Drive Me Wild

“Good idea, ma’am. I suggest we return the car, get our driver and find a quiet coffee shop somewhere.”

I wish he’d quit calling me ma’am. He could only be a few years older than me. Now, where did that thought come from?

Twenty minutes later, the driver of the rented limousine stopped in front of a small, yet elegant café. Justin got out and opened the back door for Gina. He stood beside the door trying not to notice her long shapely legs as she maneuvered herself out of the car. Then she looked up at him and smiled. This is definitely not going to work. And as if she read his thoughts, she lowered her lashes and moved away.

He held the chair for her, all the while wondering how he was going to get used to her paying the bill on the occasions when they had to eat together in restaurants.

“I didn’t have any breakfast,” she said, “and I’ll bet you didn’t, either. I’d had about two swallows of coffee when the guard buzzed me. I’m going to have waffles and sausage with maple syrup, lots of it.”

He stared at her. “You mean, you’re not worried about gaining weight?”

She shook her head. “I get plenty of exercise. Order whatever you want. I’m starving.” She gave the waitress her order. “Could you bring some coffee now, please?”

He ordered waffles with bacon fried to a crisp and coffee. “I don’t usually allow myself all these calories,” he told her, “but if you’ve got the nerve to do it, so have I.” She smiled when he said that, and her eyes shone with what he could only describe as merriment. He told himself to remember that he was a journalist working on a story, and that he couldn’t afford to let himself succumb to the spell she had begun to weave. If she were less considerate, he could at least manage not to like her. But she took great care not to treat him as a chauffeur in the presence of others. He corrected himself; she hadn’t treated him as an employee.

Their waitress poured each of them a cup of hot coffee, and it didn’t escape him that she said “please” and “thank you” to the waitress. He’d give this woman high marks for good manners. She sipped the coffee, closed her eyes, and inhaled its aroma and sighed.

He squirmed. Good Lord, this woman was sensuous. Suddenly, he wanted to know everything about her, everything she’d done and who she did it with. He wanted to reach out and touch her smooth brown face.

“Damn,” he said to himself. “I’m way off.” He gulped down a swallow of coffee and wished he’d been more prudent when the liquid burned his throat. He opened the envelope that he’d placed in the chair beside him and put his mind on the business at hand.

“Let’s eat first,” she said. “We’ve got time for that.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said as the waitress placed his food in front of him.

To his amazement, she said grace. She continued to look at her plate and then, clearly having come to a decision, she said, “Justin, how old are you, if I may ask?”

His eyebrows shot up, and he didn’t try to control his reaction. “I’m thirty-seven. Why do you ask?”

This time, her eyebrows went up. “I’m thirty-four, which makes me too young to be your mother. So, would you please stop calling me ma’am. It’s getting on my nerves.”

He didn’t laugh, although he’d have given anything for the right to let it out. Instead, he savored his meal for a minute, glanced up and saw that she hadn’t begun to eat.

“Age doesn’t have anything to do with it,” he said. “It’s a matter of respect, and ma’am is shorter than saying Ms. Harkness all the time.”

She sucked her teeth so loudly that he stopped chewing. “Is the sky going to fall if you call me Gina?”

He wanted to tell her that calling her ma’am was a hell of a lot safer for both of them than calling her by her first name. He needed all the help he could get if he was going to keep his mind on his two jobs—his work as a journalist and his job as her chauffeur.

“Maybe not,” he said to himself, “but if I don’t watch it, we’ll both think it fell.”

“What? What did you say?”

“Nothing. Looks like I was thinking out loud, ma’am. Did you make arrangements for a mover to pack your things?”

“Yes, and I thank you for the suggestion. How long do you think I’ll have to wait for my car?”

“Not long. I’ll speak with the dealer and let him know this is an emergency.” He finished eating, pushed his plate aside and showed her the chart he’d made comparing the ratings of the two cars. “There’s not much of a basis for choosing between them. On the matters that count, they’re both boss cars.” He handed her the chart.

She studied it for a few minutes, waved the waitress over and said, “Miss, could we please have some more coffee? You’re right. They’re fairly equal, and that’s comforting. Which do you like to drive?”

“I like the Town Car. I’ve driven it a lot, and I enjoy riding in it.” She didn’t have to know that his parents always drove one. “If you do much traveling, you’ll appreciate its roomy trunk, too,” he added.

She sipped coffee, thoughtfully it seemed to him. “Okay. We’ll get the Lincoln.” She folded the papers and handed them to him. After he drained his cup, she rose. “Ready to go?”

He stood at once. Didn’t she know that a rich New York woman wouldn’t ask her chauffeur if he was ready to do anything, and she certainly wouldn’t have waited while he took his time drinking coffee.

He stood. “After you, ma’am.”

She gave him an outraged look, and he couldn’t help laughing as he walked behind her. But his mood immediately switched to serious as the view of her perfectly shaped tush wiggling in front of him heated his groin. He’d never been so relieved as when he stepped outside into the cool of April, and his gaze could fix itself on something other than her mobile behind.

She looked up at him. “Do you think we should have brought our driver a cup of coffee?”

He needed no more evidence of her humble background than that question. “I’m sure he’d appreciate it,” he said, mainly to avoid making her feel bad, “but his company probably has rules against his drinking or eating anything while on the job.”

They returned to the dealer where she wrote the salesman a check for half the price of the Town Car. “I want a silver-gray one,” she said. “These big black cars make me think of funerals.” She looked at him with what he thought was a silent appeal for approval.

“Ladies tend not to like black cars,” he said, based on his experience with his mother and sister. “Silver-gray is elegant.”

“When will I get it?” she asked the manager of the dealership who had joined his salesman.

“I can have it here for you Wednesday afternoon.”

“How’ll he manage that?” she asked him as they headed for her apartment. “It usually takes weeks to get a new car.”

“You didn’t ask him to give up any of his commission. If you had, you’d have had to wait at least six weeks. He’ll call around, find out which dealer has a gray car coming in, give him a few hundred bucks, and you’ll get your car.”

“Are you serious?”

“In deals this big, Gina, money talks.”

“I thought it always talked,” she said.

“There are some mountains that money won’t move, and I’m sure you’ve encountered one or two of them.” The car stopped, and he got out and opened the door for her.

She stood between him and the open car door. “Yes, Justin, and that’s a good thing.” She stared up at him as if searching for something, then shook her head from side to side. “Life is strange,” she murmured, almost inaudibly. “You never know what will happen next.”

Chapter 2

Once inside her apartment, Gina kicked off her shoes, walked into her living room and looked around. What on earth did she need a big expensive car and a chauffeur for? She could drive as well as anybody, provided she had something to drive, and her need of a man like Justin Whitehead definitely had nothing to do with automobiles, large or small. She didn’t have to pack, she didn’t have to clean because she was moving in less than a week, so what could she do? The phone rang and she raced to answer it.

“Well, how’re we coming?” Miles asked.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she replied, aware that her tolerance for Miles lessened each time she saw him or spoke with him.

“Well, we ought to be getting on with the terms of the will.”

“We? You mean, there’s something in the will that applies to you? I read it carefully, and that is not the impression I got.”