I feel strangely nostalgic toward my beloved Ford, and tears begin to sting the corners of my eyes.
Yes, it’s just a car and a battered one at that, but I can’t let a guy get away with hurting the one thing that I worked my ass off saving up for—the most valuable thing I own, even though it probably costs less than his polished pair of dress shoes.
“Why are we talking about your car?” I ask. “You can hardly see the damage.”
“Do you realize how much my Lamborghini’s worth?” Mr. Expensive Shirt says, raising a perfect brow, reading my thoughts.
I can’t believe it.
“Jerk!” I yell. “Arrogant prick. I don’t know how much your damn car’s worth, and I don’t care because it’s your fault.” I spit out the last two words, oblivious to the fact that I probably look like a madwoman the way I stab my finger into his chest. He doesn’t even seem to register it as his gaze travels down the front of my snug top and tight jeans, which I threw on in haste.
“Did you just call me a ‘jerk’ and a ‘prick’?”
Oh, that voice. Deep and hoarse and penetrating, carrying the slightest hint of amusement. It instantly sends a pleasant chill through me. I can almost feel it vibrating between my legs. My skin prickles from the expression he gives me as he scans my body.
I’m suddenly aware of the fact that I look like a hot mess: my brown hair’s all tangled, and I’m hardly wearing any makeup. I couldn’t stand out more among the Club 69 crowd of long, oiled-up legs and short skirts. Had I known I’d be having a close encounter with Mr. Sex On Legs, I might have even made an effort.
“Yes, I did,” I spit out. “Because it’s your fault.”
“My fault?” He turns his head to me, his gorgeous face drawn in surprise. “You gave me the signal to go ahead.”
“I did what?” Frowning, I let out a sarcastic laugh. “No, you gave me the signal to go ahead.”
He shakes his head. “I most certainly didn’t.”
Is he suffering from some neurodegenerative disease?
I stare at him, open-mouthed, then mimic his wave. “This is the go-ahead sign to move.”
“No, it means you drive like an eighty-year-old, and I don’t have all day to watch you amble around.” His eyes meet mine, his gaze challenging.
His features are relaxed; his mouth is slightly open as he stares me down in amusement. I don’t know why, but I get the distinct feeling he’s enjoying the situation.
Well, I’m not amused.
“I wasn’t ambling. I was waiting to get in line and you tried to overtake me,” I state the obvious.
“You stopped,” Hot Guy points out. “That means you gave me the all-clear.”
My mouth opens and closes, which probably looks like I’m a panting fish out of water. At last, I shake my head in disbelief. “Are you for real? I stopped to check if a car was coming.”
“So you say.” His lips twitch. “Let’s face it. You were distracted by that phone glued to your ear, chatting as if I had all the time in the world.” He steps forward. “Has no one ever told you that talking on a phone while driving can cost lives?”
I want to remark that I wasn’t driving while I was on the phone, but I refrain from it, because he’s right. “This is hardly a highway.”
“It’s still called dangerous driving,” the guy says.
For a few seconds, all I can do is stare at him. My pulse quickens and my breathing sounds just a little louder than it should. Knots begin to form in my abdomen as I stare at his perfect teeth and his perfect lips.
God dammit.
He screams sex on legs.
The kind of guy you take home to let him fuck your brains out, and then you discard the next day because there’s no way in hell a guy like him settles for anything less than a harem.
He also screams incurable, arrogant bastard.
Everything he’s said so far tells me he’s a big-ass jerk.
I don’t know why the thought that his dick’s probably had more mileage than a porn star’s pops into my head. But it does, and it reminds me that I’m very angry.
Fuming mad.
He hit my car…I remember. I can’t afford any repairs. On top of that, I shouldn’t be thinking about sex, especially not with Mr. Arrogant who’s more concerned with his stupid car than with the damage he’s caused to mine.
“It’s just a scratch,” I point out. “Nothing a good paint job won’t solve.”
“Look.” He sighs. His hot, sexy breath hits my face as he turns to me. “I get it. You don’t have the money to pay for the damage. You probably don’t even have insurance, and I wouldn’t wait for a check anyway, but damn, I just had it flown in from Italy. Don’t you have eyes, woman?”
I gape at his audacity.
He’s the one driving like a moron, and he’s still trying to blame me for his shortcomings?
And what kind of accent is that?
A slight drawl, rather subdued, as though he’s trying to hide it.