2

MARGOT

There’s nothing quite like it—flooring it on an open stretch of the Dallas North Tollway, blowing the speed limit to oblivion in a McLaren 720S Spider convertible. Late-night driving in Dallas usually means a few cop-free sections are wide open, giving me exactly the stretch of road I need to rev the shit out of this 710-horsepower engine.

A beautiful end to a beautiful—

Boom!

The loud bang startles me, and I tighten my grip on the wheel until my knuckles are white. Instantly, the dashboard lights up like the Fourth of July as I ease off the gas. I’ve got control of the vehicle, but it’s a fight.

The telltale thump-thump-thump is enough to tell me I need to keep the steering steady as I slowly veer to the far right of the nearly empty freeway.

Changing a tire isn’t exactly rocket science. I think. But in my Chanel suit and Louboutin’s, I’m a little overdressed for the occasion. My responses to Jaclyn’s concerns about my apparel before I left the office to head to the airport flit through my mind.

No, Jaclyn, I don’t need to change my clothes. I’ll do it on the jet.

Your comfy Missy Moscow silk-cashmere tracksuit? I wouldn’t think of borrowing your favorite loungewear.

Tennies? Oh, these stilettos are like a second skin.

The heels I’m wearing aren’t exactly great for hopping on a lug wrench to loosen tight lug nuts, but hey, what can I say?

Obviously, I’m a total idiot.

After shutting off the engine, I release my seat belt and pop the trunk, which I only just learned this afternoon is at the front of the sporty beast. I lean into the trunk, fishing through my duffel, cursing when my search rapidly ends in disappointment.

No sensible shoes. Just another pair of spiky five-inch heels. Note to self: when packing two pairs of shoes, diversify. Don’t think: Why would I need them? The jet always has the plushest slippers waiting for me.

Blowing out a long, determined breath, I strip to my black camisole, saving my couture blazer to live another day.

Sure, this spaghetti-strap number is barely holding in my girls, but it’s fine under a blazer and pairs well with the black pencil skirt I’m wearing. This outfit is killing it for rocking a nightclub. For changing a tire? Passable.

At least it’s not too chilly tonight.

When a flood of headlights washes over me, I’m a little mortified that the beams catch me with my butt hanging out as I dig through the trunk. I whirl around, shielding my eyes from the blinding-white light with my arm. Instantly, the arriving car kills its engine, and the million-watt beams of light pinning me in place vanish.

Need some help? a husky voice calls out.

Even from the shadows, I can see the tall stranger who approaches is definitely handsome. With the freeway lights overhead, I make out enough detail to know three things.

One, the man is local, based on his Texas plates.

Two, the smile on his stubbled face gives his hard jaw a warmth that’s a deadly combination of both sweet and naughty.

And three, his body is absolutely lickable, with the chisel of every muscle barely contained beneath his dark T-shirt and stylish jeans. Hell, with arms like that, he could practically lift the car like a toy and pop the wheels off with his fingertips.

Before I can respond, he moves to the side of the car, examining the flat tire while rubbing his face.

And that’s when I recognize him. Cup o’ cock. From the coffee shop.

It’s a flat, he says, stating the obvious.

Yes. I was about to change it.

With a huffed laugh, he scratches his head while his gaze slowly sweeps over me. Uh, you can’t change this tire.

I’m pretty sure for any woman born after the 1800s, words like that are a big, fat trigger. Heels be damned, I’m changing this tire for women everywhere. Asshole.

Well, Triple-A, I appreciate your opinion, but women can do a lot of things. Work. Vote. Think. And I can sure as hell change a tire. Repeating the words of my father, spoken time and time again whenever I tried to con a guy into doing something that might chip a nail, I proudly say, I am beholden to no man.

That’s not what I meant—

Oh, I’m sure it’s not. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be changing my tire.

Okay. The patronizing tone in his drawn-out word is annoying as hell. And it pisses me off to stratospheric levels when he nonchalantly plops his ridiculously tight ass on the hood of his car to watch. I’ll be here when you need me.

"If I need you. And you don’t have to."

"Look, I can tell by your I am woman, hear me roar attitude that we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. But there’s no way I’m leaving you out here to fend for yourself. Even if you can work and vote. Oh, and think. Let’s not forget you girls can think."

Throwing him a heated glare, I find my annoyance with him ratchets even higher when the smile he returns is too gorgeous for words. I hate how good-looking this man is. It has to be illegal.

