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

It was a quirk.
    She shook off the observations and turned her attention back to Max. “So,” she continued, “what does working on Mr. Cove’s cars here involve?”
    He lifted a shoulder and let it drop in a way that she supposed was meant to be casual, but which was actually kind of sexy. “Maintenance mostly,” he told her. “But also keeping up with the paperwork on the vehicles and their registration and insurance and everything. Washing them. Driving them occasionally to make sure they’re running well. Making sure they’re ready for Justin or Mrs. Cove when they need them. Occasionally I act as their driver when they go out to some formal function.”
    Wow, Lucy thought. That was actually an answer with some information. Funny how he could talk easily about someone else’s cars, but not about his own bad self.
    She stifled a sigh of frustration. “So then—”
    “Look, Lucy... Ms. French,” he hastily corrected himself. He halted suddenly, circling her wrist with loose fingers to stop her forward motion, too. The second he touched her, however, he released her again, with such vigor and velocity that she almost thought she had burned him. Then he took a giant step backward and said, “I’m not much one for chitchat, okay?”
    Well, not unless it was about cars, she thought. She opened her mouth to apologize, then realized she had nothing to apologize for. So she only said, “Fine. No chitchat.” No nothing, as far as she was concerned.
    She spun around and hastened her step to put some distance between them, then remembered she had no idea where she was going. Still, as long as she stayed on the path, she should make it to the big house, shouldn’t she? Unless, of course, her previous assumption that Max was luring her to a secluded rendezvous was right.
    Well, a girl could dream, couldn’t she?
    And dream it would be, she was certain. The man clearly wanted nothing to do with her. She must have just imagined those heated looks he’d been giving her. And a good thing, too. The last thing she needed was to get involved with someone while she was pretending to be someone she wasn’t. She had enough trouble on her hands.
    “Ms. French,” she heard him call from behind her, his voice sounding apologetic, even if the rest of him hadn’t seemed so.
    Lucy stopped and turned around.
    “I’m sorry,” he said unapologetically. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I just—”
    “What?” she asked when he didn’t finish.
    He only shook his head and said nothing, and began to stride forward again. When he reached her, he kept going, a silent indication that she should follow him. Follow him and not say another word. So she remained silent as she walked along behind him, focusing instead on the uneven path. It turned out to indeed be a shortcut, emptying into the garden at the back of the Coves’ house. She noticed a garage here, too, smaller than the carriage house, and assumed this was where the Coves kept the cars they drove around town for daily jaunts.
    By the time Lucy reached the house, Max was already there, holding the back door open for her. He looked so incongruous, an oily grease monkey making such a gentlemanly gesture. He’d even buttoned up his shirt as he’d walked ahead of her, and she discovered she had mixed feelings about that. On one hand, it made it impossible for her to enjoy the sight of his naked torso. On the other hand, it did keep her from drooling all over herself.
    “After you,” he said, sweeping his hand in invitation.
    “Thank you,” she replied as she passed him.
    She entered what appeared to be a mud room, even though it was the size of the living room in her carriage house apartment, and she sincerely doubted there had ever been a drop of mud on the floor. A heavy, antique deacon’s bench was pushed against one wall, its high back hosting a series of hooks from which dangled a variety of outer wear. Two ladder-back chairs stood sentry against the wall opposite the