Turn Up the Heat (2 page)

Before she could even register that her legs had shifted to accommodate the weight of her body, Bellamy had turned on her heel to stride out of the restaurant.

 

 

“I'm sorry, Mr. Griffin. There's really nothing I can do.”

Shane had known the words were coming, but his gut sank anyway. “Look, my payments have always been on time up until now. Isn't there some way we can put off the increase just a little longer?”

“We've already deferred the increase longer than we should have,” the woman apologized.

Right. He'd been trying to block out the phone call he'd made to them three months earlier. Shit.

“Okay, well, thanks for your time.” Shane hung up the phone and leaned back in the ancient desk chair that served as the only place to sit in the entire garage. For the first time since arriving at Pine Mountain a little over a year ago, he was flooded with unease. Short of an unexpected windfall or an angel to illuminate some unknown path out of this mess, there was no alternative but the obvious. A debt was a debt, and as much as he hated it, his had to be paid.

The thought of his Mustang going to that smarmy dealer in Bealetown, or worse yet some chop shop for parts, made his stomach do the up-and-at-'em against his ribs. That car had been the only thing of value that Shane had brought with him to the mountains, the only thing he'd ever worked for and earned himself, no strings attached.

But selling it was the only way out.

Shane shuffled through the papers on the desk until he came up with his checkbook, not pausing to glance at the “balance” column. He knew damn well there were far too few numbers left of the decimal, and to see it written out in front of him conjured up images of how well the words
insult
and
injury
could go together given the right frame of mind.

Shane stuffed a check into a pre-printed envelope and sealed the sucker up tight, knowing that by sending it he'd all but bleed his bank account dry. His careworn running shoes crunched over the loose gravel of the drive as he walked his last thirty days of freedom over to the mailbox, letting the wind cut through him on his way back inside. Letting out a long sigh, he returned to the office and punched a couple of digits into the phone before he lost his nerve.

“Information? Yeah, I need the number for Louie's Auto Traders in Bealetown. Yeah. I can hold.”

After the tenth time her phone rang like the Liberty Bell, Bellamy buried it deep in the bottom of her purse. Everyone from her sister to her dental hygienist (okay, so they'd been friends since college, but still) had called to find out if she was moving to the Golden State, and she was sick to death of rattling off the same answer.

A big, fat, resounding
hell no
.

Although she wasn't proud of it, Bellamy had taken the cheater's way out and called her boss's desk phone ten minutes after the weekly management meeting for their department began. One fake gynecologist's appointment later, Bellamy was out of the office, more than ready to block out the contract on her desk and the freshly minted ex who had left her for greener pastures.

She did a mental tally of the ingredients in her pantry. It had been at least a month since she'd gone on a baking binge—something that always made her feel worlds better when she was having a craptastic day. Spending the afternoon in her kitchen, hand-mixing pastry dough from scratch sounded like pure, uncut heaven right about now. Bellamy guided her feet toward the postage stamp–sized parking lot at the end of the block where her car lay in wait, but stopped short at the glitzy department store between her and her destination.

Half-off designer shoes
and
the afternoon spent in her kitchen? Bellamy grinned and pushed her way into the cool, air-conditioned shopping Mecca known as Macy's. This day might be looking up.

“Can I, like, help you with anything, ma'am?”

Maybe not.

Bellamy winced, turning to look at the young, blond salesgirl in front of her. Holy Paris Hilton, Batman! The girl teetered on her hot pink stilettos, and Bellamy wondered how anyone could possibly wear them and remain vertical.

“I'm just looking for now, thanks,” Bellamy murmured, watching the girl click-clack away.

Bellamy browsed through the racks for exactly three minutes before her phone made a bid for her undivided attention. At the very end of her patience, she fished it out from the bottom of her purse.

“Hello?”

Ten minutes later, after she had quietly and repeatedly assured her mother that no, she wasn't packing her bags, and yes, she and Derek had broken up but she was fine, Bellamy reached critical mass. She switched her phone to vibrate and pitched it back in her purse, vowing to ignore any callers who might utter the D-word.

Right about now, Bellamy would give her left arm for something,
anything
, that wouldn't make her think of Derek and the miserable day she just couldn't seem to get away from. Her gaze caught and snagged on the display in front of her and she gave up a wicked grin.

Yup. Racy bras would do the trick.

Forty minutes and six bras later, Bellamy cruised past the window display in search of matching panties that didn't look like dental floss. Her general rule of thumb was that if she herself had to have an ass, then by God, her drawers would provide a place to park it. The sound of the salesgirl snapping her gum brought Bellamy's head up to full attention.

