On Her Side

She blinked. Then she laughed. Bright, tinkling laughter that filled the cavernous space of the garage and seemed to echo back at him.

He was in hell.

“Keep that sense of humor,” he said. “It’ll come in handy when they take your mug shot.”

“Come on,” she said as if inviting him to share in the joke. “You’re not going to call the police.”

“I’m not?”

“Why would you? It’s not like you and the Mystic Point PD have a strong relationship based on mutual trust and admiration.”

Because he was Dale York’s son. Because he’d been a wild and rebellious kid and was an adult who didn’t take shit or back down from anyone.

“I’m a tax paying, law-abiding citizen,” he pointed out, not getting so much as a parking ticket since he turned eighteen and realized he’d be following his old man’s footsteps straight to prison if he didn’t keep his nose clean. Watching her, he took out his cell phone. “Make sure to duck when they put you in the back of the squad car. Wouldn’t want to hit your head and mess up that fancy hairdo.”

“While I’m sure that’s excellent advice—and comes from your own personal experience—I don’t need it. It’s not illegal to have a conversation with someone. Unless, of course, you know something about the law I don’t?” she asked in a sweet, condescending tone that grated on his last nerve.

He raised his eyebrows. “You always have that ego, or did it come with the law degree?”

“It’s not ego. I just meant—”

“I know what you meant.” She wanted to prove how smart she was—so much smarter than him because she went to some fancy college while he was lucky to finish high school. So much better than him by virtue of her last name. “And I don’t care what the cops do with you. Arrest you for trespassing, cite you for loitering or give you a ticket for being a pain-in-the-ass. Doesn’t matter to me as long as they get you out of my hair and out of my garage.”

Biting her lower lip, she regarded him warily as if trying to figure out if he was serious. “Okay,” she said with a decisive nod, “if that’s the way you want it—”

“It is,” he assured her, mimicking her somber tone.

“Fine.” Her sigh was very much that of a poor, put-upon female forced to deal with a brainless, tactless male. “We’ll do things your way. But for the record,” she said, wagging her finger at him like some librarian to a naughty schoolboy—never one of his favorite fantasies, “let me just say I’m not happy about this. Not one bit.”

“Life’s tough that way. Best get used to it.”

“Thank you for those words of wisdom,” she said so solemnly he didn’t doubt she was messing with him. “I will endeavor to keep them in mind.”

Endeavor. Jesus. Who talked like that?

She strode away, her back rigid, her arms swinging like one of those women he saw power-walking in Hanley Park each morning.

Except, she didn’t march her irritating self out the door. She brushed past him, crossed to the long shelf behind the lift and stared at the tools there as if trying to figure out which one went best with her outfit.

A prickle of trepidation formed between his shoulder blades. What was she up to?

Finally she grabbed a small crowbar and held it up as she walked toward him. “I’m borrowing this.”

His muscles tensed, and the prickle morphed into an itch of warning. Not of physical violence—though he didn’t doubt this piece of fluff was capable of it. Everyone was. But that whatever she planned on doing with that crowbar was going to piss him off but good.

“You plan on beating me over the head for not talking to you?” he asked mildly, his hands at his sides, his weight on the balls of his feet in case he had to defend himself.

“Of course not,” she said, passing him by without taking so much as a swing. “That would be a little overkill, don’t you think?”

She walked into the sunshine and he figured his skull was safe—for now. Unable to resist, he followed her, stopping to lean against the door frame as she marched up to her car, raised the bar over her shoulder like a batter ready for a grand slam—and swung hard. Her headlight exploded in a spray of glass. Pieces clung to her dress, sparkling against the dark material. More rained down onto the pavement.

And people thought he was dangerous.

“Lady,” he said, straightening, “you’ve got a sparkplug loose up in that head of yours.”

She strolled over to the other headlight and took it out as well. Cocking one hip, she studied her handiwork for a moment then started whaling away at the grill, the clang of metal on metal setting his teeth on edge.

She didn’t have the strength to do much damage to the grill, though she gave it her best shot—no pun intended. But what she lacked in muscle, she made up for in enthusiasm. She grunted with exertion, her hips swaying in time with her swings, the hem of her dress lifting to show a few more inches of her thighs.

He might have enjoyed the sight if he didn’t want to wring her pretty neck.

Griffin glanced behind him. He could go back inside, close the door and pretend this whole bat-shit crazy episode had never happened. He was tempted, sorely tempted to do just that. But he had customers scheduled to arrive soon and traffic was picking up along Willard Avenue. It was only a matter of time before someone noticed what the psycho blonde was doing.

And wonder what he’d done to drive her to it.

He stormed over and grabbed the bar on one of her upswings, plucking it from her hand. “Knock it off,” he growled, frustration eating at him, making him think about taking a few swings at the vehicle himself. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“I’m done anyway,” she said, breathing hard. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright—with temper? Or insanity? “Now, let’s go inside so we can discuss how you can help me track down your father.”

CHAPTER TWO

GOOD LORD, but Griffin York was beautiful.

His hair, a rich shade of chocolate-brown, fell past the collar of his T-shirt in tousled waves and yet did nothing to soften the sharp line of his jaw, the harsh slash of his cheekbones. His brows were thick and drawn together as he studied her warily, his green eyes flecked with gold. He had a slight dimple in his chin, broad shoulders, a flat stomach and muscular arms.

Beautiful and, she realized, pissed off.

What a crying shame. Someone that pretty shouldn’t scowl so much.

“You,” he bit out, “are a crazy person.”

Nora’s hands stung from the reverberations of hitting the car with the crowbar, her heart raced from her exertion. “Not crazy. Just determined.”

Although, she thought with a glance at her poor car, she might plead temporary insanity. But it had felt surprisingly good—in a therapeutic way—to hit something after all the trauma and drama of the past few weeks. After the frustration of realizing the local police couldn’t, or wouldn’t be able to bring Dale York to justice.

“You keep telling yourself that,” Griffin said in his gravelly voice.

She hooked her pinkie under a strand of hair stuck to her temple, narrowed her eyes at him. Okay, she was trying to be fair here. She didn’t know enough about Griffin to judge him, to dislike him as her sisters did. To mistrust or fear him because he had a less than stellar reputation.

Yes, she was trying to be fair and he wasn’t making it easy.

“You said that unless I had a problem with my car, there was nothing for us to talk about.” She gestured to her car. “Well, I have a car problem now.”

His gaze went from her to her car and back again. “What’s to stop me from kicking you out of here anyway?”

“Oh, let’s see. How about integrity? A latent sense of decency? Or maybe everyone is right about you. Maybe you are just like your father.”

His jaw worked, his mouth a thin line, and for a moment, she regretted the low blow. But a good attorney knew not only which questions to ask, but which argument to make to get the win.