“Mechanic (noun): Someone who does precision guesswork based on unreliable data provided by those of questionable knowledge. See also Wizard. Magician.”
From the T-shirt collection of Anna Collins
I was nervous. It was ridiculous, and it made me feel like I was sixteen, but I couldn’t escape the fact that I was nervous to bring this woman home to dinner with my parents.
My parents were generous and gracious, so I thought they would overlook the jeans and boots Anna was wearing. A dress would have been too much though, because that would’ve looked like I was bringing my girlfriend home to meet Mum and Dad. She was not my girlfriend, and she couldn’t be. Too much stood in the way of a relationship with her, no matter how my heart raced when she laughed, or how hard I got at the memory of our day on my boat.
My parents lived in Sheridan Park, in a small single-family home on a big lot that had survived suburban subdivision. My father had built a boat-sized garage which currently housed his latest restoration project. My boat had been his first project, and this one was for my brother, Reza.
I parked my Land Cruiser in the driveway and pointed through the windshield to the garage, where a light shone through the windows. “My father and brother are likely still working on Reza’s boat, and will be until Mum calls them in for dinner. It’s slightly smaller than mine, but newer and faster, so the restoration has revolved around the mechanics of it rather than the aesthetics.”
I sounded inane, even to my own ears, so I opened the door before I could say something even less interesting.
“Can we go see it?” Anna asked, startling me enough that I stumbled on my step out of the truck.
“Uh, sure.” I hated how uncertain I sounded. Anna was my friend. Certainly she was an acquaintance with whom I was friendly. If friendliness included watching how the expressions on her face lit up three feet of space around her, or actively forcing my hands not to reach for her hair, or the itch in my fingers to touch her skin, trace her lips, feel the soft roundness of her hips in my hands.
I pulled the mental handbrake on that train of thought. Attraction did not override common sense. And my common sense would not allow me to want a woman whose code of honor was so different than mine.
She was out of the passenger side of my truck before I could open her door, and I had to resist the urge to take the wine from her hands. We were just friends. She wouldn’t welcome opened doors or carried things, and if I insisted, it might send the wrong message.
“I can hear you thinking all the way over here, Darius. What’s going through your head?” She sounded concerned, and I didn’t want that concern directed anywhere near me.
“I’m fine. Just thinking about the case.” In fact, I had been thinking about the case. I’d given the photos of the painting and Alex Kiriakis’s letter to Quinn and Dan, and the three of us had spent an hour hashing through every issue, every problem, and every potential pitfall for Cipher around the two paintings and the break-in to steal them.
“And? What did you all decide?”
Anna Collins was astute. She knew I would have spoken to my bosses. “Cipher Security has no official position on the theft and current whereabouts of the painting known as The Sisters, which was removed from the panic room of Markham Gray’s residence. If, at some future time, Gray were to file a police report on the theft, Cipher would be obliged to comply with law enforcement as per our contract with Gray, which was in effect at the time the painting was taken.”
Anna’s expression was as guarded as she knew how to make it. I didn’t like the uncertainty that shone through her eyes. “And what about Madame Auguste?”
“That’s not something we’re prepared to pursue at this time in light of the fact that we’ve been released from our obligation to our former client who never made us aware of its existence.” My voice sounded cold to my own ears, and she tensed.
“So,” she said, in a tone of voice that was meant to be light, “do you have any suggestions for what I should do with a painting that may or may not be an authentic Manet? Because, you know, keeping it in my studio is probably not the best idea for someone with a fifty-fifty shot at being arrested for B&E at a minimum.”
We stopped outside the garage door, and I dropped my voice to just above a murmur. “I want to help you, Anna, but I don’t know what I can do.”
She looked up at me with so much sadness in her eyes that I wanted to pull her directly into my arms and never let her go. “It’s not your job to help me. I’ll figure it out,” she said with a tenderness in her voice that almost broke me. Then she touched my cheek and smiled at the sound of my brother’s voice in the garage as he cursed in frustration. “Sounds like he could use our help though. Come on, introduce me.”
