Where the hell could she go? It was getting dark, and she didn’t know the area that well. I hopped in the truck and drove into town but didn’t spot her. I called Mary in case she’d seen her, but there was no answer, and finally, I drove along the road slowly, looking in the vast fields and trees to see if I could spot Charly. Spying a light at Mary’s, I pulled in the driveway, the relief at seeing Charly on Mary’s porch morphing into anger as I realized she must have been here the whole time. Laughing, eating, talking, while I worried and panicked over her.
Once we were back at the house, my anger morphed into another feeling entirely. The intense heat and passion that sizzled between Red and me exploded, and before I knew it, we were upstairs. I remembered snarling a bunch of things at her, which only seemed to ramp up the heat between us. I was rough with her—far rougher than I should have been, but she was right there with me, orgasming twice, screaming my name. My own orgasm had been powerful, my body locking down as the ecstasy spiked and the aftershocks rippled through me. I had never experienced the sensations Red brought out in me. It was mystifying.
I slid from the bed, spying the torn blouse lying on the floor. I picked it up, holding it to my nose, inhaling the fragrance left behind on the material. My already hard cock lengthened further. I shook my head in frustration. Just her scent made me hard. How the hell was I supposed to get through working with her every day? Seeing her in the kitchen at night? This situation was never going to work unless we somehow stopped the physical draw between us—now.
We struck sparks off each other. Our goading exchanges seemed to ignite the desire between us. Something about her made me growl and snipe at her—as if I was somehow punishing her for the attraction I felt. She never backed down, answering my comments with sassy, smart-mouthed retorts that infuriated and taunted, yet turned me on with her attitude.
Once we started, it was as if someone struck a match and lit the flame. The only thing that calmed the inferno was sex. Until the next conversation.
I stared in the mirror, thinking. Maybe that was the key. Change the conversation. Red seemed to like the grumbly side of me, as she called it. Perhaps if I was just a nice guy, she wouldn’t be as interested, which meant she wouldn’t argue back. Without an argument, no passion. We could simply be what I wanted. She could be an employee; I would be her boss.
It could work.
The look on her face as I teased her was perfect. She didn’t expect it. She looked shocked—so shocked, in fact, she could barely talk.
There was no argument. No argument meant no passion. No passion meant no sex.
My logic was sound. This was going to work. Her expression when I gave her the banking information was disbelief. I didn’t bother to tell her I had reread her resume and finally contacted her old boss, Peter Phelps, who informed me that Charlynn was one of the most honest people he knew and would vouch for her anytime. He also informed me she was the hardest working assistant he’d ever had and had been sorry when the company they worked for went under.
“I’d hire her again if I’d hadn’t decided to retire. Tell her hello if you hire her,” he said. “You won’t regret it.”
I didn’t bother to tell him I already had, and I wasn’t so sure on the regret part. Yet. I was pretty damn certain I saw a different side of her than he ever had. At least, I hoped I did.
The morning was busy, and Charly was in and out, and despite what I’d told her last night, she dealt with the customers, taking care of their payments. I tamped down my annoyance at the slightly befuddled expressions many of them wore as they left the office. She seemed to charm them all, which put me a little on edge.
At noon, she brought me a sandwich and a cold soda, leaning against the bumper of the Camry.
“Don’t you work on any motorcycles?”
“Yes.” I chewed and swallowed. “A bunch are coming in this week. Autos are the bread and butter, though.”
“Any restorations?”
“I finished one last month. Shipped it back to the States. It was a beauty.”
“What kind?”
“Vintage Harley. 1977 XLCR100.”
“Nice.”
“I have two others coming—a Ducati and another Harley. One is a partial restoration, the other a complete. I work on those over there.” I indicated the third bay. “Spray booth is behind it.”
“You do it all?”
“Every last bit. I’ve got a reputation for being one of the best. I only take on so many a year, and I handle the whole thing.”