Right. Whichway. The Elvis-infested town where she’d be living for a few weeks. She was always meticulous about her research. She knew exactly where the town was and how it had been named, but she felt hazy, grappling to follow their conversation.
She jerked her mind back on target.
For the next few weeks she would be Samantha Rowen, not Clementine Abernathy. She’d be a music producer and judge for the town’s famed Elvis Festival—a gig somehow secured by Lucien. She’d find Maxwell David and charm the man until she’d located his family’s priceless Van Gogh, a treasure the overpaid tycoon didn’t deserve. Lucien would fence their prize, the money earned would help those who couldn’t help themselves, then she’d be back in New York, her job done, her classic car loud, her apartment quiet, her remaining hours spent talking to a bearded dragon who couldn’t talk back. There would be no girls’ nights.
Nothing about this job should be different than her others. But that lone tree drew her attention again, muddling her thoughts.
Music cut through her stupor, a lively beat building from down the road. A car punched through the hazy heat, and Clementine’s jaw dropped. Chryslers were always hip and classic, this one likely from 1955, but its porcelain green paint job was exquisite.
She eyed her rental car, the meek Prius mildly offensive. At home, she wouldn’t be caught dead in that horror show. But in forty minutes, when she rolled into Whichway, she’d be a character. A show. A congenial woman who’d chat about her friends and family and how full her life was.
She gritted her teeth and focused on the sexy Chrysler. The stunner pulled up to the gas pump. A colorful man stepped out. He had a sweep of gelled black hair, thick sideburns, rhinestone-studded sunglasses, and a patterned polyester shirt with lapels large enough to take flight. His Rolex was definitely a fake, but his elaborate persona wasn’t, and her on-the-job radar pricked up.
This man was an Elvis. But was he her Elvis?
Lucien’s folder detailing her mark had been on the thin side. She knew Maxwell David went for morning runs, followed by a coffee and pastry, usually an apple turnover. Strawberry when feeling frisky. He then spent hours at his office, no doubt scheming ways to pad his wallet while overworking his employees. He was also an Elvis impersonator, one of the hundred-odd performers vying for the crown of top tribute artist.
She knew these details and others about Maxwell David, CFO of David Industries. What she didn’t have was a clear picture of him. The man shied away from social media. David Industries didn’t have an online presence. Whoever Lucien had hired to snap surveillance photos had had a shaky hand and an overly large thumb, always obscuring Maxwell’s face.
She squinted at this particular Elvis, deducing he was too old to be her mark. When he winked at her and belched, she thanked her lucky stars.
Taking that as her cue, she bought a Pepsi, even though she hated Pepsi. The pickings at the inconvenient convenience store were on the gaunt side of slim. She hit the road and pressed the cool can to her forehead. Elvis and that lone tree faded in her rearview mirror. She drank her not-a-Coke and drove, but her foot eased off the gas pedal. Her Prius glided slowly. Too slowly. Below the speed limit, actually.
What the hell is wrong with me?
She should have had the pedal to the metal, making up for lost time, hurrying to Whichway so she could scope out the town. Yet here she was, her speedometer decelerating at a rapid rate.
When she spotted a car curbside, its hood up and its owner leaning over the engine, she yanked over to the shoulder.
I’m just doing my Good Samaritan work, she told herself. I’m not delaying this job or my role as Samantha Rowen.
She hopped out of her god-awful Prius and shaded her eyes, assessing the old Jaguar across the road. The car was gun-metal gray, with splashy chrome styling, but rust had taken a few bites from the fenders. Nowhere near as pretty as that Chrysler had been. Not that she could judge, considering her present vehicle.
When her gentleman in distress stood from behind the hood, her focus shifted to him, and her heart raced faster than an Aston Martin Vulcan.
Six-foot-and-then-some, with his cuffs rolled and the top buttons of his dress shirt undone, he was one hell of a man. Thanks to the heatwave, his damp white shirt clung to his broad chest, declaring its wearer a fine male specimen.
She fanned her face, but her hand created little breeze. “Car trouble?”
He dragged his wrist along his forehead. “Car disaster.”
“What happened?”
He eyed the innards of his Jag’s engine. “I was on the road about an hour, no issues, then there was a loud pop and I started losing power. Aside from that, your guess is as good as mine.”
Clementine’s guess wasn’t as good as his. It was miles better. The only thing she loved more than cars was her bearded dragon. “Mind if I take a look?”
“I’ll take all the help I can get. My meeting starts in”—he grimaced at his watch (a genuine Rolex)—“thirty minutes, and it’s forty minutes away.”
Even his grimace was sexy. She tried not to stare at his generous lips, the masculine cut of his jaw. Like with friendships, she’d given up on dating a couple of years back. Developing a relationship when you couldn’t share job details or commiserate about work stress was a challenge. My last heist almost went south when I got chased by a pit bull and twisted my ankle wasn’t typical Friday night chitchat. Tinder hookups had sufficed for a while, until the one-night stands exacerbated her loneliness, emphasizing what she didn’t have.
Which left her staring at this man’s large hands as they tunneled through his dark hair, leaving the strands even more askew. Sweat gathered on her clavicle. His blue eyes darted to the spot, upping her already hot temperature.
He cleared his throat. “Thanks for stopping.”
“No problem. Cars are kinda my thing.”
Tall, dark, and handsome was also her thing, and the urge to interact with a real, live human reared its dangerous head again. She should have learned her lesson last month, but he was easy on the eyes, and it was nice to admit she was a car junkie. Something she couldn’t do in Whichway—never smart dropping clues to your true identity. But if this man had already driven an hour, he’d be from Headlow or Brandock, or one of the farther counties.
She maneuvered in front of the engine. The man didn’t step back, and his long body bumped against hers. Firm. Damp. Warm. “Sorry,” she murmured. Sweat dripped down her cleavage.
He shuffled backward. “No. I’m sorry. You’re nice enough to stop and help, and I’m in the way, standing like an idiot.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Me being in the way?”
“You being an idiot.”
He barked out a laugh.
“Just teasing.” She winked at him, feeling loose and bubbly. More herself than she’d felt in ages. “I meant I don’t mind helping. I travel with emergency supplies, just in case. Nothing worse than car trouble when you’re on the road.” Or fleeing the scene of a crime.
“Considering this baby belonged to my granddad, and hasn’t been on the road in a while, I shouldn’t be surprised she got temperamental.”
That explained the rusted fenders, but it didn’t tamp her rising temperature. She tore her hungry gaze from his transparent shirt. Nothing to see here. Move along. She focused on the car. The engine issue was easy to spot. “Your baby’s vacuum hose is cracked. Too much air passed through the power brake line and the engine backfired. Turned your drive sluggish.”