“Can I help you find, you know . . . a size?”

Bellamy chewed her bottom lip. “I was wondering if these come in a different, ah, style?” She held up the microscopic scrap of fabric. Good Lord, it was see-through on top of everything? Honestly, what was the point?

“Nope. Fourteen different colors, though.” The salesgirl started flipping through the racks to prove it when Bellamy felt her purse do the tango on her shoulder.

“Oh! Hang on, I'm vibrating,” she muttered, and the salesgirl laughed.

“A good thong will do that to you every time.”

Bellamy shook her head and held up her cell.

The girl nodded, a little slow on the uptake. “Oh, right. I'll just be over here if you need me.”

Bellamy expelled a breath of relief at the caller ID and tucked the phone to her ear. “Hey, Holly. What's up?” She slid into the plush waiting-for-my-wife chair on the other side of the display.

“I just wanted to make sure you're okay.”

Bellamy sighed. “I'm fine. I'm out bra shopping.”

“Don't take this the wrong way, sweetie, but don't you think you're dealing with just a touch of denial here?” Holly ventured.

It was all Bellamy needed to go completely code red. “You know what? I
wish
I could be in denial, because at least that would mean I wasn't dealing with it. Every time I turn around, someone's asking me what happened and if I'm okay. I think I'm
over
-dealing with it. I wish, just for today, I could go somewhere where nobody's even heard of Derek Patterson!”

The salesgirl's bottle-blond head popped up from the next aisle over. “Derek Patterson, like the news guy? He's hot.”

Bellamy couldn't have fled the store any faster if it had been engulfed in flames.

“Okay, Bellamy. Stop and take a deep breath, honey.”

“I'm in the middle of the street, Holly,” Bellamy snapped, instantly feeling like a jerk. “Sorry. I'm just fried, you know?”

Holly didn't skip a beat. “Look, why don't you meet me at your place? I'll call Jenna and we can grab some pizza and ice cream. You can do that weird cooking thing you do, and then we can watch
Shakespeare in Love
'til we pass out. What do you say? Joseph Fiennes, yum yum yum,” Holly cajoled gently.

Bellamy knew she should give in. Her friends meant well, and she could spend the night immersed in the classic breakup routine of chick flicks and Häagen-Dazs for dinner. Better yet, if she called in sick tomorrow, she could even put off worrying about her drill sergeant of a boss until Monday morning. By then, she'd be more than ready to get on with her normal, albeit kind of boring, life. Bellamy opened her mouth with every intention of saying she'd meet Holly at her place in fifteen minutes.

And then she saw the billboard over the bus stop.

Bellamy's mouth curved into the first genuine smile she'd managed all day. A thousand bucks said no one at the Pine Mountain Ski and Spa Resort had ever heard of Derek Patterson.

“On second thought, Holly, call Jenna and tell her to pack her bags. We're headed on a little road trip.”

 

 

Shane practically gritted his teeth into dust while Louie Sinclair took yet another slow turn around the Mach 1. Louie didn't so much walk as he slithered, stalking the car as if it was a side of beef and he hadn't eaten in weeks.

Everything about this was wrong.

“It's a nice car,” Louie proclaimed, as if it was a gift. “Paint's going to be a problem, though.”

Shane cranked his hands into fists, but willed himself to chill out. “The body work's done. You won't find a scratch anywhere on her. About the only thing she needs is prep and paint.” He'd spent hours, hell,
months
making sure that every line on the car was spot-on.

“Where did you say you came across it, again?” Louie eyeballed the primer-gray of the car one more time, not missing a thing.

“I didn't. But I bought the car six years ago outside of Philly. Everything's been rebuilt, including the engine.” Normally, Shane would have popped the hood with pride and showed the 428 Cobra Jet off like it was his kid, but he didn't want Louie to lay his beady eyes on it.

Of course, Louie asked, so Shane had to oblige. After Louie had done everything but take the car out for a nice steak dinner, he rocked back on his heels and gave Shane a look.

“Mind if I ask why you're parting with it?”

Shane didn't even flinch. “Yeah, I do.”

Louie's thin brows lifted in surprise. “Well, I'll tell you. Demand for Mach 1's is iffy right now, economy being what it is. This one's in pretty good shape, though.”

Screw that. Shane knew it was pristine because he'd made it that way. He opened his mouth to tell Louie to forget the whole thing.

But with Mrs. Teasdale's car done and no other jobs in sight at the garage, Shane needed the money. As much as he wanted to, Grady couldn't pay him if there was no work coming in.

He closed his eyes and braced for impact.

“I could give you eighteen for it, if you're willing to part with the car today.”

