Covert Conception

Chapter Two

Rick Gravari pushed himself away from the custom Harley he was building and glanced at the Pennzoil clock mounted on the back wall of his shop.

It was already past five-thirty.

Less than an hour to closing time, and there was at least a half day’s work left to do.

“Hell,” Rick grumbled.

He used his forearm to mop the sweat from his forehead and neck, and then he cursed the air-conditioning. Why had it picked the hottest day of the year to go out?

There wasn’t much of a chance he’d get any of his four mechanics to stay late. Not on a Saturday. And not with the broken air conditioner. Overtime, a pizza and complete use of every fan in the place might be enough enticement for Hal, the head mechanic, but it’d be midnight before Hal and he could finish all the service orders on their own.

The phone rang, again, and Rick walked through the motorcycle clutter, fans and tools toward his equally cluttered office. Along the way, he grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, drank some and poured the rest over his head. The cold liquid snaked down his face and back.

It didn’t help.

Slinging off the excess water, he snatched up the phone from his desk and grabbed a service order so he could close out the Harley job. A little multi-tasking might get him out of here a few minutes earlier.

The caller was the soon-to-be owner of a custom bike who said he wouldn’t be able to pick it up until at least Wednesday. Rick considered it a blessing. One down, too many to go.

Most days, he loved his job. He loved having his own business. Loved working with his hands to build custom motorcycles and repair them.

But today wasn’t one of those days.

“Hey, Rick? You’ll wanta take a look at this,” Hal called out when Rick hung up the phone.

Hoping they weren’t about to get another customer, whom he’d almost certainly have to turn away, Rick glanced through the porthole-shaped window that separated his office from the reception-waiting area. The only person there was Bennie, one of the mechanics, who was at the cash register ringing up a client.

“In the front parking lot,” Hal added.

Before the last syllable had left Hal’s mouth, Rick was already looking in that direction. Specifically at the vehicle that’d just pulled up in front of the shop. A sleek platinum-colored sports car. As expensive as they came.

The driver’s door eased open, and thanks to the tinted window and the door itself, the only thing Rick saw of their visitor was a foot. One wearing a sexy, three-inch heel that was almost the same color as the car.

It was like watching a striptease. A delicate hand slid over the top of the driver’s-side window and door. Perfectly manicured nails—the color of ripe raspberries—gripped the glass and metal. The other foot touched down on the concrete. Graceful. Like a dancer getting ready to strut her stuff.

Rick felt like fanning himself, and it wasn’t all a result of the broken A/C, either. It’d been a while since he’d taken the time to appreciate the sight of a woman. This was a reminder that he truly needed a life outside the shop.

Correction: he needed a life, period.

Inch by inch, the top of their visitor’s head came into view as she rose from the seat. Honey-blond hair cut short and choppy. Fashionable but not overly done. It still looked touchable, and he could almost feel his fingers sliding through it.

But then, the striptease came to a non-gratifying, abrupt halt.

Rick’s gaze landed on her mouth. A full, sensual mouth covered with just enough gloss to make it noticeable. And notice it he did. Even though he hadn’t immediately recognized the hair, he knew that mouth. It was the mouth of a woman he hadn’t expected to show up at his shop. A woman he definitely didn’t want to see. Not now. Not ever.

Natalie Sinclair.

She used her elbow to push the car door shut, eased off her sunglasses and started toward the shop entrance. No cautious footsteps for her. Just the long determined stride of a woman who appeared to be on some sort of a mission.

The muggy summer breeze flirted with her turquoise suit, fluttering the slim skirt around the tops of her knees. And even slightly higher. He saw a good portion of her toned and tanned right thigh. Rick obviously wasn’t the only one to notice that because Hal mumbled something about being in lust.

Rick understood completely.

He felt the lust.

And he wanted to kick himself hard for feeling it.

Thank goodness that lust was tempered with a hefty dose of reality and vivid, godawful memories. That lust had already cost a man his life, and it didn’t matter how good she looked, Rick had made a solemn promise that he’d have no part of Natalie Sinclair.

Now, the question was—did she want a part of him?

He didn’t mean that in a sexual sense, either. Rick knew Natalie would never think of him that way again. However, she had left her high-and-mighty estate and driven all the way downtown to his shop—which wasn’t located in the best part of the city. She wouldn’t have done that for just any old reason. Plus, judging from the tightness around her mouth, she was seriously riled. And she no doubt planned to aim that riled-ness at him.

Why?

He had a darn good guess. Maybe because he’d shown up at her surprise birthday party? If so, a month was a long time to hold onto that much anger.

But then, this was Natalie.

By the time she stepped inside the shop, all the mechanics and customers had stopped to gawk. It wasn’t unwarranted. Natalie was attractive. Not drop-dead gorgeous, either. Her face was much more interesting than the surgically perfect socialites who were part of her world. It was an honest face. A face with character. A few tan freckles on her nose. A dimple in her chin.

Natalie had the brains to go with that interesting face, too. Everything she’d done in life was the best. She’d graduated from college with honors, on an athletic scholarship no less. As if that weren’t enough, she’d built from the ground up one of the most successful antique shops in the state.

Rick stayed put, gawking at her just as the others were doing. Waiting to see what she wanted. He heard her ask Hal if “the boss” was around, but before Hal could answer, her deep-violety blue eyes slid in his direction. Through the glass, their gazes met. And held.

Natalie didn’t even attempt an obligatory smile or offer him a semi-polite nod. Not that he expected it. They were well past the stage of exchanging even fake greetings.

She made her way through the reception area and into the work bay. It was a cemetery of motorcycles and pieces of motorcycles in various stages of repair, disrepair or assembly. Tools, fans and spare parts littered what little floor space there was. The air was heavy not just with heat and humidity but with old oil and gas fumes. Hardly a fitting place for Natalie Sinclair.

He briefly lost sight of her when she meandered around the Harley that he’d just finished, but Rick could hear her heels clicking on the bare cement. And those heel clicks got louder and louder until she appeared in the doorway.

Her gaze landed on him again, and she slid her eyes from his hair, which was still soaking wet, down to his T-shirt. Also drenched. Not just drenched from the water he’d poured over his head, either, but from an ample amount of sweat. If she’d been any other woman, Rick would have wished for a shower and a shave before facing her.

But she wasn’t any other woman.

There was no need to impress Natalie. She hated him. And he felt no love for her, either. In many ways, that made things a lot easier between them. He’d long ago come to terms with their animosity.

Not the attraction though.

“Are you lost?” Rick asked, just so he could make sure his mouth was working.

She stepped inside and slammed the door shut.

Oh, yeah. She was riled.

The stuffed-to-the-brim office was barely big enough for one person, so Rick had to work hard to keep some space between them. He leaned his shoulder against the filing cabinet, folded his arms over his chest and generally tried to appear surly. With the unbearable heat and her impromptu visit, it wasn’t a difficult look to achieve.