Gaze trained on the back of his head, she trailed Dillinger down the corridor. “You’d think after three thousand years, you’d have learned that lesson by now.”
Reaching the top of the stairs, he paused. Intense green eyes met hers. “Three thousand years?”
“Isn’t that how old you are?” A clumsy attempt at pulling information out of him, but… so what? She was curious. Self-preservation demanded she play fill-in-the-blanks. “Maybe you’re from ancient Egypt.”
He snorted.
“Or Mesopotamia. An old dude. Decrepit. Over the hill,” she said, poking at him even though she shouldn’t. Dillinger wasn’t a powder puff. He was a warrior with magical abilities she didn’t understand. All the more reason to respect him. Big problem with that assumption. Intuition kept telling her to go the other way. Showing fear never worked when faced with a predator. Better to stand her ground, stare down the devil, and pray she didn’t get eaten. “What’s that they say?”
“No idea,” he murmured, starting down the stairs. “Bet you’re going to tell me, though.”
“Oh yeah,” she said, snapping her fingers. Boot soles tapping against the thick stair runner, she began her descent. Muffled footsteps spiraled, joining his, following the curved stone banister, echoing softly in the enclosed space. “That old dogs can’t learn new tricks. Is that the way it is with you?”
“Are you this way with Rannock?”
“Ran gives me orgasms. I’m much nicer to him.”
A startled huff escaped him, then he laughed. A rusty sound, scratchy vocal resonance, no doubt stemming from too little use. The rumble echoed in the stairwell, humor transforming his face. Watching him, Cate smiled as laughter settled into a guttural chuckle. Even better. A gorgeous wave of vibrance.
Too bad he didn’t indulge in it often.
Nothing but a guess, but she saw the truth in his surprise… and his need to cut his amusement short. Sad, really. A creature of immense power, Dillinger had lived a long time. His deflection when she’d prodded him on the subject proved that well enough. The least he deserved was to find pleasure in everyday things, and be able to laugh with others.
Laughter, after all, was good medicine. And given his disposition, Dillinger needed a serious amount of healing.
The sparkle in his eyes faded. “You’re odd, Cate.”
“Thank you, Dilly,” she said, taking sass out for a spin.
“Jesus.”
“Are we going or what?”
Shaking his head, Dillinger swung around a landing and down another set of steps. Cate kept pace, staying three steps behind him, just in case. He might be acting tame now, but no one knew what the future held. One wrong move could set him off. If that happened, she needed to be able to adjust. Run. Hide. Find a safe spot behind a thick door with a solid lock until Rannock arrived to take her home.
Ironic, given she’d just fled a beautiful bedroom and the idea of closed doors.
Following her bad-tempered host, Cate turned another corner. The staircase widened. The smell of fresh wax hit her along with the faintest whiff of motor oil. Her stomach dipped as a shadowed expanse opened in front of her.
A thunk sounded.
Lights started to come on. First, the closest to her. Then the next set and the next, industrial strip lights falling like dominos inside a large garage. An involuntary gasp left her. Three rows of vehicles—one running along the left-hand side, the other to the right, and one straight down the middle. Smooth pillars spaced at even intervals supported an old foundation made of different-colored stone, light and dark grey, some reddish brown, others so pale they appeared almost white.
A gorgeous space. With even better cargo.
Trucks and cars parked in neat rows. Every shape and size and color. Some classic, others space-age new.
“Eureka,” she whispered, gobsmacked by the treasure trove.
“My collection,” Dillinger said, a half-smile on his face. “My brothers have little interest in automobiles, but I…”
“Have always loved them,” she said, knowing what he meant. And would you look at that—she was bonding with a Shadow Walker over well-designed machines. Whoever said hunks of steel didn’t possess magic were just plain wrong. “What’s your earliest?”
“Benz Patent Motor Car, 1886.”
Wow. Very cool. She needed to take a close look at that.
Veering to the left, she walked down one of the aisles, her attention on his collection. “What’s your favorite?”
“The Clénet.”
“Neoclassic Roadster,” she murmured, stopping in front of a 1957 Ford Thunderbird. Gleaming white paint with blood-red leather interior. Slick lines. Low profile. A quintessential classic. “You drive her?”
“Every chance I get.”
“Good for you,” she said, knowing most collectors didn’t. Those who bought the classics she restored never took their “investments” out for a spin. Her clients preferred showrooms, not the open road.
A shame. No matter how expensive, cars were meant to be driven.
Continuing down the line, Cate smiled as she spotted a 1955 Imperial with burgundy paint, a shiny chrome grille, and whitewall tires. “Gorgeous.”
“Each one is,” Dillinger said, following her progress, making sure she looked, but didn’t touch. “But not why I brought you down here.”
“Oh?” Turning away from the Imperial, she watched him stroll further down the line.
He stopped in front a vehicle covered in a big tarp. Grabbing the heavy material, he yanked. The grey canvas cover slid to one side, uncovering what lay underneath. Her breath caught. Wow. How pretty. A 1972 Chevrolet Cheyenne K10 pick-up truck. A half-ton, painted the original Hawaiian blue and white, with big, toothy tires.
Unable to resist, Cate crossed the aisle. With an eye on the details, she walked around the pick-up. Ignoring Dillinger’s grumble, she ran her hand over the boxy frame and along the hood. Smooth steel. Sleek to the touch. No dimples in the body, or waves in the clear coat. “Body work’s good. Who did it?”
“Bought it in this condition.”
“Where?”
“Iowa. Some guy had it in his barn.”
Figured. The best finds always came from unexpected places: buried under a pile of hay in somebody’s barn, forgotten in the back of Great-Granddad’s garage, at estate sales when family members finally got around to dusting off a relative’s stuff. Or in her case, beat to shit in a field full of old junkers.
Dropping to her haunches, she examined the front grille. “The problem?”
“I can’t get it to run.”
“Has it ever?”
He shrugged.
She blinked, then popped to her feet. “You’ve never checked?”
“Arrived on a flatbed. Rolled it in. Haven’t moved it since.”
Cate opened her mouth to chastise him. Getting a load of his expression, she swallowed the reprimand. “How long have you had it?”
“Twenty-five years.”
Staring at him as though he’d lost his mind, she frowned.
“Don’t start,” he growled. “Just take a look. You wanted a diversion, here it is. Everything you need is against the back wall.”