wheels. It was mud splattered, well-used, and scary looking.
“Climb on in,” he said, gesturing toward the front seat.
I quickly slung the strap of my satchel over my other shoulder, the strap now draped across my chest. I shifted the bag and scrambled inside, using the handle on the dashboard to help me in. I’d barely settled into the seat and buckled myself in before Blake started the engine, shifted from neutral into reverse, and began to back out of the parking space. He glanced at me just as he shifted the car from reverse into first gear.
“Hang on,” he said.
I was just about to ask why when the Jeep shot forward. I grabbed for the roll bar with one hand while the other reached out to clutch the handle on the dash, where a glove compartment would typically be located. We shot up the ramp from the garage level to street level. I squelched my fear, as barely stopping, Blake pulled out into traffic. We shot forward once again.
The wind blew through my hair and stung my eyes. Cars honked. Seagulls screamed. With the shift of every gear, I bit back a cry of alarm as we headed east toward the waterfront. Maybe it just felt faster because I was exposed to the open air. The wind whipped my face as we topped one of San Francisco’s famous hills. I barely stifled a scream as the tires left asphalt and we careened over the crest and then shot downward. I bounced off my seat and nearly bit my tongue.
My knuckles white, I turned to stare wide-eyed at this maniac. His gaze, however, was calm but riveted to the street ahead of us as he made his way through the sparse traffic, around a cable car, and then shot through a yellow light at an intersection.
I’d barely caught my breath after that one when he made a sudden turn onto Lombard. At least I thought it was Lombard. I lost my grip on the dash handle and reached out with my left hand, thinking to grab onto the console between the seats. My hand landed on his upper thigh instead, so close to his groin I thought I felt… in that brief instant when my hand clutched desperately for something hard and firm, I felt his thigh muscles tense in surprise beneath my fingers. Hard as a rock.
I pulled my hand away as if I had just been burned, stammered an apology, but Blake wasn’t paying the least bit of attention. Unfortunately, that brief moment of contact was all I could think about as he sped his way down the street until we got to Van Ness. The Maritime Museum of San Francisco was just ahead, but I barely caught an eye full of that before he made another turn into the Fisherman’s Wharf District, and then we zoomed past Pier 45, heading for Pier 39.
By the time Blake pulled next to a large hanger at the heliport, I was breathing heavily, my face was hot, my hair was a mess, and I was trembling from top to toe with a surge of adrenaline that had my heart pounding hard. When the death trap finally pulled to a stop, I stared out the windshield for a moment, amazed we had gotten here in one piece.
I swallowed and glanced at Blake. He gazed back at me, a ridiculously innocent expression on his face. All I could manage was to lift my eyebrows. He said nothing, and I didn’t either. After that hair-raising drive through the city, I was actually looking forward to planting myself in a soft leather seat in a private helicopter.
He wordlessly led the way around the side of the hanger and toward the open door in front. As we rounded the corner, I saw the chopper waiting on the tarmac. A nose wheel in front and two wheels just rear of the center. My eyes widened in amazement and admiration. It was gorgeous, black on the bottom, silver on top, its sleek nose ending in a sharp point. The shape reminded me of a great white shark.
“Like her?”
I glanced up at Blake, who was grinning down at me in pride. The smile transformed his features. I could’ve stared at him all day long and not grown tired of it. I pulled my eyes away and returned them to the chopper and nodded.
“Climb on in,” he said, gesturing toward the front seat.
I quickly slung the strap of my satchel over my other shoulder, the strap now draped across my chest. I shifted the bag and scrambled inside, using the handle on the dashboard to help me in. I’d barely settled into the seat and buckled myself in before Blake started the engine, shifted from neutral into reverse, and began to back out of the parking space. He glanced at me just as he shifted the car from reverse into first gear.
“Hang on,” he said.
I was just about to ask why when the Jeep shot forward. I grabbed for the roll bar with one hand while the other reached out to clutch the handle on the dash, where a glove compartment would typically be located. We shot up the ramp from the garage level to street level. I squelched my fear, as barely stopping, Blake pulled out into traffic. We shot forward once again.
The wind blew through my hair and stung my eyes. Cars honked. Seagulls screamed. With the shift of every gear, I bit back a cry of alarm as we headed east toward the waterfront. Maybe it just felt faster because I was exposed to the open air. The wind whipped my face as we topped one of San Francisco’s famous hills. I barely stifled a scream as the tires left asphalt and we careened over the crest and then shot downward. I bounced off my seat and nearly bit my tongue.
My knuckles white, I turned to stare wide-eyed at this maniac. His gaze, however, was calm but riveted to the street ahead of us as he made his way through the sparse traffic, around a cable car, and then shot through a yellow light at an intersection.
I’d barely caught my breath after that one when he made a sudden turn onto Lombard. At least I thought it was Lombard. I lost my grip on the dash handle and reached out with my left hand, thinking to grab onto the console between the seats. My hand landed on his upper thigh instead, so close to his groin I thought I felt… in that brief instant when my hand clutched desperately for something hard and firm, I felt his thigh muscles tense in surprise beneath my fingers. Hard as a rock.
I pulled my hand away as if I had just been burned, stammered an apology, but Blake wasn’t paying the least bit of attention. Unfortunately, that brief moment of contact was all I could think about as he sped his way down the street until we got to Van Ness. The Maritime Museum of San Francisco was just ahead, but I barely caught an eye full of that before he made another turn into the Fisherman’s Wharf District, and then we zoomed past Pier 45, heading for Pier 39.
By the time Blake pulled next to a large hanger at the heliport, I was breathing heavily, my face was hot, my hair was a mess, and I was trembling from top to toe with a surge of adrenaline that had my heart pounding hard. When the death trap finally pulled to a stop, I stared out the windshield for a moment, amazed we had gotten here in one piece.
I swallowed and glanced at Blake. He gazed back at me, a ridiculously innocent expression on his face. All I could manage was to lift my eyebrows. He said nothing, and I didn’t either. After that hair-raising drive through the city, I was actually looking forward to planting myself in a soft leather seat in a private helicopter.
He wordlessly led the way around the side of the hanger and toward the open door in front. As we rounded the corner, I saw the chopper waiting on the tarmac. A nose wheel in front and two wheels just rear of the center. My eyes widened in amazement and admiration. It was gorgeous, black on the bottom, silver on top, its sleek nose ending in a sharp point. The shape reminded me of a great white shark.
“Like her?”
I glanced up at Blake, who was grinning down at me in pride. The smile transformed his features. I could’ve stared at him all day long and not grown tired of it. I pulled my eyes away and returned them to the chopper and nodded.
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