Lori Foster - Bewitched

She rolled her eyes. “Half the time, Harry, I have no idea what the hell you’re saying.”

“And…,” he added, knowing he was jumping into a muddy creek when he had no idea how deep it might be, “I will check into things for you.”

There, he’d committed himself. But even as he’d reluctantly uttered the ill-fated words, Harry wondered what else he could possibly have done. He couldn’t just let her leave; Dalton would never forgive him. He’d looked for his children, spent a small fortune on the chore, for a great many years. Now here was his daughter, despising Dalton without knowing him, resenting him on hearsay, condemning him without knowing all the details, and Harry had the chance to find out where she lived, to assure Dalton that his daughters were alive and thriving.

He thought of everything at stake, and added softly, “Please, Charlie.”

It was the “please” that did it, causing the rigidity in her shoulders to relax, her attitude to soften enough that she could agree. “Oh, all right,” she muttered, without an ounce of feigned graciousness. “I suppose it doesn’t make sense to give up what I want just because I’m pissed off.”

She was certainly direct. “Ah…exactly.” He retrieved her jeans and found her another jacket to keep her warm on the ride to her place. They both said goodbye to the dogs, who wanted badly to go along but Harry explained to them there wasn’t room. “Just guard the place until I come home.”

The dogs went back to sleeping in their self-appointed spots.

Ted was nowhere to be found.

“He sulks when it’s dark,” Harry explained, “because more than anything, he likes lazing around in the sunshine. When there is none, Ted hides. Which is good, because when he doesn’t hide, he makes his discontent known to everyone.”

Charlie gave him a soft, feminine look that took him completely off-guard. “You’re very good to them, Harry.”

He didn’t like that look, didn’t want her thinking soft, feminine things about him, not when he couldn’t do anything about it. So he hustled her out to the parking garage where he kept his car before temptation could get the better of him, or before she could start disagreeing with him again. She truly was a most contrary woman.

He worried about her being barefoot, but he certainly had no shoes that would stay on her small feet, and she’d disdained the socks he offered her. Luckily, the complex was kept tidy, with nothing strewn about the grounds to injure her tender skin. No broken glass or debris.

She had very cute feet.

“You know, Harry, I figured you’d left your car at the grocery today.”

Distracted from her pink toes—hardly a source of sexual stimulation, even if his body tended to disagree—he looked up at her and made a face. “My car wouldn’t have survived three minutes parked at that curb. I took a taxi. What about you?”

“The bus. Cabs are a little out of my price range.”

As he stopped next to his car, a shiny black Jaguar convertible, she dug in her bare heels, stiffened up again, and whistled low. “These are your wheels?”

“Yes.” He noticed her horrified expression and patiently asked, “Now what’s the problem?”

She turned to him, beautiful blue eyes wide, jaw dropped. “I can’t afford you! First that luxury town house, and now this. You must make a killing as a P.I. to afford this car. I mean, these suckers go for over fifty grand a pop!”

Her phraseology alternately amused and irritated him, but her meaning was always quite clear. After another heartfelt sigh, Harry opened the door and practically thrust her inside. “Put on your seat belt.” He closed the door, circled the car and slid behind the wheel.

Her frown was ferocious. “I mean it, Harry. We need to reevaluate here. I thought it’d cost a few hundred bucks at the most to get your help. I had no idea—”

The car started with a throaty purr. “I’m not charging you, Charlie.”

He was in the middle of backing up when she opened her car door and literally leaped out. He slammed on the brakes. “What in the name of—”

She leaned in and growled across the seat, “I don’t take charity, Harry Lonnigan!” He opened his mouth, and she said, “And before you bother sighing again, let me tell you, this is not negotiable!”

Since Harry had lost all semblance of patience, he barked, “Fine. Have it your way. But a few hundred will more than cover it, so get your sweet little posterior back in the damn car!” He ended on a shout, and shouting was something Harry had seldom done since his divorce. He liked it that way, liked his life calm and orderly, dished up to his specific design, without interruptions and disturbances and ill-mannered females throwing things into a whirlwind and stirring up unaccountable lust.

He sucked in a deep breath, sought for lost control, and continued in a forced icy-polite tone, “I have inherited money from my father, and that’s how I bought the car. Now, will you please quit making a spectacle of yourself and let me drive you home?”

She gingerly reseated herself, as if the leather seat could bite her. She also looked around the garage, then snorted at him. “I can hardly be a spectacle when there’s no one here to see.”

“I’m here, and your show is beyond distressing. A little decorum wouldn’t kill you, you know.”

She relatched her seat belt, then waited until they’d entered the nearly abandoned roadway before saying, “So you come from a rich family, huh? I could have guessed that.”

Harry looked at her with acute dislike. His father had been rich, and he’d also been unfeeling. He’d given Harry very little during his life, certainly no real emotion or pride or concern. Taking his wealth after his death had been beyond difficult. At first, all Harry’d wanted to do was give it away. But Dalton convinced Harry to accept his father’s legacy, to acknowledge and use the one thing his father had been capable of sharing.

He didn’t discuss his father with anyone but Dalton, certainly not with a woman he’d only known a day, a woman who seemed to take pleasure in pricking him, both his mind and his body. “You’re an irritant, Charlie. Now would you like to give me directions or should I try guessing?”

“Go to the corner of Fifth and Elm. You can see my bar from there. It’s called the Lucky Goose. There’s a big sign hanging out front, painted in lime green.”

That description alone was enough to make his stomach queasy. “You must be joking.”

“Nope.” She sent him an impish smile and added, “Lime is the dominant shade in our decorating scheme. Not too long ago, I had to replace several things, and I found a lot of stuff at an auction, real cheap.”

“Whenever something is ‘real cheap,’ there’s usually a viable reason why.”

She laughed. “You’re right about that. The lime is almost enough to make you toss your breakfast, especially with so much of it. But the men who frequent my bar aren’t out for the fashionable ambiance. They’re there to drown their supposed woes, and as long as they have a stool to sit on and a glass in front of them, they can forgive anything else. And to be real honest with you, the color’s kind of grown on me. I figure if I ever get far enough ahead, I’ll add some black accent pieces. That’d look good, don’t you think? Sort of classy? Black and lime?”

Harry shuddered with the image. I’ll tell Dalton how witty Charlie is, how spunky, how energetic. I’ll simply leave out her appalling lack of taste. When she continued to stare at him, waiting for his response, Harry forced a smile. “Yes, charming.”

She beamed at him.

“Tell me about your sister.”

“What about her?”