The Ring on Her Finger by Elizabeth Bevarly Read Free Book Online Page A

eyes raking over her from head to toe and back again. “Well, hello, Ms. French,” he said in that whiskey-rough voice that could make even a simple greeting sound like a seduction attempt.
    A successful seduction attempt, too, since with four little words and one steamy look, he made her want to devour him in one big bite. “Hi. I… Um… I have to go up to the big house to see Mrs. Cove.”
    Max continued to wipe his hands on the greasy rag, his expression bland, but his eyes alive with something sharp and watchful that Lucy figured she’d be better off ignoring.
    Yeah, right.
    “She just got back,” he said. “I’ll walk up with you. Lunchtime,” he added by way of an explanation. “I’m really hungry.”
    Oh, and why did that remark sound just so suggestive? Was it because he had intended for it to sound that way, or because she had wanted it to sound that way? And really, which would be more troubling?
    She nodded in response to his suggestion, not because she thought it was wise, but because she found it impossible to say no to him.
    Not a good sign.
    He fell into step beside her as she strode past him, much too close for comfort. But then, he would be too close for comfort as long as he was in her zip code. Area code. The Western Hemisphere. Whatever.
    She wished he would at least button up his shirt, because the gentle breeze kept blowing it open, displaying every solid inch of his torso. She swallowed against the dryness that overtook her mouth—funny how her mouth went dry when other parts of her were getting so, ah...not dry—and forced her eyes ahead. Not that she had any idea where they were going, because only then did she realize that it wasn’t Max who was following her, but she who was following Max. And the route he had chosen wasn’t the same one Rosemary had taken earlier. This one was a narrow dirt path overgrown by lush foliage, shaded from the sun and out of view of both the carriage house and the Cove mansion. Maybe this was a shortcut. Or maybe Max was leading her into a secluded area so he could ravish her.
    Well, a girl could dream, couldn’t she?
    “So,” Lucy began, hoping to end the awkward silence. Because, gee, awkward conversation was so much more preferable. “How long have you worked for the Coves?”
    “Five years,” he said. But he offered nothing further.
    “So,” Lucy tried again, “are you from around here originally?”
    “No.” And nothing more to enlighten her.
    “So,” she tried once more, “where are you from originally?”
    “Here and there,” he said.
    “Have you always worked around cars?”
    “Pretty much.”
    “And what exactly is it you do for the Coves?”
    “I take care of all of Justin’s cars.”
    “All of them?” she echoed. “How many does he have?”
    “This month?”
    Lucy’s eyebrows shot up at that. “I guess.”
    “Fourteen.”
    “Oh.” She hoped she didn’t sound as flabbergasted as she felt.
    “Of course, some of them are parked at his other residences.”
    Although it was common enough in Lucy’s Newport social circle to find people with more than one home, they usually didn’t talk about their additional living space in plurals. “Other residences?” she asked, deliberately emphasizing the tense.
    “Yeah. In New York, Colorado, London, and Aruba.”
    “Um, wow?” she replied, not sure what else to say.
    “He has other people to work on the cars at those homes, though.”
    “Naturally. I guess.”
    Holy moly, Lucy thought. Who needed fourteen cars? Or five residences? Especially when one’s primary residence had already set one back seven figures. Then again, if one could afford all those things, why not have them, right? Then again—again—if one could afford fourteen cars and five residences, then one could probably afford to feed a small, sovereign nation, and that might be just a tad more worthy a cause than all that conspicuous consumption. But then, that was Lucy. Always playing devil’s advocate.