In the Groove (6 page)

"This is definitely a situation that calls for swearing. How much did this thing cost?"

"You don't want to know."

She turned back to him, getting woozy again, but that was okay because he steadied her again. "How much?" she insisted, partly horrified that she asked such an audacious question.

"A million two."

"A million two!"

She saw his lips twitch again just before he said. "A million two."

"I'm driving a million—" She stepped back, wobbling a bit before she caught herself. "Nope," she said, waving her hands. "Nope, nope, nope. I can't drive something that costs that much. No way."

"Whoa-ho-ho," he said, placing a hand against her back. "Calm down, Sparky. It's no big deal."

"No big deal?" she said. "You try driving a rolling bank vault."

"It's not like that. It's just a motor coach. Besides, if you wreck it, the insurance company will replace it."

"Yeah, right. And hike up your rates."

"Sarah," he said, stepping closer to her. "It's just a motor coach. That's all. Don't think about how much it's worth."

"Easy for you to say," she muttered.

It looked like he had to bite back a smile again. "C'mon," he said. "Let me show you inside."

"No."

And then he did something completely unbosslike. He framed her face with his hands, leaned down close to her and said, "There's nothing to worry about It's just a bus. That's all. If you drive it off the Brooklyn Bridge I wouldn't care. Seriously."

If she thought she was dizzy before, it was nothing compared to the way she felt with his face so close to her own, his soft gray eyes filled with warmth and understanding. It took a second or two for her to remember to breathe.

She could really like this man.

The thought just popped into her head, there, despite the fact that she warned herself not to think such ridiculous thoughts.

"Okay?" he asked.

She couldn't move, didn't want to move.

"Okay," she heard herself say.

She thought he'd let her go, even braced herself for it. But he kept his hands right where they were, his thumb drifting along her cheek—back and forth, back and forth, his fingers stroking her scalp. She almost closed her eyes, but something inside the depths of his own eyes held her, made her feel all warm and gooey.

Wow.

"Silly Sarah," he said softly.

"Silly Sarah," she murmured back.

And then she heard him take a deep breath, the pressure of his hands slowly easing. "C'mon," he said, his hands dropping back to his sides. "Let me show you inside."

CHAPTER SIX

He'd wanted to kiss her.

He couldn't believe how much he'd wanted to bend down and touch his lips to hers. But he didn't.
He couldn't,
he quickly amended. To do that would invite trouble and he didn't need trouble right now. As Sal said, he needed to focus, not lust after his new bus driver.

"This is unbelievable," she said after climbing into the coach, her hand on the back of the passenger seat as she stared around her, slack-jawed.

Bracing herself, he quickly amended, because if ever there was a more important reason why he shouldn't kiss her, it was because she'd obviously been overmedicated.

What the hell had Doc Brown given her?

"Wait," he said, eyeing her with concern. "You haven't seen nothin' yet. Sit down," he ordered, swiveling around the passenger seat because he didn't want her falling down. Lord knows, she was so loopy she might freak out.

"Comfy chair," she said.

"Yeah," he agreed, flicking a switch.

The coach rumbled. Sarah gasped. He shot her a reassuring look as air from the hydraulic system emitted a sharp hiss. And then, with a low-hummed vibration, the sliders began to push out.

She gasped.

He grinned. He couldn't help it, watching as both walls began to push outward, doubling the size of the coach with a simple flick of the finger.

"Wait," he said again, heading to the galley which was in the middle of the bus. From a cabinet designed specifically for them, he pulled out three black bar stools which he deposited beneath an S-shaped countertop—black—that he'd had specially designed to look like a waving race flag.

"What do you think now?" he asked.

Her mouth hung open. He saw her gaze drop to the checkerboard laminate floor which matched his bar, only the squares were bigger, and if he didn't miss his guess, it did something to her eyes because she got that bug-eyed look of optical confusion. She blinked a few times, shook her head again, and when she opened her eyes, it must have passed because she met his gaze again.

"It looks like someone from OPEC lives here."

"OPEC?"

"Yeah, you know, one of those Arab princes with eighty wives and more money than God."

