“Got a problem?” she asked him. C.C. was well aware that his gaze had drifted down from the neck of her coveralls to the cuffs and back again. She was used to it. But she didn't have to like it.
The voice had an entirely different effect when a man realized those dark,
husky tones belonged to a woman. “You're the mechanic!” “No, I'm the interior decorator.”
Trent glanced around the garage with its oil-splattered floor and cluttered worktables. He couldn't resist. “You do very interesting work.”
Letting the breath out between her teeth, she tossed the wrench onto a workbench. “Your oil and air filter needed to be changed. The timing was off and the carburetor needed some adjusting. You still need a lube job and your radiator should be flushed.”
“Will it run?”
“Yeah, it'll run.” C.C. took a rag out of her pocket and began to wipe her hands. She judged him as the kind of man who took better care of his ties than he did of his car. With a shrug, she stuck the rag back into her pocket. It was no concern of hers. “Come through to the office and we can settle up.”
She led the way through the door at the rear of the garage, into a narrow hallway that angled into a glass-walled office. It was cramped with a cluttered desk, thick parts catalogues, a half-full gum ball machine and two wide swivel chairs. C.C. sat and, in the uncanny way of people who heap papers on their desk, put her hand unerringly on her invoices.
“Cash or charge?” she asked him.
“Charge.” Absently he pulled out his wallet. He wasn't sexist. Trent assured himself he was not. He had meticulously made certain that women were given the same pay and opportunity for promotion in his company as any male on his staff. It never occurred to him to be concerned whether employees were males or females, as long as they were efficient, loyal and dependable. But the longer he looked at the woman who sat busily filling out the invoice, the more he was certain she didn't fit his or anyone's image of an auto mechanic.
“How long have you worked here?” It surprised him to hear himself ask. Personal questions weren't his style.
“On and off since I was twelve.” Those dark green eyes flicked up to his. “Don't worry. I know what I'm doing. Any work that's done in my shop is guaranteed.”
“Your shop?” “My shop.”
She unearthed a calculator and began to figure the total with long, elegantly shaped fingers that were still grimy.
He was putting her back up. Maybe it was the shoes, she thought. Or the
tie. There was something arrogant about a maroon tie. “That's the damage.” C.C. turned the invoice around and started down the list point by point.
He wasn't paying any attention, which was totally out of character. This was a man who read every word of every paper that crossed his desk. But he was looking at her, frankly fascinated.
“Any questions?” She glanced up and found her gaze locked with his. She could almost hear the click.
“You're C.C.?”
“That's right.” She was forced to clear her throat. Ridiculous, she told herself. He had ordinary eyes. Maybe a little darker, a bit more intense than she had noted at first, but still ordinary. There was no earthly reason why she couldn't look away from them. But she continued to stare. If she had been of a fanciful state of mind—which she assured herself she was notshe would have said the air thickened.
“You have grease on your cheek,” he said quietly, and smiled at her.
The change was astonishing. He went from being an aloof, annoying man to a warm and approachable one. His mouth softened as it curved, the impatience in his eyes vanished. There was humor there now, an easy, inviting humor that was irresistible. CC. found herself smiling back.
“It goes with the territory.” Maybe she'd been a tad abrupt, she thought, and made an effort to correct it. “You're from Boston, right?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
Her lips remained curved as she shrugged. “Between the Massachusetts plates and your speech pattern, it wasn't hard. We get a lot of trade from Boston on the island. Are you here on vacation?”
“Business.” Trent tried to remember the last time he'd taken a vacation, and couldn't quite pin it down. Two years? he wondered. Three?
CC. pulled a clipboard from under a pile of catalogues and scanned the next day's schedule. “If you're going to be around for a while, we could fit that lube job in tomorrow.”
“I'll keep it in mind. You live on the island?”
“Yes. All my life.” Hie chair creaked as she brought her long legs up to sit Indian-style. “Have you been to Bar Harbor before?”
“When I was a boy, I spent a couple of weekends here with my mother.” Lifetimes ago, he thought. “Maybe you could recommend some restaurants or points of interest I might squeeze in some free time.”
“You shouldn't miss the park.” After unearthing a sheet of memo paper, she
began to write. “You really can't go wrong anywhere as far as seafood, and it's early enough in the season that you shouldn't have any problem with crowds and lines.” She offered the paper, which he folded and slipped into his breast pocket.
“Thanks. If you're free tonight maybe you could help me sample some of the local seafood. We could discuss my carburetor.”
Flustered and flattered, she reached out to accept the credit card he offered. She was on the point of agreeing when she read the name imprinted there. “Trenton St. James HI.”
“Trent,” he said easily, and smiled again.
It figured, C.C. thought Oh, it absolutely figured. Fancy car, fancy suit, fancy manners. She should have spotted it right off. She should have smelled it. Seething, she imprinted the card on the credit card form. “Sign here.”
Trent took out a slim gold pen and signed while she rose and stalked over to a pegboard to retrieve his keys. He glanced over just as she tossed them to him. At him was more accurate. He managed to snag them before they hit his face. He jingled them lightly in his hand as she stood, hands on hips, face dark with fury.
“A simple no would have done the job.”
“Men like you don't understand a simple no.” C.C. turned to the glass wall, then whirled back. “If I'd known who you were, I'd have drilled holes in your muffler.”
Slowly Trent slipped the keys into his pocket. His temper was renowned. It wasn't hot—that would have been easier to dodge. It was ice. As he stood it slid through him, frosting his eyes, tightening his mouth, coating his voice. “Would you like to explain?”
She strode toward him until they were toe to toe and eye to eye. “I'm Catherine Colleen Calhoun. And I want you to keep your greedy hands off my house.”
Trent said nothing for a moment as he adjusted his thoughts. Catherine Calhoun, one of the four sisters who owned The Towers—and one who apparently had strong feelings regarding the sale. Since he was going to have to maneuver around all four of them, he might as well start here. And now.
“A pleasure, Miss Calhoun.”
“Not mine.” She reached down and ripped off his copy of the credit card receipt. “Get your butt back in your big, bad BMW and head back to Boston.”
“A fascinating alliteration.” Still watching her, Trent folded the paper and put it into his pocket. “You, however, are not the only party involved.”
“You're not going to turn my house into one of your glossy hotels for bored debutantes and phony Italian counts.”
He nearly smiled at that “You've stayed in one of the St. James hotels?”