Turning my back on him, I search through the trunk, but for the life of me can’t figure out how to unlatch the floor of it to release the spare beneath. I take a second to scan the car. The latch couldn’t possibly be underneath the carriage, like a pickup truck. The car is way too low to the ground. But maybe.

I tug a soft pashmina from my bag, keeping the folds intact. It’s the best I can do to protect my bare knees from the asphalt while I look underneath the car. And as long as I don’t shift the soft cashmere on the pavement, it should survive the abuse.

I can’t let you do that, he says insistently.

I give him the smallest of grins. You’re not the boss of me.

When he hops off the hood of his car and takes two long strides toward me, my breath hitches from his closeness. His heat.

Look, somehow we got off on the wrong foot, and I’m in the sexist zone.

I step through my rationale. Let’s see. You leered at my body and said I couldn’t change a tire.

Correction, he says, barely holding in a chuckle. I leered at your body and said you couldn’t change this tire.

That’s what I just said.

"No, I said this tire. You can’t change this tire. And if you don’t want me to leer, he drops his gaze, gesturing at my outfit, maybe go for a little more demure and a little less evil temptress. I am human, after all."

Pouting, I cross my arms, realizing too late I should have led with a squint.

And that suggestive mouth isn’t helping.

I scoff. This isn’t seduction. I’m just trying to save my blazer from the irreparable harm of axle grease.

Oh. He steps back to his car and returns with a lightweight windbreaker. Here.

He holds up the oversized jacket, letting me slip my arms in. If the massive sleeves dripping off me weren’t making me feel like a three-year-old, this guy zipping me up does.

There, he says, pleased and smiling down with golden flecks glinting in his eyes.

The sweetness almost makes me want to kiss him. But I don’t.

Thanks, I say, battling my rising heat with the distraction of tugging up the sleeves.

Let me. His big hands roll the sleeves gently up one arm, and then the other. Better?

Better, I say softly, smiling appreciatively as I admire his work, feeling the softness of the large sleeves as they slide back down. My smile widens when I see he’s zipped me up clear to my neck.

Okay. Back to what I was saying, he says. "I’m not being sexist when I say I know, without a doubt, you can’t change this tire."

I cross my arms, amused at both his knowing tone and the way the too-long sleeves flop around. Cocking my head, I wait for him to explain.

You’re driving a McLaren Spider.

I know that.

McLaren Spiders are ultra-compact and built for speed.

I know that too. But I’ve changed tires on sportsc—

He presses a finger to my lips, lifting a knowing brow and scorching me with his body. And they don’t have a spare.

When he releases my mouth, I meekly say, Oh. I didn’t know that.

Which leaves you with two options, temptress. Well, three. First, you can call a tow truck and pray to God Almighty that it doesn’t ding and scratch the crap out of your precious car.

Hmm. What’s option number two?

You could let me take you wherever you’re going and learn all about you, including everything from childhood aspirations to favorite foods. But I can’t let you in my car unless I know your full name and phone number. As a safety precaution, of course. And don’t try pulling a fast one. Whatever name you give me needs to be backed up by ID.

Really?

Better safe than sorry. His innocent shrug is met with my devilishly coy grin.

And three?

With a sigh, he again heads back to his car, popping the trunk before reaching in and then softly slamming it shut. He waves a tall can at me. Instant flat fixer. Terrible stuff. I don’t recommend it, but this and a few plugs will get you where you’re going, assuming you’re not crossing several states to flee the law or anything. But the tire will be forever lost if we use this stuff on it.

I look at the car, then back at the gorgeous knight in shining armor so intent on helping me, and struggle over my decision.

What do you say, empress? How about you let me give you a lift?

3

MARGOT

The charm of those darkening hazel eyes and that sexy body isn’t about to sway me or my growing wetness. Not tonight .

Covering my regret with haste, I grab the canister from his hand and blow out a decisive breath. This will be perfect. Thank you.

The subtle disappointment in his kind eyes lifts with an assured smile. Anything you say. He moves his attention to the tire, instantly making me miss his charmed smile from a second ago.

He takes the canister back from me, giving me a stern growl when I try hanging on. I release it, wondering how he sounds in bed. When his playful eyes unlock from mine, he works fast, not bothering to read the instructions.

Not your first rodeo? I ask, trying to keep the conversation light.