"Are you saying my motor coach looks gaudy?"

"Well," she said, waving an arm, the motion causing her to momentarily lose her balance. She clutched the back of the chair again. "You must admit, the fiber optic lights are a bit much. I mean, do they really need to snake around the bottom of the floor like that? They do something to my eyes."

He just bet they did, he thought, suddenly feeling... miffed. He liked the inside of his coach. Loved to show it off to all his friends. And, hell, it wasn't half as gaudy as some of the rigs at the racetrack.

"What else bugs you?"

She looked around, her head swinging back wildly for a moment and he knew he'd get the absolute truth out of her. She was well and truly stoned. His pique faded as quickly as it'd come. Hell, this might be kind of fun.

"Well, the black leather couches are a bit bachelor pad-ish. I'm surprised you don't have zebra-striped throw pillows."

"Oh, yeah?" The couches had actually come with those pillows, but they'd clashed with his custom checkerboard bar and floor.

"And what's up with the bar?" she asked. "Does a race-car driver really need a bar?"

"It's not a bar bar, it's just a place to eat. You know, sit down on a bar stool and eat your breakfast like you did this morning."

But she'd spun away from him, her low, "Weee," as she turned her chair bringing an instant smile to his face.

Wasted. No doubt.

"But this," she said, leaning forward and stroking the dash. "This is nice. Nicer than the county bus I used to drive, that's for sure." She stroked the leather dash, leaning forward and inhaling the scent. "Smells like new cow—"

"New cow?"

"And look," she said, ignoring his question and sitting up too sharply so she had to clutch at the dash. "Something I finally recognize." She turned back to him with a wide smile. "Windshield wipers."

But Lance was suddenly struck dumb, didn't even really notice when she switched seats.

Damn, what a smile.

"Will they work?" she asked over her shoulder.

Would what work?

She fiddled with something. The wipers, one sliding along the right side square of glass, the other sliding along the left, both emitted loud criiiiicks in protest. The dry glass caught their edges before they swished back to their original spot, upright, alongside the dividing pane in the middle of the bus.

She laughed, her head bobbing side to side as she began to sing, "The wipers on the bus go swish, swish, swish. Swish, swish, swish. Swish, swish, swish."

And he couldn't help it. He started to laugh.

She peered up at him. "Maybe I could take it for a spin and do wheels next."

"Maybe not," he said.

"Ah, come on. It'd be fun."

"And I think you've been hanging out with kindergartners too long. Plus, you're not driving anywhere. Not today."

And all at once she looked sad.

"But you can drive it soon," he quickly amended, because jeez, he couldn't believe how much he wanted that smile to return.

"It's not that," she said quietly, turning off the wipers which had been swishing in the background. "It's that I'll never watch my kids get on a bus again."

Surprise held him quiet a moment. "Your kids? You have kids?"

She sat sideways on the driver's chair, her arms resting on the back of the seat, her chin resting on her arms. "My class," she clarified.

And why did that fill him with relief? It wasn't because he'd been afraid for a moment that she'd been married, was it?

Was it?

"I used to bake them cookies every Friday. It was a game," she said, her head tipping sideways, Lance thinking she looked adorable with her curly hair falling over her arms. "We used to make a game out of it. They had to learn to spell the animal's name before they could eat the cookie. You should have seen the trouble they had with the hippopotamus cookies."

"You really liked teaching, didn't you?"

"I didn't like it," she said. "I
loved
it."

"Why don't you do it again?"

"I'm going to," she said. "Just as soon as I find someone who'll hire me with a big gaping hole on my employment record."

"A hole?"

"Yeah," she said. "I can't exactly put down my last job on my resume. They'll want a reference and I'm not going to get that. Not after what I did."

"C'mon. It's not as if you endangered a child's life."

"Yeah, but that wasn't the only reason I got fired."

"It wasn't?"

"No. I also got fired for ripping the toupee off the principal's head."

"You what?"

"Only he wasn't just the principal to me. He was my boyfriend."

"You dated a man with a toupee?"

