1

Someone's watching me.

A cold shiver sweeps through me, even in the early-summer morning humidity. My skin prickles. The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand on end. A few people scurry around the marina. I glance at the faces as I pass. No one I know.

More importantly, not him.

I cross over the bridge and head away from town. Hopefully, I can escape the eerie sensation and focus on the additional mile I've added to my five-mile run.

Old Mill's Road is lined with tall trees that lead to the coast but is not heavily traveled. In fact, the only people who use it are the multi-millionaires who own massive estates spread throughout the semiprivate enclave.

A car sits along the curb with the driver's door open. I cross to the opposite side of the street to pass and keep my eyes on the man standing next to the vehicle. His posture is rigid, his jaw clenched as he pushes buttons on his cell phone.

I tug on one of the earbuds and let it fall to my shoulder. My self-defense instructor's admonition rings in my head. Look, listen, and be aware of your surroundings.

I make a quick assessment of the man as I pass by—about six feet tall, broad shoulders, chiseled jaw. The deep creases in his forehead are evidence of his life experiences, and only enhance his looks. He runs his hands through his hair, cursing about the amount of money he wastes on a phone that dies as soon as an emergency arises.

I feel your pain, buddy.

Glancing up at me, he manages a frustrated smile and returns to muttering under his breath. About ten steps past him, I turn around and pull my phone out of the armband.

Why the hell am I doing this? I have this route perfectly timed to get me home, in the shower, and to work on schedule.

"Do you need a cell phone?" My heavy breathing breaks up the words.

His eyes narrow, his gaze moves up and down my body, before he focuses on my face. He looks familiar, but I can’t place where.

"Yes, thank you." His deep voice is arrogant, controlled, and kind of sexy. "Mine's not working."

I swipe the unlock screen, pull up the number pad, and hand over my phone.

"Car not working either?" I peer around him to get a glimpse of his steel-gray Maserati Quattroporte. The body style is different than the ones I've seen, so I'm guessing he has an early release of next year's model.

"No, hence me standing on the side of the road."

I raise my eyebrows and suppress my laughter. Hence? "What happened?"

"It stopped running while I was driving it."

I want to laugh. Despite his cool demeanor, his face scrunches up and releases, and his speech is stilted.

"Did any lights flash or go off before it died?" I ask.

"I didn't notice." His voice is flat, but the thick vein in his neck is pulsing.

"Make a noise or lurch suddenly?"

Mr. Rich Pants squints at me as I move toward his car.

"Not that I detected." He lets out a small sigh.

"Are you typically this unobservant when you drive?" I suppress a smile. It's time to have some fun with Mr. Rich Pants and his haughty, dismissive attitude.

I'm used to men assuming that, because I'm a woman, I have no clue about cars and how they run. In fact, the opposite is true. Growing up poor, I was forced to make an old clunker run on wire hangers and duct tape, and I learned a lot about the internal workings of vehicles. I was also fascinated with the cars I hoped to drive someday—like Mr. Rich Pants' Maserati.

"Have you noticed a significant reduction in engine power while driving it?"

"No."

I squint my eyes. "Are you sure you didn't just run out of gas?"

"Yes, actually, I am," he says, his voice terse. "If that were the problem, I'd still get lights on the dashboard. As it stands, nothing happens when I attempt to start it."

I rub my hands together. "Now, we're getting somewhere. Pop the hood, and let me take a look."

Mr. Rich Pants stands his ground. I lift my head to see if he didn't hear me or has suddenly lost his grasp of the English language. Stance wide. Arms tight across his chest.

Nope, he's pissed. He's sexy when he's mad, though.

I sweetly smile at him, enjoying this almost too much. "Pop the hood...please?"

Mr. Rich Pants grudgingly gets behind the wheel and releases the hood. I glide my hand under it until I feel the latch and lift. The engine is fairly clean, and there are no apparent leaks or loose hoses. That's a good sign.

An impatient plea comes from the driver's side. "Really, I can just call a tow truck."

"Oh, don't get your knickers in a knot," I mutter, checking the battery cables. "Do you have any juice at all?"

"Juice?"

I chuckle and walk around to the driver's side. "If you try to start it, do any of the dashboard lights come on?"

He pushes the start button. The dashboard stays dark. “As I stated, there’s no power.”

