After Hours by Rochelle Alers Page A

weren’t fancy. “Surprise me.”
    Lance started up the car, putting it into gear. Dina wanted him to surprise her, and he would.

CHAPTER 13
    L ance headed north on Route 9, maneuvering expertly in and out of slower-moving traffic. Concentrating on his driving was safer than taking furtive glances at the woman sitting next to him. When he’d gotten up that morning he’d planned to drive from West New York to Englishtown to look at the classic cars at the Old Bridge Township Raceway because he’d contemplated adding another vehicle to his growing collection.
    However, all thoughts of cars were forgotten when he saw the tiny woman enter the grandstand area. He followed her as if pulled along by an invisible string. He didn’t know whether it was her hair, her sexy walk or her tiny body, but Lancelot Londell Haynes’s nose had been so wide open that a tractor-trailer could have fit with room to spare.
    Reaching for a pair of sunglasses on the dashboard, he slipped them on. He felt rather than saw Dina move closer to the door. She’d admitted she didn’t trust men, and he wasn’t very trusting of women, yet that didn’t explain why two strangers were traveling together.
    â€œHow old is this car?”
    Lance smiled. He’d driven more than twenty miles in silence, and Dina’s first remark was about his car. “It’s a lot older than you.”
    Dina turned to stare at Lance’s profile. Upon closer examination she concluded that he wasn’t as nondescript as she’d originally thought. He had very little facial hair. Whereas his face was soft, it was not the same with his body. He claimed a pair of broad shoulders, a thick neck and muscled forearms.
    â€œHow old do you think I am?” she asked.
    He gave her a quick glance. “Twenty-five.”
    â€œWrong. You missed by two years.”
    Lance took his gaze off the road, his expression mirroring shock. “You’re twenty-three?” He’d dated younger women, but not those young enough to be thought of as his daughter.
    Dina laughed softly. “No. I’m twenty-seven.”
    He breathed a sigh of relief. She was closer to thirty than twenty. “But I was close.”
    â€œYeah, right,” she teased. How old are you, Lance?”
    â€œTake a guess.”
    Leaning to her left, Dina peered closely at him. “Thirty-seven.”
    â€œNah,” he said, mimicking a goat.
    â€œThirty-nine?”
    â€œNah.”
    â€œThirty-six? No…no, I got it. Forty…forty-one.”
    Smiling, Lance shook his head. “Nah, nah, nah.”
    Dina threw back her head and laughed, the warm, honeyed sound filling the confines of the car. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d laughed—laughed with a spontaneity that wasn’t forced or fake.
    She placed her hand over his, then pulled it back quickly as if she’d touched a hot surface. She had to be careful, very, very careful not to appear too forward. “Please tell me,” she pleaded, pushing out her lower lip like a petulant child.
    â€œLater.”
    â€œPretty please.”
    Lance gave her another quick glance. He didn’t know what there was about Dina Gordon, but at that moment he couldn’t deny her anything. “Forty-nine.”
    Her jaw dropped seconds before she clamped a hand over her mouth. “No!” she said through her fingers.
    â€œWhy no, Dina?”
    She lowered her hand. “I can’t believe you’re almost fifty.”
    â€œI won’t be fifty until December.”
    â€œYou look incredible for your age.”
    Lance nodded, his chest swelling with pride. Dina had just made the reality of his turning fifty a lot more palatable. “Thank you. In answer your question about the car, it’s a 1963 Cadillac DeVille.”
    Relaxing against the supple leather seat, Dina listened to Lance extol the beauty and quality of his restored convertible.