without breaking stride, the kid jerked his head toward the right. "You'll find Mac in there."
It wasn't the rudeness that surprised Dalton. It was the utter lack of curiosity. Midas was a small town. How often did a stranger in an expensive sports car engage this guy in conversation? There was money in the area. But that was on the north side of Midas. Those families didn't frequent places like
Dole's Auto Repair
.
Wiping the sweat from his upper lip, Dalton's stride ate up the few feet between him, the open garage door, and a merciful patch of shade. Music was the first thing that greeted his entrance, a song he recognized immediately.
Wild Jasmine
. After all the years of success, it still gave a Dalton a thrill when he heard his band on the radio. It wasn't that long ago when it happened for the first time. The four of them swore they would never take it for granted. And they never had. An extra jolt came from the fact that the song was one of his. A rare solo effort. His words. His music. Ryder's voice. Dalton grinned. It was a good thing. If it had been left up to him to sing lead, the band would have died a quick, painful death.
No, Dalton was happy to play his drums, harmonize, and on occasion—find writing gold.
The heat wasn't much better inside the garage. But without the sun pounding down on him, Dalton felt a bit of relief. Looking around, he wasn't impressed—or encouraged about the fate of his car. To call the place a mess would have been kind. The floor looked like a graveyard for broken parts. And they hadn't been buried with dignity. Tossed in every direction, it was chaos layered in dirt and grease. The work bench was a bit better. He could see where someone had tried to organize the tools, but it was haphazard at best. Shiny, well-maintained wrenches, and screwdrivers warred with the rusty and dented—and it appeared to be a losing battle.
Shaking his head, Dalton's gaze stopped on a pair of scuffed work boots that peeked out from under a dark gray SUV. The rest of the person's body was hidden from view, but Dalton assumed he had found the mechanic. Bending down, Dalton raised his voice to be heard over the music.
"Are you Mac?"
The thunk of metal hitting flesh was followed by a string of curse words that had Dalton raising his eyebrows. Not for the severity, or impressive variety, but because it was obvious the mechanic with the foul mouth was a woman.
"What is wrong with you?" The dolly shot out from under the vehicle. Before it came to a stop, she was on her feet and in Dalton's face. "Never—as in do not ever—yell at someone who is working on heavy machinery. I could have been seriously injured."
Fascinated, Dalton watched as the redheaded fury began pacing. She came to about his shoulders. Slender, though it was hard to tell. The baggy coveralls hid her shape from his view. Green eyes flashed his way. He thought she was pretty. Maybe beautiful. The grease smudged on her chin and forehead didn't enhance—or detract. But it did highlight the fact that her skin was a lovely pale shade of cream.
"Look at that," she shoved her thumb at Dalton. "Ouch! I could have broken the bone. What good is a mechanic with a broken thumb? I need this job, mister. Money doesn't grow on trees, you know. Food. Rent. A basic quality of life. They all take the green stuff. Moolah. Dinero. Capisce?"
Dalton stared—dazzled and tempted. She was spectacular and so full of life, he wanted to reach out to find out if the vibration she sent through the garage intensified when he made contact.
"Do I know you?" She moved closer, then quickly seemed to dismiss the idea. "No, I wouldn't forget meeting you."
Was that good or bad
? Dalton couldn't tell. But he knew he wouldn't have forgotten either—and it was
all
good.
She stopped, hands on hips, her head tipped to one side and glared. "Well, don't you have anything to say?"
"Plenty. But I was waiting for you to wind down." When her green eyes grew wide, and her lips twitched, Dalton knew he was going to like this woman.
"Let me think." Pursing her lips, she thoughtfully tapped her chin with her index finger. "Yes. The wind down is complete. So tell me, gorgeous, what was so important it was worth risking my life and livelihood?"
"I hate to set you off again, but don't you think that's a bit of an exaggeration?"
"Hello." She shoved her thumb at him again.
"I could kiss it and make it better."
She looked him up and down. "Mm. I'll bet you could. Unfortunately, I don't have time to play."
Too bad
, Dalton thought with regret,
neither did he
.
"Are you Mac?"
"I'll answer to it. I prefer Colleen."
Colleen
. It suited her. Dalton would have loved to find out what Colleen had on under those coveralls. Damn bad timing.
"My car started smoking just as I reached Midas."
"Okay. Where is it?"
"Out front."
"Let's take a look."
Dalton fell in step with Colleen. He didn't want to offend her, but he had to ask.
"It's a Porsche. Have you ever worked on one?"
"Nope." Stopping when she got her first look at the gleaming silver body, Colleen let out a low whistle. "You poor baby."