Shane made a mental note to do a way better job of cleaning his ears. “Eighteen thousand? That's it?” So much for subtle negotiating.

Louie frowned, his cheesy smile disappearing like fog in the sun. “It needs a ten-thousand-dollar paint job, Mr. Griffin.”

“And when it gets one, it'll be worth forty-five grand,” Shane snapped.

“
If
I can sell it. And that's a big if. These Mustangs are popular, sure. But there are lots to choose from.” He swept a glance over the car that was more of a leer than anything else. “Twenty would be my final offer, and that's a stretch.”

Shane knew that even though the offer was total bullshit, he had to take it. He had twenty-nine days and counting to figure out where that next loan payment was coming from.

Nope. He just couldn't do it.

“Sorry for wasting your time.” Shane stood firm, eyes flashing over Louie's in a way that suggested he wasn't just playing hard ball.

The guy smoothed a hand over his greasy hair as if he was waiting for Shane to recant, then he gave up a humorless smile when he saw that it wasn't going to happen. “Give me a call if you change your mind.”

As Louie's Corvette left a cloud of gravel-turned dust in its wake, Shane leaned over the hood of the Mustang, palms against the quarter panel, head hung low.

Shit.

“I take it that didn't go the way you wanted.” Grady shuffled out from the office, his timeworn face etched with fresh lines of concern.

Shane's head snapped up. The last thing he wanted was for the old man to worry about his problems. “Guess not.”

“Look, Shane. I don't meddle in your business. It's not what I do. But maybe it's time you—”

“No.” He'd rather sell his car a hundred times than go down the road Grady was steering toward.

Grady nodded once, resigned. “All right. If you change your mind, let me know.”

“It's not going to happen, Grady. But thanks.” Shane stood up and hooked his thumbs through the belt loops on his jeans. “It's Friday. Why don't you start your weekend a little early? Nothing's doing here, and I'm just going to stick around to mess with the car. I can always call you if something comes up.”

“It ain't even much past lunch, Shane. You tryin' to get rid of me?” Grady's chuckle lifted a smile out from underneath Shane's crappy mood.

“Yup. You got me.”

“Just look out, would you? Meant what I said yesterday. This wind is bringin' somethin' with it. Might knock you on your ass if you ain't careful.” Grady's steel-gray eyes glinted in the overhead lights of the garage as he served Shane with a boyish grin that defied his years.

“It's going to take a lot more than some wind to knock me down. But if it'll make you feel better, I promise to stay on my toes.” Shane skimmed a hand over his hair before turning back to the car, chuckling. “See you Monday,” he called out.

“Not if I see you first.” Grady flipped back his standard response from where he stood in the door. “And don't stay too late, you hear me? Too much work'll kill ya.”

“I'll survive.”

As soon as the side door to the garage slammed shut on a gust of wind, Shane high-tailed it over to the radio. He didn't have to flip through the stations to find what he was looking for; he just fired the thing up and it was good to go.

Nothing like Mozart to get a gearhead's brain good and straight.

After forty-five minutes under the Mustang, Shane had all but forgotten about his shitty morning and the dilemma that accompanied it hand in hand. The parts of the car were like a puzzle in front of him, and he finessed each one right down to the smallest detail. They made sense to him in a way that nothing else did, lining up with gorgeous precision, flawlessly finding their way home under his hands . . .

A sudden blast of wind under the car rattled him down to his bones.

“Hello? God, please tell me there's someone here. Helllloooooo?” The feminine voice shot through Shane like a chaser on the heels of the wind that brought it. He pushed with both feet, rolling the Creeper out from under the car so fast that he was momentarily dazed.

The woman's face was pinched from the cold, and her blond hair flew around her in a wild riot of curls. For a moment, gazing at her from his upside-down position on the floor, Shane felt as if he'd been scattered to the four corners of the garage.

She looked angelic, except for the fact that she seemed pissed.

“Thank God at least
one
thing in my day is working out! This is a garage, right?” Her green eyes flooded with relief as she scanned the drafty space, taking in the oil-stained floors and the scattered tools.

He straightened up and gave her a quick once-over. His gut tightened as he registered her expensive clothes, right down to the understated yet elegant classic Tiffany pendant around her neck. Her boots alone probably cost more than he made in a solid week's worth of work, even though the three-inch heels were caked with mud. Shane knew her snobby type like he knew his own reflection, and the pang he'd felt when she crossed the threshold was gone just like that.

“Wow, you're perceptive,” Shane quipped, eyes hardening over her. Okay, so it came out more rudely than he intended, but girls like her didn't usually care what people like Shane thought, anyway.