I lean in to verify if anything lights up and inhale his scent—spicy and earthy. I'm suddenly aware that I've already run about three miles, so I'm not exactly smelling like roses.

I stand and recline against the car. "I suspect you have an issue with the knock sensor. Maseratis have been known to have start failures due to issues with moisture getting into the sensor." I turn to him, my gaze meeting his. "But I'm sure you know that already?"

And there it is.

Mouth gaping. Eyes wide, staring at me. I continue to lean lazily against the car, but inside, I'm high-fiving myself and squealing like a madwoman.

Mr. Rich Pants sits there, in his light-gray suit pants, starched, white dress shirt, and blue tie. He probably has no idea where to put gas in this exquisite piece of machinery.

Breathing deeply, and with considerable effort, I pull my eyes away from him. "Would you like to call for a tow truck, or shall I call my guy for you?"

A bemused smile slides across his face and he wags his head from side-to-side. Mr. Rich Pants hands my phone over. "By all means, call your guy."

I'm not sure whether I want to slap him or kiss that beautiful mouth. Finding the number of my trusted mechanic in my contacts list, I place the call.

Mr. Rich Pants gets out of the vehicle and stands in front of me. His thumb rubs along his bottom lip, drawing my gaze to the slow movement. A sudden smolder warms me in long-forgotten places. I swallow hard and pass my cell phone back to him.

He points to my phone, sly smartass smile in place. "That's your phone."

"Just thought you might like to call someone to pick you up—unless you plan on walking to town?"

The corner of Mr. Rich Pants mouth lifts. He accepts my phone. After a brief discussion with whomever he calls, he turns his attention back to me, and his gaze claims mine once more.

"Let me guess—" There is a renewed smugness in his tone. "You learned everything you know about cars while growing up in your father's garage?"

I cross my arms over my chest, shake my head, and unclench my jaw. "Self-taught. My father didn't know anything about cars, so I learned."

Ray's tow truck ambles down the road towards us, and relief flows through me. What had been fun was now becoming insulting.

"Really?" Mr. Rich Pants says. "That's impressive."

I glance sideways at him, more than a bit miffed at his condescension.

Mr. Rich Pants is rubbing his thumb across his lower lip again. It's damned distracting.

While Ray and Mr. Rich Pants talk, a black Mercedes SUV with darkened windows pulls up behind us and idles. No doubt another in the rich bastard's luxury vehicle fleet.

Mr. Rich Pants comes up beside me as the tow truck pulls away, the sports coupe sitting on the flatbed.

"Thank you." He reaches out to shake my hand, which is covered in dirt and grime from working under the hood. Retracting, he slides his hand into the inside jacket pocket, pulls out a handkerchief, and offers it to me.

The block letter monogram in navy blue thread reads AS. I smirk and wipe my hands.

"Something funny?" he asks.

I look back at the monogram before meeting his eyes and handing the handkerchief back to him. "No middle initial. Just wondering if that's because it also starts with an 'S'?"

He quirks an eyebrow. A low chuckle escapes from him. "Keep it,” he indicates toward the handkerchief. “I have a drawer full of them at home."

We stand there for a minute, staring at each other, and I find I’m unable to look away. Which kind of pisses me off.

He takes a deep breath, breaks the connection between us, and looks down the street. "Can I give you a ride?"

"No, thanks, I think I'll finish my run. Besides, you haven't had much luck with vehicles and might not actually make it into town with this one either."

A lusty laugh breaks free from his chest, and he shakes his head. "Precisely. I may need your exceptional powers of observation again."

I bite my bottom lip, unwittingly drawn to him. He erases some of the distance between us, and I breathe in his intoxicating scent once more. It's seriously making me light-headed. His eyes darken and he stares at my bottom lip. He licks his lips, sending fingers of intense heat throughout my body. Finally, he looks away and steps back.

He retrieves a wad of cash from his pocket and offers me a hundred-dollar bill. "For your trouble."

In an instant, my good mood is replaced with disappointment. "No pockets," I say, my voice flat. "Keep it. This is my pay-it-forward moment. Now it's your turn."

Mr. Rich Pants thrusts the bill back into his pocket and pulls the sunglasses perched on his head down over his eyes. "Can I do anything for you?"

"You can give me my phone."

He drops the phone into my outstretched hand. I return it to the armband and ensure the earbuds are snug before leaving Mr. Rich Pants on the side of the road.

Damn, I'm going to be late for court.