Driving in Neutral (2 page)

“Kashoo!”

Maxwell spun around at the tiny kitten-like sound and found a woman rather than a feline, standing in the corner of the tiny elevator. He’d seen her come into the building a few minutes ago. She looked as if someone had tried to drown her. Hair was stuck flat to her head. Mascara had smudged under her dark eyes. Her nose was bright red.

She
kashooed
again.

Preoccupied by his own frustration he ignored her watery state and third kitty sneeze, turned back to the door, and went on chastising Timmons and Josh. “Amateurs. That’s what you are. How the hell you got hired… You’d better not be standing there with your balls drawing back up into your bodies when I get upstairs!”

He snapped the phone closed, popped it in his jacket pocket beside the rolled up CV he’d put there earlier. He jerked his body back inside the car. Teeth clamped, arms folded, he watched the doors ease shut. His fingers squeezed around both biceps. “Come on, come on, you damned old thing,” he said, urging the elevator to move. As it began to climb, the woman behind him
kashooed
a few more times.

Maxwell looked at her and tried to smile politely. All he managed was a grimace. He tried again but figured the smile probably made it seem as though he was filtering curds from whey through his teeth. Abruptly, he turned back to the door, his fingers digging impatiently into his arms. The air rushed heavily from his nostrils in irritation.

Jesus. It had been better when he thought he was alone because…he’d been alone. If he had been any place else he would have conducted a longer appraisal of her diminutive prettiness—a much longer appraisal. As it was, with just a short look his brain automatically registered a number of things about her. She was petite, compact, put together well. Her delicate facial features made her seem smaller. The hair molded to her skull was brown, and probably not as dark as it seemed wet. Her dress clung to oh-so-soft feminine curves and nipples that saluted him. There was an arched pink slice near the right corner of her mouth, an old battle scar that added character and gave the impression she wasn’t exactly a dripping, fragile, little kitty-cat.

Man, there was part of him, the section not squashed by the slippery sanity he barely managed to cling to, that really wanted to make a quirky remark about her soggy state, or comment on the warmth of her brown eyes, or ask her how she could be so friggin’ cold on a steamy day like today. However, she was taking up space in an elevator car that was barely big enough for him, and it seemed a hell of a lot more important to focus his mind’s non-existent telekinetic energy into getting this contraption they stood in to move faster than the speed of growing grass.

He tried to take a deep breath, watching the lighted numbers change above the door as they approached the fifteenth floor. At sixteen, he heard her feet shuffle closer to the door, closer to him. The light faded from behind seventeen and they stood beside each other with eyes fixed to the panel over the door, waiting for eighteen to illuminate.

She had another
ka-shoo-ka-shoo-ka-shoo
fit and the overhead lamps flickered like a strobe light in a dance club. A split second later there was a subterranean groan that seemed to come from the earth’s core. The car went dark and stopped moving.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding!” he shouted. Hands thrust forward in the coalmine blackness he fumbled for the emergency call switch. His fingers were spread, his clammy hands moved blindly over the wood paneling to the bank of buttons. He used every obscene word he knew as he banged every single knob and button.

Mercifully, out of the onyx darkness, a tiny circle of light appeared.

She had a penlight. Brusquely, he snatched it from her hand and flicked it over the controls. He found a small, red button below the numbered ones and rammed the heel of his palm against it. A warbling bell jangled in a continuous tone like a fire alarm. With one hand pressing the switch, he jammed the penlight between his teeth and dragged his phone out of his jacket pocket. He shouted into the cell, even louder than he had before, the little torch still in his mouth, “Hello? Hello? Ainshlee, is that you at shecurity?”

“Can I hold that light for you?” the aqueous kitty-sneezer asked.

His head twisted, the beam flashed in her eyes, he released the button and went on shouting, “Ainshlee, it’s Makshwell. Lishen to me. I’m shtuck in an elevator… No, I
don’t
know which one it ish… There are two of ush in here…” A dim emergency light began to glow overhead and he yanked the penlight from his mouth. “Okay, so we’re in number three, call maintenance. You get maintenance to get this thing… Well, great,
follow
the procedure… What do you mean this
is
the procedure?… No, I don’t care how many others are stuck… An
hour
? Are you insane? I’ve got a meeting… Ainslie don’t you hang up. Don’t you
dare
hang up!”

