Beth Andrews – On Her Side (страница 5)

Endeavor. Jesus. Who talked like that?

She strode away, her back rigid, her arms swinging like one of those women he saw power-walking in Hanley Park each morning.

Except, she didn’t march her irritating self out the door. She brushed past him, crossed to the long shelf behind the lift and stared at the tools there as if trying to figure out which one went best with her outfit.

A prickle of trepidation formed between his shoulder blades. What was she up to?

Finally she grabbed a small crowbar and held it up as she walked toward him. “I’m borrowing this.”

His muscles tensed, and the prickle morphed into an itch of warning. Not of physical violence—though he didn’t doubt this piece of fluff was capable of it. Everyone was. But that whatever she planned on doing with that crowbar was going to piss him off but good.

“You plan on beating me over the head for not talking to you?” he asked mildly, his hands at his sides, his weight on the balls of his feet in case he had to defend himself.

“Of course not,” she said, passing him by without taking so much as a swing. “That would be a little overkill, don’t you think?”

She walked into the sunshine and he figured his skull was safe—for now. Unable to resist, he followed her, stopping to lean against the door frame as she marched up to her car, raised the bar over her shoulder like a batter ready for a grand slam—and swung hard. Her headlight exploded in a spray of glass. Pieces clung to her dress, sparkling against the dark material. More rained down onto the pavement.

And people thought he was dangerous.

“Lady,” he said, straightening, “you’ve got a sparkplug loose up in that head of yours.”

She strolled over to the other headlight and took it out as well. Cocking one hip, she studied her handiwork for a moment then started whaling away at the grill, the clang of metal on metal setting his teeth on edge.

She didn’t have the strength to do much damage to the grill, though she gave it her best shot—no pun intended. But what she lacked in muscle, she made up for in enthusiasm. She grunted with exertion, her hips swaying in time with her swings, the hem of her dress lifting to show a few more inches of her thighs.

He might have enjoyed the sight if he didn’t want to wring her pretty neck.

Griffin glanced behind him. He could go back inside, close the door and pretend this whole bat-shit crazy episode had never happened. He was tempted, sorely tempted to do just that. But he had customers scheduled to arrive soon and traffic was picking up along Willard Avenue. It was only a matter of time before someone noticed what the psycho blonde was doing.

And wonder what he’d done to drive her to it.

He stormed over and grabbed the bar on one of her upswings, plucking it from her hand. “Knock it off,” he growled, frustration eating at him, making him think about taking a few swings at the vehicle himself. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“I’m done anyway,” she said, breathing hard. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright—with temper? Or insanity? “Now, let’s go inside so we can discuss how you can help me track down your father.”

CHAPTER TWO

GOOD LORD, but Griffin York was beautiful.

His hair, a rich shade of chocolate-brown, fell past the collar of his T-shirt in tousled waves and yet did nothing to soften the sharp line of his jaw, the harsh slash of his cheekbones. His brows were thick and drawn together as he studied her warily, his green eyes flecked with gold. He had a slight dimple in his chin, broad shoulders, a flat stomach and muscular arms.

Beautiful and, she realized, pissed off.

What a crying shame. Someone that pretty shouldn’t scowl so much.

“You,” he bit out, “are a crazy person.”

Nora’s hands stung from the reverberations of hitting the car with the crowbar, her heart raced from her exertion. “Not crazy. Just determined.”

Although, she thought with a glance at her poor car, she might plead temporary insanity. But it had felt surprisingly good—in a therapeutic way—to hit something after all the trauma and drama of the past few weeks. After the frustration of realizing the local police couldn’t, or wouldn’t be able to bring Dale York to justice.

“You keep telling yourself that,” Griffin said in his gravelly voice.

She hooked her pinkie under a strand of hair stuck to her temple, narrowed her eyes at him. Okay, she was trying to be fair here. She didn’t know enough about Griffin to judge him, to dislike him as her sisters did. To mistrust or fear him because he had a less than stellar reputation.

Yes, she was trying to be fair and he wasn’t making it easy.