I tried to hold her gaze for a moment longer, but she looked away, so I reached past her for the side door into the garage and opened it to let her in.
My father looked up immediately and grinned at us. “Welcome!” He opened his arms wide as he stood to greet us. My father was in his mid-fifties and looked very much the same as he always had. He was my height and had the same lean muscle I’d inherited from him. His hair was black and silver, and his skin was darker brown than mine, like my brother’s.
Dad came and hugged me, then turned to Anna. “You must be Anna. Welcome to our home.”
Anna shook his hand, and her smile was bright and genuine. “Thank you so much for having me. I’m sorry it was so last minute.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “Any guests of my sons are guests of ours.”
Reza stood up and stretched his arms over his head, a move I’d seen him do around women for years. His T-shirt rose at the hem so that six-pack abdominals greeted whoever was looking. If I was the Disney prince, as Anna called me, then Reza was the muscle. He was an inch taller than me and had at least twenty more pounds of muscle on his frame, which wasn’t a surprise given that I’d run cross-country in high school while he’d played rugby.
He held out a hand to Anna that was black with grease. “I’m Reza,” he said.
Anna took his hand and shook. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Anna.” She didn’t wipe her hand on her jeans when he let go, and I saw speculation in my brother’s eyes when he noticed.
“What are you working on?” I asked, to interrupt Reza’s perusal of my guest.
“Trying to get the right timing.” Reza turned back to the marine engine. “I can’t quite dial it in, and Dad’s hands are too big to help me.”
That was another thing we’d both inherited from our father – strong hands that seemed almost too big for our build. Reza fit his hands better than I did, though mine had been useful for turning wrenches as I worked on engines.
“What do you need help with? Holding the timing light or turning the cap?” Anna asked as she set down the wine bottle she carried and pulled off her leather coat.
I was surprised to see that her normal T-shirt had been replaced by a white linen shirt that looked crisp and elegant in a way I hadn’t expected from her.
“Turning the cap, but it’s fine. I’ve already gotten you dirty,” Reza said with a gleam in his eye that made me want to punch him.
Anna looked at her hands, which did indeed have black smudges on them, then down at the white shirt. She then looked at me expectantly. “Could you unbutton me so I can work without getting oil on my shirt?” She held up her hands in explanation.
My brother was suddenly very interested, and even my dad looked a little speculative.
“It’s fine,” I said to her, “I’ll help him.”
Anna smirked. “I’ve seen your hands – they’re too big. All of you,” she said, looking around at the three of us, “have great hands that probably suck for all the fine tuning you have to do on carburetors. I, however,” she waggled her fingers where I could see them, “have excellent hands for working on engines. Now, will you please help me so I don’t go in to dinner looking disgraceful in a stained shirt?”
“I’m not going to unbutton your shirt, Anna,” I murmured to her.
She rolled her eyes. “Well I can’t, and he can’t,” she indicated Reza, “so it’s either you or your dad. Sorry, Mr. Masoud,” she said, cutting her eyes to him, “would you be so kind as to help me?”
“I’ve got it,” I said quickly. I reached for the buttons on the front of her linen shirt and tried to ignore the catch in her breath as my fingers grazed her skin.
“I’m wearing a tank top, so relax,” she said.
I realized my jaw had been clenched, and I forced myself to relax so I could work the buttons. My brother seemed frozen, and I seriously wanted to punch him for looking at Anna the way he did. My dad busied himself with the tools, and I tried not to notice how the pulse beat in her throat as I unfastened her buttons.
She was indeed wearing a white tank, and when I pushed the linen shirt down her shoulders and she shrugged the sleeves off, I saw she had strong arms like a person who had spent a lot of time in garages working on engines.
She moved around Reza and kicked a crate over to stand on so she could reach into the engine compartment of the boat. “Okay,” she said, “hit the engine.” She nodded at my dad who looked momentarily nonplussed as he hit the ignition button. The engine roared to life, and I could hear the roughness in the idle.
Reza got over his own surprise and connected the timing light to the battery. I draped Anna’s white shirt over my shoulder and picked up a flashlight to shine on the distributor cap so she could see what she was doing.