Dumbfounded, he stood for a moment with the penlight in one hand and the phone in the other. Then he swallowed and tucked his cell into a trouser pocket, loosened his tie, and unbuttoned his collar.

Without another word, he handed the woman the flashlight. It was damp with his saliva. She put it back in her purse after she wiped it on her hip. “Did I hear you say we’re going to be stuck here for an hour?”

“Oh God, an hour,” he moaned. She said something else, but he didn’t hear it because an hour of this was entirely too long. Three minutes of this was entirely too long. If he hadn’t pulled a knee ligament playing Frisbee with Sam none of this would be happening. It wouldn’t be happening because he would have taken the stairs, like he did everyday, like he should have today, knee brace be damned.

The stairs were good. The stairs kept him fit. The stairs were empty. He
liked
taking the stairs and could jog up fourteen flights without breaking a sweat, but, immobile and ensnared, dribbles of cold perspiration wandered down his back and he cursed his seven-year-old nephew.

Nearly choking on the last of his own spit, he whipped off his jacket and dropped it on the floor. He mopped moisture drizzling over his eyebrows with his cornflower blue shirtsleeve. In two minutes, he was going to be as wet as Miss Kitty was there in the corner.

He fished out his phone and quickly dialed the glowing touch pads. A moment later he hollered, “Finn? Can you hear me over this buzzing? Finn? Yeah… Is the power out up there too? Uh-huh… Is he up there yet? Great… When he does, ask him if he’d mind waiting an hour… Why? Oh you’ll love this. I’m
trapped
in the fucking
elevator
! Quit laughing. I said… Finn? Finn?” Maxwell coughed as his cell lost reception. His mouth went as dry as Peru’s Atacama Desert. “Oh, bloody
wonderful
,” he mumbled and covered his eyes with one hand.

Olivia’s nose began to run. She rubbed it, dabbing gently with the back of her hand. The smiles the man had given her might have been bogus as hell, but it had removed some shadow from his now-shielded eyes, which she noticed were a dark, speckled green that made her think of late summer leaves. Those eyes moved him toward the high end of the handsome scale. It was a pity his personality wasn’t as appealing, but she’d met and spent time with worse men, in spaces smaller than this, and she was grateful he didn’t have BO, bad breath, or a hacking smoker’s cough.

Without power, the overhead fan had ceased circulating the chilly air, but the elevator still felt like the inside of a sub-zero freezer. Olivia hugged herself and eyed Maxwell’s back and the phone he’d shoved into his pants pocket. She wanted to contact Pete. Not that Pete was going to send sunshiny warmth down through the shaft or make the elevator move, but she could be courteous, explain the delay, and tell him she was trapped with
Maxwell: Duke of Grouch
. Sadly, her cell phone had no signal.

The Duke of Grouch’s cell phone seemed just fine.

Odds were, if she asked to use his phone he’d swear at her, glower and expect her to shrink back the same way his employees probably did. Fortunately, she wasn’t easily intimidated. Larger, more physically menacing men who believed women had no business involving themselves in male pursuits had tried to dissuade her in the past. This blustery man was full of hot air and full of himself just like they’d been. However, in this instance, if she engaged him and asked for his phone, she’d do it in a way that would preclude further shouting inside this confined space. The fact was Lord Crankypants was loud, not homicidal. The worst he could do if she asked to borrow his phone was snap
no
, so she eased into the request with a bit of friendly chitchat. “It’s Maxwell, isn’t it?” she asked, hoping she sounded affable.

“Uh, yeah.” With his back planted against the paneled wall, he slid down until he sat, one knee bent, one leg stretched out, his eyes covered by his palms. “Yeah. I’m Maxwell.”

“What is it you do, Maxwell?”

“What do I do?”

“M-hm. Conducting all that important business with your phone, what do you do?”

“I work here.”

“I see.” Olivia gave a little laugh and sat on the floor beside him, her teeth chattering.

The heat his body radiated was noticeable and welcome. The subtle cologne he wore emanated from his heated skin and, for an odd instant, she had the outrageous idea of burrowing against him for warmth and nuzzling into his neck. In the dim light she could make out he was sweating. Perspiration curled the hair around his ears and deepened the silver-shot black tendrils hanging over his fingertips. Wet beads glistened above his hard, compressed mouth.