“You said that unless I had a problem with my car, there was nothing for us to talk about.” She gestured to her car. “Well, I have a car problem now.”

His gaze went from her to her car and back again. “What’s to stop me from kicking you out of here anyway?”

“Oh, let’s see. How about integrity? A latent sense of decency? Or maybe everyone is right about you. Maybe you are just like your father.”

His jaw worked, his mouth a thin line, and for a moment, she regretted the low blow. But a good attorney knew not only which questions to ask, but which argument to make to get the win.

And there was no win she wanted more than to see Dale York spend the rest of his life behind bars for her mother’s murder. But first, she had to find him.

“You want to talk,” Griffin said tightly. “You’ll have to do it while I work.” Then he turned and walked back into the garage.

The man put a new spin on the word stubborn.

Luckily so did she. And so far, she was ahead of the game since he’d stopped threatening to call the cops on her. Not that the police would really arrest her. But they would send someone out to check what was going on, which meant Layne would find out Nora was there.

And she wanted to keep that little tidbit of information to herself for…oh…forever. Or longer.

Inhaling deeply, she shook the glass fragments from her dress. Looked at her car once more. She winced. She’d only had it a few months. It’d been a gift—an extravagant, thoughtful gift—from her aunt and uncle upon her graduation from law school. Maybe her family was right. Maybe she was a bit impulsive from time to time.

But at least she got the job done. And that was all that mattered.

Not seeing Griffin in the garage, she headed toward the direction he’d come from when she’d first arrived. She found him in a cramped office searching through the piles of paper on a metal desk. She scratched her elbow. Great. She was probably breaking out in hives from this mess. How did he get any work done?

“Nice office,” she lied, crossing to check out a yellowed calendar on the wall. Pursing her lips, she studied the photo of a brunette with huge, curly hair, melon-size breasts and a teeny, tiny black bikini, sprawled across the hood of a white Lamborghini. “May 1987, huh? I take it a memorable event happened that month you like to be reminded of?”

He straightened, resentment and anger rolling off of him like waves crashing onto shore. “Knock it off.”

“Knock what off?” she asked with a smile as she tucked her hands behind her back. God only knew what sort of flesh-eating disease lingered on these surfaces.

He waved a hand in the air. “Your whole Little Miss Sunshine routine.”

“Routine?”

“Yeah, your act where you pretend there’s some sort of holy light shining down on your head while you shoot rainbows from your ass. Knock it off because I’m not buying it.”

Bristling, she ground her teeth together behind her grin. “It’s not an act. It’s called being pleasant. Friendly.”

He swept up a black bandana from the desk. “We’re not friends.”

“No kidding,” she muttered. Which was fine with her. She had more than enough friends already. She certainly didn’t need to add one bitter, antagonistic, angry, rude man to the list. And if he couldn’t be bothered with social niceties, then he could kiss her rainbow-shooting ass.

Jerk.

“Where’s your father?” she asked, no longer caring if she sounded haughty or demanding.

Setting his foot on the seat of the chair behind the desk, he laid the bandana on his jean-covered thigh and quickly folded it into a strip. “As I’ve already told Chief Taylor, and your sister, I have no idea.”

“You must have heard from him at some point during the past eighteen years.”

“Not even once.”

What could she say to that? They’d never heard from their mother and had never thought anything other than she hadn’t cared enough to contact them. Of course, now they knew she’d been dead all those years, but before the truth had come out, no one had questioned Valerie’s lack of communication with her family. Did Nora have any right to doubt Griffin now?

“Let’s back up a bit here,” she said, digging a small notebook out of her purse. She tucked it under her arm and searched for a pen. “We’ll start at the—”

“I’m not sure how much clearer I can be. I don’t know where he is.”

Damn it, why was it she could never find a pen when she needed one? Giving up she gingerly picked up a pen from his desk, held it between the tips of her fingers. “I believe you.”

He shook his hair back and put the bandana on, tied it behind his head. “You have no idea what that means to me.”