Wicked Dirty (Stark World 2)

"As long as you stick close to me, it should be easy. And Sugar," he adds with a definite undertone of heat, "I do want you to stay very, very close."

"Right," I whisper. "I will."

He leaves enough cash on the table for the bill and a pretty hefty tip, then slides out of the booth. He holds out his hand to me, then continues to hold it as we walk to the valet stand.

"A Volvo," I say, when the familiar boxy model pulls up, and he opens the passenger door for me. "Nice, but I confess I was expecting something in the two-seater, built-for-speed category."

"Were you? Why's that?"

I have a moment to think about my answer as he circles the car, then enters, and I blush a little when I tell him the truth. "Fast and reckless?" I say, the words coming out as a question.

He pauses, his hand on the gear shift as he looks at me. When he speaks, his words are measured. "Considering how we met, that's fair. But that's not me. It's--"

He breaks off, shaking his head, and once again I have to wonder what kind of wall he's built around himself, and what kind of demon he's trying to keep out.

"At any rate," he continues. "As far as cars go, I'm all about safety."

"Me, too," I say. "But I don't own a Volvo. I just hardly ever drive."

He glances at me. "Why?"

I swallow. I really didn't mean to open that door, but now that it's open, I feel like I have to walk through it. "My mom and brother were killed by a drunk driver five years ago."

I hear him draw in a breath. And then, very softly, he says, "I guess you do understand." He turns his head to meet my eyes. "I'm sorry for your loss." His voice is level. Overly polite. Like a man trying very hard to keep his emotions in check.

It's clear I struck a nerve--and one much more exposed and tender than my own. I want to ask, but I can tell he doesn't want to talk about it. And it's not my place to press. After all, I'm not really his girlfriend, and just because I shared my story, he's not obligated to share his.

At the end of the day, it's none of my business, no matter how much I'd like to help.

So I just sit quietly and clutch my purse in my lap and wish that I hadn't even commented on the car.

After a moment, he clears his throat. "The center's just up the hill, two blocks from Stark Tower," he says, referring to the massive building that dominates the downtown skyline. "We could have walked, but considering your shoes..."

"Thanks." I glance at my feet. "Not my usual style, but it's fun to play dress up. I guess I should thank you for that."

He reaches over and traces his finger over the thin strap of the dress. "Dressing up suits you," he says. "What's your typical look?"

"I'm a jeans and T-shirt girl all the way. Maybe a tank top. And yoga pants are an acceptable alternative. Your basic sundress just to mix things up a bit." I run my hands over the outfit. "Honestly, for what this dress cost, I could fill my entire closet. My favorite shopping destination is Goodwill."

He chuckles. "The one on La Brea was always my favorite. But I found some good stuff at the one on Beverly, too."

I shift in my seat. "And the one on Vine. You shop--"

"My mother was big on thrift shopping," he says, not looking at me. "It was like a family tradition."

I nod, wondering about his pre-Hollywood days. Was his mom just frugal, or had his family struggled before he started working?

I'm about to ask when he abruptly changes the subject. "Marjorie told me you could only stay until nine."

I nod. "I have to cover a shift at Blacklist tonight." I'd forgotten to mention that in the original conversation, but I'd texted her when it struck me just how tight my schedule was going to be today. "I have to be there by ten." I indicate my outfit. "And not in these shoes. Or this dress."

"I'll get you there on time," he promises. "She also told me you're planning to work tonight for free."

"Um, right." I twist the strap of my purse, uncomfortable with the sudden reminder that nothing about this evening is real.

"Unacceptable," he says, and my nervousness vanishes, replaced by irritation.

"Excuse me? I think that's my decision."