How hilarious. He was on fire and she was a North Atlantic iceberg.

“If it’s not going to interrupt your work, may I use your phone?” she said, careful not to shade the question with any tinge of sarcasm.

Again, Maxwell tried to inhale deeply. He drew his hands away from his eyes, and he glanced at her darkly, tossing her the phone with a grumbled, “Fine, fine. Go ahead, but you’re wasting your time. The storm’s knocked out the landlines and who
knows
what else.”

With a nod of thanks, Olivia dialed and waited for Pete to answer. After a few crackling rings, she was connected to the E&P receptionist.

“Good morning, Emerson and Pete Animation, this is Michelle,” a woman said with well-honed, professional bubbliness.

“Hi. I’m supposed to be there at nine-thirty, but I’m—”

“You must be Ms. Regen. Pete’s been asking about you. I’m afraid you’ll have to take the stairs. The elevators are out of order at the moment.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that. I’m actually stuck in one right now, and I’m not so sure we’ll be moving any time soon.”

“Oh my goodness! I’ll let Pete know.”

Olivia switched off the phone with a sigh and a shiver. Ignoring the deep freeze that had slithered clear to her bones, she tapped Maxwell and offered back his phone.

He snatched it the same way he had the penlight and stuffed it into his pocket.

With another small laugh, she tried to ease the tension and make light of their situation. “This guy’s in the rear of a full elevator,” she said, “and he shouts, ‘
Ballroom please
.’ The lady standing in front of him turns around and says, ‘
I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was crowding you.’
”

The woman had said something but Maxwell hadn’t listened, hadn’t heard more than a murmur. Shutting his eyes, he swallowed hard, trying to picture himself on a sunny, empty beach, inhaling lovely salt-scented sea air.

All that did was make him think of sand and how sweaty he was.

He dragged his hands down his face with a gasp and opened his eyes to find her sitting close,
way
too close. “Jesus Christ! Do you have to be here?”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you have to sit right
there
?” Disregarding the pain of his knee, and breathing a little too rapidly, he got to his feet and began to hobble about in the tiny space, rolling up his sleeves. “Why do you have to be right
there
? There’s already too little room as it is!”

“You’re claustrophobic, aren’t you?”

“Congratulations on your PhD in observational skills!”

Olivia stifled a laugh and shook her head. He was acting just like her sister in the throes of a panic attack, except Maxwell was twice Julia’s size and his anxiety was rapidly escalating. Her old coach, Glenn Holland, dealt with Julia’s angst in a straightforward manner. She decided to try the same rational approach he’d also taught his driving team. “Don’t tell me I’m breathing in all your oxygen or something. That’s not very logical. Is it?”

Maxwell glared at her.

“Think about it. Do you believe this elevator is hermetically sealed? It was put together in the twenties, wasn’t it? Did they do that sort of thing back then? Did they have that sort of advanced technology for elevators back then?”

“You’re not funny.”

“Just think about it, Maxwell, and look at me. I haven’t stopped breathing, have I? My face isn’t turning blue from lack of oxygen.”

“Your lips are bluish,” he said, out of breath.

“That’s because I’m freezing. Come on, Maxwell. Take a deep breath. I’ll do it with you.”

“Would you just…shut up?”

She sneezed again.

“God bless you!” he snarled.

Her shivering was uncontrollable now, her teeth chattered. “Could you say that like you mean it?”

“Look…just…keep quiet, will you?”

The corners of her mouth briefly twitched. Then she sneezed four times in a row.

“Oh for fuck’s sake! Here!” Maxwell kicked his jacket over to her.

“All my life I’ve hoped to meet someone as unpleasant and unhappy as you. Please don’t spoil it for me by suddenly being nice.”

“I’m not…unhappy.” Maxwell was beginning to pant, his breath shallow and harsh. He knew it was ridiculous, but everything was being compacted. It wasn’t as if the walls were closing in; it was more like his entire body was being incrementally stuffed into a torpedo tube. Where the hell was his backbone? Had it siphoned out through his pores along with every ounce of moisture in his body? “You…don’t know…me. I’m not…unhappy,” he said, trying to catch his breath.