She reached over the belts and moved the cap a couple of millimeters to the left, then paused, listening to the idle for a moment. Reza opened his mouth to speak, but Anna shook her head, deep in concentration. Then she moved it back a millimeter to the right. The idle smoothed out, and the engine purred as quietly as a marine engine was capable of.
Anna looked at me and grinned. “Good, right?” She bit her bottom lip as if she was seeking my approval, and I wanted to kiss her so badly I took a step backward.
I nodded and said, “Good,” but not before the pleased look on her face dimmed to something merely pleasant.
My father found a clean-ish shop towel and poured bottled water over it to hand to Anna. “Thank you for your help, Anna. Where did you learn engine timing?”
She wiped her hands and took her shirt off my shoulder to put it back on. “My dad taught me. First it was motorcycles, but he made me help with my uncle’s sailboat engine too.”
“You sail?” my father asked with real interest.
Anna nodded. “I love being out on the ocean.” She shrugged. “I love being out, period. I’m at my best when I’m climbing something, or jumping off something, or when I’m just chasing the wind. What about you? When did you fall in love with boats?”
She had re-buttoned her shirt, and I missed the sight of her collar bones. My dad was able to meet her eyes again though, and it was clear he appreciated the question, because he smiled at some memory as he answered. “Fell in love … hmm, yes, I suppose that’s what I did. When I was a boy, my family spent holidays at my grandparents’ villa by the Caspian Sea, and my grandfather taught me how to sail. It was wonderful to spend all day on the water with him, fishing and singing, returning only when it was nearly dark.” He shook his head, laughing. “My grandmother always sighed the sigh of the long-suffering when we came in bearing baskets full of fish, but she always fried one for me in butter with lemon, and it was always the best thing I’d eaten that day.”
I’d heard my father’s stories of sailing with his grandfather, but I never tired of the happiness that shone in his eyes when he told them. Anna was just as captured by his memories as he was, and her eyes met mine just long enough for me to see the smile in them.
“By the time the revolution came,” my father continued, “I’d become a competent sailor, though I wasn’t able to boat again until we lived in London. The villa and boat were confiscated by the ayatollah’s government a few years later. I remember my father’s shock at the time, though in retrospect, the political heat had been getting higher and higher, and we were the frogs slowly cooking to death without even realizing it.”
He shook his head at the memory and continued to clean the tools that lay near him. “The revolution in 1979 actually caused a social and political regression, which had been an unexpected outcome for some. My mother wore lipstick and high heels to work before the revolution, and she was one of those who marched against the veil afterwards. But my sons never saw a woman’s hair uncovered in public until we left Tehran.”
“I don’t even remember living there,” said Reza as he emerged from the engine compartment. Anna handed him the cloth she’d used on her hands, and he smiled in thanks.
I still wanted to punch him, but Anna distracted me by speaking. “Do you remember?”
I nodded. “I was seven, so it’s just impressions. A lot of black clothing mostly. My parents’ friends were over a lot, and the best thing about that was the leftover food.”
Reza grinned and threw the shop towel at me. “You and food.” I grabbed it out of the air and hurled it back, and since he was looking at Anna – again – it hit him in the side of his face. I smirked, he growled, and he would have launched himself at me except Anna stepped between us.
“Someone please take me into the kitchen to meet your mom so I can help with the food.” Her tone was too sweet, and I knew it was a ruse to keep us from fighting.
“Go on, you two,” my dad said to me and Anna. “We need to clean up in here and change.”
Anna looked at their jeans and shirts and then at her own. “How much changing are you going to be doing?” Her eyes narrowed at Reza suspiciously.
“Sunday roast is the one time Mom makes us wear real clothes.”
“And jeans aren’t real clothes?” Now Anna’s suspicion was directed at me.
“Jeans are fine,” I said quietly. “We’re just not allowed to wear them.”
Anna held my gaze a moment longer, then closed her eyes and exhaled. “Right, well, hopefully the wine’s good enough.”