Pushing Her Limits (Masters of Adrenaline 3)

He was looking at her the way men sometimes did if they were interested. She braced herself for the standard lame pickup lines, but he only pulled the laptop closer and waved Austin away. “I’ll do this. You go clean the break room.”

Austin shrugged and wandered into the back, his phone in his hand before he’d gone two steps. The break room was probably going to have to clean itself.

Atlas dragged the stool closer and sat, then motioned for Mila to take the stool on the other side of the counter, which she did. The longer she could keep the man talking, the more she could learn about him.

“Like I was saying, I can get the information off of it, but I’m not sure I can get it running reliably again.” His lips pressed together, and Mila did her best to stop checking him out. “It might be time for a new laptop.”

“That’s going to have to wait a few months.” She grimaced. “So . . . you must do this all the time, right?”

“Yes, we get several jobs like this a day. Why?”

“Do you have, like, a confidentiality clause?” She forced herself to look away, trying to seem embarrassed, but she still knew it when he leaned his muscular forearm on the counter between them. When she glanced back up at him the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Why? Forget to clear your browser history?”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with watching porn,” she teased, smiling. Was she flirting or just playing the part? Maybe a little of both.

He arched a brow, and the look made her insides shivery. “No. You just have to watch what sites you use, or your computer will suffer the consequences.”

Consequences? The way he said the word gave her a brief flash of being pulled down over his thigh and his hand coming down on her ass.

It was official. She absolutely needed to get laid as soon as possible. Leering at the creeps she investigated was ridiculous. So far, her detective instincts weren’t tingling one way or another about his innocence. For car theft anyway. She doubted very much he was innocent in . . . other ways.

They stared at each other for a long moment, and he cleared his throat. “I’m Atlas Larson, by the way.”

“Larson? Are you related to the owner?”

“Yeah, he’s a bit of an asshole, but family’s family.” The gleam of amusement in his eyes made her wonder what he was thinking.

“You’re the owner.”

“Yes,” he admitted, closing her laptop. “But I stand by what I said.”

She found herself smiling at him and wondered if he could tell she was fantasizing about him shoving her down on the counter and . . .

“Um . . . how long have you been at this location?” she asked, trying to banish the pornographic images from her mind.

“We just opened a storefront about six months ago. Before that we were mainly doing contracts for businesses, and some work from home, but it’s easier to advertise if you have somewhere to hang a sign.”

She nodded, wondering how far to push the conversation on the first contact. If she seemed too interested in his business it would look suspicious.

“We?” she asked. “Is that the royal ‘we,’ or is that wife ‘we’?”

Shit. The idea had been to steer the conversation away from an interrogation about his business, but she hadn’t meant to sound as if she was interested. Stupid. This guy had her all flustered and he hadn’t even done anything. Hell, she’d gone toe to toe with some of the biggest badasses in town, and now she was completely botching this because the guy happened to be easy to look at?

His eyes narrowed. “It’s the royal ‘we’ but only if you’re referring to my cousin and my brother, who are royal pains in the ass. As for a wife, I doubt any woman would tolerate me that long.”

“No?” She’d been expecting bravado, not self-effacement. The latter was far more intriguing coming from a guy who was built and hot, and obviously intelligent if he fixed computers for a living. There was no way this guy could be a car thief. The other ones she’d met were ballsy fuckers, not nice guys. Although, maybe the nice guy thing was an act. Maybe her libido wanted it to be an act. If he was a car thief he was off-limits, but if the tip had been bogus and he was just a hot, gainfully employed man who may or may not know how to use all of those muscles he owned . . .

Bad Mila. Get your mind out of his pants.

For a moment it looked as if he was going to say something, but then he just smiled enigmatically. “It’ll be ready Sunday.” He pushed to his feet, and she got the distinct impression she’d been dismissed.

Damn it. Had she done something to tip him off?

Embarrassed, she rose, trying to gather her composure. She was going to have a serious talk with herself as soon as she got to the safety of her car.

“Thanks.”