She sat up. "I didn't know it was a toupee," she said, her eyes wide and, yup, glassy. "I mean, I
suspected
it might be, but that's not exactly something you ask a guy on a first date. Nor a second. And then I realized he was really nice and I didn't care that he wore a piece of fur on his head. Shows you what I know," she mumbled. "Never trust a man who wears fur, especially when it's not his own."

She looked up at him with such complete seriousness he began to laugh yet again. When she started to stand, he rushed toward her. "I'll try to remember that," he said softly.

She looked up. And there it was again: that surge of energy reminiscent of when he put the pedal to the metal. It was the same sense of exhilaration. The same wild sense of anticipation. The same need for... something.

"You do that," she said softly.

Screw it, he found himself thinking. Screw this. He wanted to kiss her and by God he would.

"Sarah," he said softly, blowing her name across her face, his lips getting closer, ever closer, the adrenaline building in him like it did when he neared a white flag.

"You're going to kiss me, aren't you?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, so close now he could feel the heat radiating off her face, count the number of freckles on her nose (ten), see that she had a tiny scar just above her eyebrow.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

He was just a breath away when he said, "Actually, I think it's an excellent idea."

CHAPTER SEVEN

Sarah felt the gentle touch of his breath and closed her eyes. And when he pressed those lips against her own, she almost moaned.

She wanted this, she wanted him to kiss her so passionately that she'd forget for a moment where she was, and who he was, and what had happened in the past.

Forget.

Yes.

His lips were cool, but his breath—that was hot, as was the way he made her body feel. The pressure increased, razor stubble sliding against her chin as he turned his head, changing the angle in such a way that it encouraged... her... to...

Yes,
she inwardly sighed as she opened her mouth, his blazing hot tongue stroking against her own and, oh, how it excited her, made her burn and sizzle with anticipation. She arched into him.

He pulled back.

Pulled back?

"This is a bad idea," he said quickly, his hands firmly setting her away from him. "A
really
bad idea."

"What are you doing?" she asked. "Why'd you stop?"

"Because you're stoned and I'm in no position to be flirting with you."

"Stoned? I'm not stoned."

"Yes, you are," he contradicted. "I don't know what Doc gave you, but whatever it is, it's pretty potent stuff."

"
I
am
not
stoned."

"As a gravel pit," he said.

"Hah," she said with a flick of her head, turning away from him in outrage.

Only when she turned, she almost fell, and that's when the weird buzzing she'd been experiencing suddenly became more pronounced. But even more telling, the floor suddenly seemed to undulate, the black checkerboards seeming to wave like a living flag.

"I'm stoned," she admitted in shock, looking up at him, her body quickening at the sight of his masculine, handsome face.

Damn, but he was hot. And she was, too. Burning, actually, burning for
him.

"Let me help you down," he said.

"No, thank you," she said primly. "I can walk."

"No, you can't," he quickly corrected.

And, darn it all, the moment she took a step her head did something weird. It sort of sagged, her neck muscles so weak she felt like she might fall. "Oh, man," she said, trying to clutch at something. Him. Her hands found him.

When she opened her eyes, she couldn't help the accusation that came pouring out of her. "What did you give me?"

"
Me
? I didn't give you anything."

"Then Doc Brown must be a crackpot." And even her voice sounded funny, she noticed, like it came from far, far above her head.

"They always tell you not to handle heavy machinery when on painkillers."

Then she noticed the way it felt to be so close to him. Or rather, her body noticed because it instantly flared to life. "How about sexy race-car drivers?"

He froze.

She did, too—and then clapped a hand over her mouth. "Please tell me I didn't just say that aloud," she mumbled. "That was in my head, right?"

"Yup, in your head," he said, little laugh lines sprouting out from the side of his eyes, and from the side of his mouth, too, because he was smiling at her. That gorgeous, naughty-boy smile that made her pulse pound.

Or maybe that was the medication.

"I think I should probably lie down."

"With or without the sexy race-car driver?"

Her face suddenly lit up like the high beams on a car. "I need to get out of here."

"Yeah," he said softly. "As much as I hate to admit it, that's probably a good idea. We should probably
both
get out of here."

