Satisfaction hummed through her.
Perfect pitch. Just right. Not a fault to be found in the engine she’d spent weeks rebuilding. Resurrection in the best way for the Corvette. Vindication for her, considering the car’s condition when she first laid eyes on it… and the way her coworkers scoffed when she rolled the rusted-out metal corpse into the garage over a month ago.
Too damaged. Bitten off more than you can chew. Ready for the scrap yard.
She’d heard it all before she began to restore a car everyone wrote off on sight. Neglected, forgotten, the classic ride was a throwback to an era many considered dead and gone.
Much like the building she sat inside now.
After powering down the engine, Cate took the key out of the ignition and exited the low-slung cab. As she cleared the frame and shut the door, she looked around the renovated warehouse doubling as Kane’s new location.
Old-world charm disguised a state-of-the-art operation. New equipment, computers, and tools. Smooth, unstained concrete floors. Two kitted-out design suites upstairs, with offices to match. Pitted red-brick walls with faded paint that read Reader’s Goods. Her absolute favorite, though, were the tall, arched, refurbished hundred-year-old windows overlooking the Savannah River. A mix of ancient and modern, a nice find turned beautiful location on the tail end of River Street. Less than fifteen minutes’ walk from the hustle and bustle of Old Town Savannah, with its gorgeous squares and old-growth live oaks.
Pretty fancy digs for a garage. One her boss had flipped the Open sign on six months ago.
He said he’d done it to keep her happy. She maintained the new place was more for him than for her. Kane liked the high-rollers she attracted with her rebuilds and restorations. Bigwigs with lots of cash preferred visiting deluxe installations. And happy clients made good repeat customers.
Case in point?
The classic Corvette she’d come in to put the final touches on before the buyer picked it up Monday morning. Painted classic red with a white V-slash on the side, the Vette was the third car she’d restored for the same guy. He kept coming back, filling his garage with her custom rebuilds, singing her praises to whoever wanted to listen. It had taken time—years of work—but her reputation as one of the best in the business could no longer be denied.
Hollywood executives had started to call. Fortune 500 CEOs wanted spots on her calendar. Car buffs from all over the States reached out on a regular basis to consult, picking her brain, wanting to talk about making the classic cars they loved whole again.
Kane wasn’t complaining.
Neither was she.
Business was good, and given the percentage she now made on each job, her bank account was moving toward healthy. A lucky break. One she credited to her boss.
Most guys wouldn’t have given her the time of day when she showed up looking for a job. Kane had taken a different approach, insisting she back up her claims with action, asking her to switch out the transmission in his ’68 Mustang GT. After which he’d hired her on the spot. No more questions asked.
A month later, he’d done something else unexpected. The instant he understood what she could do, he’d made the shift, giving her a raise along with profit-sharing potential. Making room in the shop for her rebuilds. Expanding into a swanky location when the bottom line said the move made financial sense.
Nice boost to her ego.
A definite winner in her books, even if it meant more pressure.
Her stomach tightened at the thought. Combating the stress, she blew out a breath and glanced around the shop again. Call her allergic to change, but… sometimes she missed the old shop. The stained floors and dented standing toolboxes never bothered her. And having to MacGyver electrical components for the engine block lift assembly? An added bonus.
She’d enjoyed the fact the thing never worked right, forcing her to get creative with interesting solutions in the face of tight deadlines. Usually under the black cloud of impending doom of a client’s arrival to pick up a custom ride that wasn’t quite ready.
Spotting a smudge on the Vette, Cate snagged the clean rag from the back pocket of her jeans. With an eye for detail, she ran the soft cotton along the door edge, then over the handle. Fingerprints on glossy red paint disappeared. Her disquiet did not.
So much had changed in the past couple of months. Lots of adjustments. Too many things to worry about. She’d moved into the new shop. Her sister had moved halfway around the world—to Scotland, of all places. And her irresponsible con man of a father had vanished. Again. For…
Cate frowned. Hell. She didn’t know.
Her dad ghosted so often, she’d lost track over the years. His reasons changed depending on the situation. Sometimes he left after she and Nicole got on his case about his behavior, and all the people he stiffed. Sometimes he lay low after losing to the wrong people in an underground poker game. Sometimes, though, it was worse.
Life-threatening worse.
Her head started to ache.
Rubbing her temples, Cate tried to stave off the headache that always arrived when she thought about her dad’s misdeeds. Don’t get her wrong, she loved him. A lot. Probably way too much, given her childhood and all the crap he pulled. Her sister rolled with the punches, shrugging off the bad, remembering the good.
Cate found she couldn’t be so laissez faire. Not after years of being moved from one place to another—all the frenzied packing and midnight escapes out bathroom windows as her father scrambled to avoid whatever mark he’d finished conning.
This time, though, she had a feeling he’d gone too far. Gotten in over his head. Borrowed too much from his bookie. Pissed off the wrong person, someone too powerful to outrun.
The radio silence over the last three weeks directed the assumption. Her dad might be a skilled thief, but he’d never abandoned his daughters so completely. He always managed to get in touch when he dipped beneath the radar. Usually he called, leaving a message on her voicemail. Sometimes he pushed notes under her apartment door or left them in her mailbox. Whatever. The method of communication didn’t matter. The fact she hadn’t heard word one in weeks didn’t bode well, making her wonder if fate had finally caught up with him.
With a sigh, she started toward the bay door. Time to close up shop and visit another of her father’s favorite haunts. She’d checked all the usual places. Made the usual calls. Talked to the usual suspects, then moved on to people no sane girl wanted to meet in daylight, never mind the dark of night. So far, none of her inquiries had borne fruit. A problem, given her flight to Scotland left tomorrow night.
First stop—London, England. From there, she planned to hop a train north. Nicole would meet her in Edinburgh and drive her to Aberdeen. The Granite City. Her sister’s new home with a man Cate had never met, but each video chat only made her like him more. He was cool. He was smart, gorgeous, and so in love with her sister it filled Cate’s heart with happiness.
Vyroth was the real deal, treating her sister like the most precious thing on earth, and honestly? That was all Cate cared about—that Nicole was happy and healthy. Her sister had gambled big and won bigger, brightening her future, making her dreams come true with a guy who believed she hung the sun in his sky.
All right, so it wasn’t perfect. Scotland was too far away for her liking, but… screw the distance. That was what vacation time and transatlantic flights were for.