I travel a lot for business. If the success of a business deal rests with my ability to fix a flat, the deal’s getting closed. There, he says proudly as he pushes back to his feet next to the car. Fixed as much as it’s getting tonight. Try not to drag race to wherever you’re going, okay?

Regretful, I attempt an explanation. I’m heading to the airport.

He checks his watch. Will you still make your flight?

I nod, not bothering to explain that the private jet on standby will wait for me all night. And I’ll be on that flight. I have to be.

Oh. I snap away from my wishful thinking to grab my clutch from the front seat. Can I pay you for—

Not on your life, he says insistently, following with a gruff chuckle. Well, not with money.

My eyes narrow on him for a hot second before he clarifies.

I’ll give you three options.

I lift a brow. You’re like a reverse genie.

Trust me, I’m no genie. I’m always the master, he says, letting the words hang between us before continuing. I take the following forms of payment—full names, phone numbers, or . . .

Or? I ask, quickly bypassing the first two suggestions.

Or a kiss.

A kiss? That’s like him paying me.

Nodding in agreement and trying to hide my enthusiasm, I take a step closer. But his warm hands grip my shoulders, keeping me at arm’s length.

Hey, he says with a warning. No holding back. This kiss has to be more valuable than your name. Sternly, he adds, I’d hate to make you do it again.

I’ve never been so incentivized to fail.

This time, it’s his step that closes the distance, letting him tower over me. My breaths quicken when he reaches out to lay a hand lightly on my hip, his touch smoldering. Instinctively, and not just to cop a feel, my hands smooth over his chest, making their way to the tight muscles of his neck.

With his arm tightening around the small of my back, a sudden shiver races down my spine. He pulls me to my toes before my eyes softly close, welcoming his mouth to my parted lips.

He’s soft. Tender. Taking his time. As his tongue explores me in sensual sweeps, the firmness of his erection doesn’t take me by surprise as much as its size does.

Holy hell, that’s impressive.

A moment later, his lips move from mine, but return for a few tender pecks before he whispers against my lips, Tell me your name.

I need a minute to catch my breath. You can’t renegotiate the deal after payment, I whisper back, preoccupied with stealing a few more kisses.

Then agree to meet me tomorrow for dinner. Or lunch. Or at least let me buy you a coffee. I already know your favorite drink.

My smile subsides as my finger makes a lazy figure eight across the firm muscles above his heart. Regretting the dozen decisions that led to this point, I sigh. I’m leaving the country tonight, and I’m not sure when I’m returning.

I see. His finger lifts my chin, giving me another amazing shot at his hazel eyes. Okay, he says softly. Let’s get you on your way.

Oh. Suddenly aware I’m still engulfed in his extra-large jacket, I tug at the zipper until his large hand swallows mine.

He rubs my fingers gently. Keep it. I like thinking of you in it. That thought will keep me smiling for days.

I’d like to leave you something too. But . . . close your eyes.

He does, letting his suspicious smile grow wider across his face. Jokingly, he peeks once before shutting his eyes for good.

I hike up my skirt just enough to let my ass hang out on the freeway for a hot second. Tugging my lacy thong down, I step out of it, nearly losing my balance and falling flat on my face. Squealing, I recover with, Don’t open your eyes, and grab his crossed arms to regain my balance.

You okay? he asks, still with his eyes closed but smiling with a flash of concern. With one hand, he’s got me back to a solid stance.

Of course, I say quickly. One more moment.

Happily, I stroll to his car and slip the dainty undies through the open driver’s window and drape them over the steering wheel.

Hey, I told you, I don’t want your money, he calls out.

I heard you, I say, returning to him. It’s not money. It’s the one thing that I think will keep that smile on your face for longer.

He opens one eye, then the other. Thanks. I think.

With a hand on the small of my back, he leads me to the driver’s seat of my ready car.

After an appreciative glance and a final kiss on his cheek, I get in, letting him shut the winged door after me.

Slowly, I accelerate back onto the tollway, getting a good feel for the drive with a tight grip of the wheel, carefully gauging the steadiness of the fixed tire. Comfortable with the patch job, I take a last look at my midnight hero in the rearview mirror. Waving wildly with panties in hand, he sends me off.

That smile is absolutely everything.

My arrival at the airport signals an end to my time in Dallas, and I hate it.

After parking inches from the short flight of stairs to the jet, I pop the trunk latch. Exiting the vehicle with blazer in hand, I circle to the