He helped her back inside, running into Rosa in the kitchen who, thankfully, helped her back to her room.

Lance sat down on a kitchen chair, head in hands, knowing he'd narrowly escaped doing something really, really stupid.

He'd almost slept with his newest employee.

But, no, he wouldn't have slept with her. He'd only wanted to kiss her. He'd been curious what it might be like. If she kissed like a gentle little schoolteacher, or a ferocious kitten. A half hour ago he'd have laid bets she'd be meek and mild. Not anymore.

Eeyowza.

"She be settled in the bed," Rosa said, sashaying into the kitchen in that wide-hipped way of hers, brown eyes staring at him in disapproval. "What you been doing in that bus o' yours?"

"Nothing," he said. "Just showing her a few things."

"Yeah. I bet," she said, narrowing her eyes.

Rosa wasn't just his housekeeper, cook and help around the house. Rosa was Mother Theresa. Rosa was the Virgin Mary. Rosa kept him in line. She booted the women out that he'd brought home on the occasional basis—the ones who thought that because he'd slept with them, he wanted them to stick around. But he never wanted more than a night.

Until now.

And, see, that was crazy. Just plain
nuts.
How could he be having thoughts like that about someone he'd just met?

"You look like a man who eat one too many prunes."

"I
what?"

"You heard me. You like this new employee of yours?"

"Rosa, I don't like her. I'm just concerned about her. I'm wondering if maybe I should call Doc Brown and tell him about her reaction to the drugs."

"Yeah, right," Rosa said, black eyes narrowed.

Lance got up from his chair. "How many milligrams did he give her, anyway?" he asked, ignoring the way Rosa's eyes followed him about like one of those paintings—the kind with holes where the eyes should be, a real pair of eyes tracking his every move. He grabbed Sarah's medication that was sitting alongside the sink.

"That's no what I gave her," Rosa said.

Lance spun around. "What?"

"It's no what I gave her. You said to give her the pills that were in the cabinet above the counter," she said, pointing to a bottle near the sink.

"No, I didn't. I said her pills were
not
the ones in the cabinet above the counter. That they were by the sink."

"Yeah. In the cabinet, above the counter, by the sink."

"No," Lance corrected, suddenly horrified. "Not in the cabinet, but by the sink."

"Uh-oh," Rosa said.

"What the heck did you give her?"

"I don't know. Who knows what's up there, you always banging and crashing into things. I can no keep track of your medicine and now hers." She erupted into Spanish, a sure sign that she was upset.

Lance went to his cabinet, grabbing the only bottle of prescription medication that was stashed amongst cold remedies and cough medicine.

"Percocet," he said. "Seven hundred milligrams. Jesu—"

Okay, okay. No need to panic. Obviously, she hadn't had an adverse side effect, well, aside from double vision and a loss of balance. But, still, he'd better call Doc Brown just to be sure.

"Couldn't you tell it had my name on the outside?" he asked, swinging back to Rosa.

"You know I no read English very good."

"But surely you recognized the name Lance Cooper on the bottle."

"I look for the name of your doctor and that good enough for me."

And when she assumed a man's combative stance, her arms crossed in front of her and her toe tapping the ground, he turned away and called Doc Brown.

An hour later he'd been reassured that no harm would result. He'd sent Rosa up to check on her; the housekeeper reported that she was snoring away.

And despite himself, he found himself smiling, and then frowning, and then smiling again and then shaking his head in exasperation because this was just the sort of thing he didn't need right now. Distraction. Of the feminine kind.

Sal would kill him.

He'd kissed her.

Sarah opened her eyes hours later with that exact thought on her mind.

He'd kissed her and she'd opened her mouth and wanted more.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

And fie on him. She should be outraged that he'd taken advantage of her when she was...

Stoned.

Okay, no doubt about it. She'd been high as a kite and done something really, really stupid.

"It 'cause I give you the wrong medication," Rosa confessed a half hour later, after Sarah tiptoed down the stairs with her heart pounding. She didn't want to bump into Lance.

"The wrong medication?"

