“Guess again,” Jake said, his hand at the small of her back, guiding her through the parking lot to a car that made hers look like a toy. It was black and racy and low to the ground, shining with malevolent power and elegance in the dimly lit lot. The sort of car James Bond would drive.
Jake opened the door to the passenger side and Amy was enveloped by the smell of new car and expensive leather. She took a step backward and looked at Jake warily. “What’s this?”
“New car,” he said matter-of-factly. “My old car died.”
He made a gallant motion for her to get in.
He drove through Baltimore and turned onto I-95 South. He looked at her sideways, a silent speculative assessment that sent a shiver running down her spine.
The radial tires sang over the pavement, the powerful engine droned in her ears, hypnotic and soothing, and she closed her eyes to Jake, suddenly too tired to think.
She barely roused herself when the car purred to a stop. She was lifted from her seat and carried. A wave of fresh morning air washed over her and then there was the still coolness of air-conditioning. She opened her eyes when she was gently laid on her bed, but immediately gave herself up to the delicious luxury of smooth sheets and soft quilts.
Jake drew the curtains in Amy’s bedroom and stared down at her sleeping form.
It was noon before Amy awoke. Her first thought was that she was home. Her second thought was that Jake was naked beside her, his warm hand resting on a very private place.
They made love and when they were done, he snuggled her against him.
“I suppose we should talk now.”
Amy cuddled next to him. “I don’t know. It seems to me we’ve just said it all.”
Jake cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at her. “Me, man… you, woman?”
“Something like that. I was thinking more along the lines of you, Mr. Elliott… me, Mrs. Elliott.”
“Lady”-Jake grinned-“you’re in luck. I have a cancellation this afternoon.”
Janet Evanovich