Rosa nodded, her black hair turned nearly blue by the light that ebbed in from the kitchen window. "He tell me to get the medicine from the cabinet above the sink. I get you that medication. Only your medication is by the sink, not above it"

"Oh my gosh," Sarah gasped. "So what'd I take?'

"Percolate, or something like that."

"Percocet?"

"Yeah. That it," the big woman said, pointing a finger. "Percocet. Mr. Lance, he call the doctor this mornin', but Doc tell him not to worry. You be fine in a couple hours."

"You gave me the wrong medication," Sarah repeated.

"I did, but you no sue me, 'kay? And you no sue Mr. Lance. It was accident. No harm done."

No harm done.

She'd just about thrown herself on top of "Mr. Lance." No harm done, indeed, Sarah thought, watching as Rosa started scrubbing the counter, a hint of bacon and eggs lingering in the air. Rosa must have cooked that for Lance after she'd passed out

"Where is Mr. Lance?" Sarah said, unable to stop the wince from crinkling up her face as she waited for her answer.

"He go out. Big meeting with the mucho grande sponsor. Not be home 'til dinner. He say not to drive the big bus today."

She wouldn't have to face him. Oh, thank God she wouldn't have to face him. Not yet at least.

"I'm fine," Sarah said. "That medicine just knocked me for a loop, but I can drive now."

"I no think that's a good idea." But something in the woman's eyes made Sarah think she actually thought that was an
excellent
idea. "Mr. Lance, he might get mad."

"Well, Mr. Lance can just get mad then. If I don't leave today, I won't make it to Daytona in time."

"I still think you should wait for him."

"But then he'll insist I stay here another night."

"Yeah, but then he no get mad at me."

"Hmm, well, if you really think it's a bad idea—"

"No, no," Rosa said quickly, confirming what Sarah already suspected—she didn't want her around.

"You leave if you think you have to. I pack you a lunch."

Three hours later she was on her way, Rosa having come up with the idea of enlisting Sal as an accomplice. An hour after the housekeeper's call, Lance's business manager had arranged for someone to come over to Lance's house and show her how to operate the million-dollar bus.

One million dollars.

One
million
dollars.

The words kept replaying through her head in the voice of
Austin Powers'
Dr. Evil.

Stop it, she told herself. She would not think about how much the darn thing was worth.

And so she didn't, putting it from her mind and pretending she was once again driving for Alameda County Transit, but even that was hard to do given that fact that county buses didn't have a GPS display taking up a portion of the dashboard. They didn't have lead crystal odometer displays and twenty-thousand-dollar stereo systems hanging above a person's head. They didn't have plush leather seats and they sure as certain didn't have an automatic dial-up system that phoned OnStar when you didn't wear your seat belt. The first time Sarah had heard the discombobulated voice say, "Hello, OnStar," she'd just about jumped out of her driver's seat. And when the woman had told her they had a seat belt alert, she'd felt like Big Brother was watching her.

Gradually, very slowly, she began to relax.

A man whistled when she parked the bus later that night The guy was an eighty-year-old Johnny Carson look-alike whom Sarah had thought at first might be a pervert (she'd heard RV parks were famous for them) but for the fact that when he whistled, he had his eyes on Lance's bus, not her.

"Sure is a beauty," he drawled in a voice as southern as Lance's, and in a tone usually reserved for speaking of the Pope, patron saints and other sacred things. "Bet you she cost a fortune."

"You don't want to know," Sarah mumbled.

"You a Lance Cooper fan?" the guy asked, spotting a white number twenty-six sticker on a side window.

"Um, yeah," Sarah said, and in her mind she could hear Lance's sexy voice drawl sarcastically, "Oh, yeah?"

Argh. Even now she couldn't get him from her mind.

"Really? I am, too," he said, motioning to his diesel pusher.

Sarah's eyes widened because this man, this eighty-year-old retiree from Florida (she assumed), had all kinds of stickers on his RV's windows. Race car stickers. From some type of air filter to his favorite type of oil. But what shocked her, what made her mouth drop open, were the dozens of different car number stickers on the side—all in various shapes and sizes, and all Lance's car number.