Roz Denny Fox - Welcome To My Family

“Poseidon, no!” Kat shouted. “Oh, my Lord.” She dashed after her pet and caught him moments after he’d muddied the man’s white shirt. It took considerable muscle to force the dog down. Amid garbled apologies, she dragged him back to her vehicle and stuffed him inside. “Shame on you. Bad dog.”

The dog nearly escaped again as Kat leaned in to straighten the blanket that covered her seats. Following another stern reminder to behave, he flopped down, looking guilty. His tail drooped. Kat heaved a sigh, rubbed his ears, then closed the door firmly.

“Hey, I’m really sorry,” she said, returning to the motorist. “Did he bite you?”

The man settled unfocused blue eyes on her, frowning as if she were an apparition, and definitely an unwelcome one.

Kat winced at his expression—and the muddy paw prints. “I’ll pay to have your shirt laundered. My dog isn’t…fond of men.”

“Not fond of them? Damned animal almost licked me to death. I hope you don’t think he’s a guard dog.”

Partly in deference to her mother’s advice, and partly because of his attitude, Kat bristled. “No telling what that animal would do if I was in danger. Kill, maybe. So you’d better not try any funny business. Are you out of gas or something?” she asked, nodding at his car.

Slater Kowalski gaped at the dark-haired, dark-eyed pixie, who, for all he knew, could be telling the truth about her dog’s potential to kill on command. But why was she acting snippy? He was the victim here. He hadn’t flagged her down.

Then, because the woman and her ill-mannered mutt were the last straw at the end of a rotten week, Slater turned and kicked his car’s front tire. Not feeling any better, he smacked a hand on the sleek, wet fender. A fender representing the aerodynamic pinnacle of the future. On a car of his own design. So why couldn’t his team of engineers make the damn thing run?

His anger drained as it occurred to Slater that the woman was probably questioning his sanity. “I’m not out of gas,” he said wearily. “She doesn’t even use conventional gas.”

“Ah.” Kat wiped the rain from her eyes. “I see. Diesel,” she stated flatly. “They can be cantankerous if you get water in the fuel lines. All this rain.” She shrugged expansively. “I suppose I can give you a lift into town. Poseidon won’t bite…unless I’m threatened,” she added for good measure.

Was she kidding? Leave his million-dollar baby? Walk away from his precious prototype on which the future of Flintridge Motors rested? “Uh…no thanks.” Slater knew his refusal sounded stiff. “It’s not diesel, either. But I really can’t leave her out here.”

Kat couldn’t believe anyone in his predicament would be so stubborn. “I’m sure she represents a hunk of cash to your employer,” she said, using the feminine pronoun as he had—the way her dad and brothers all did when discussing automobiles.

“Be reasonable,” Kat continued, glancing pointedly up and down the road. “This isn’t exactly a thoroughfare. She’ll be safe here until you can round up a tow truck.”

The man continued to shake his head, and Kat watched his transparent shirt move like a second skin against lean muscles. Quite suddenly she found it difficult to breathe. Darn, she’d always been a sucker for the well-toned look of a runner. And this guy had it all—except brains, obviously. Exasperated, Kat deliberately stuck her head beneath the black car’s hood. “I’ve got a pretty decent toolbox with me. What are her symptoms? If you’re not using gas or diesel, then what? Methanol? She looks too heavy for meth. Are you getting spark from the ignition? Have you tried starting her again? Could be vapor lock, you know.”

The thirty-one-year-old CEO of Flintridge Motors almost smiled at that. “So, what? Are you a mechanic?” Slater found the possibility intrigued him as he dipped his head and joined her under the hood, out of the rain for a moment.

Kat laughed. “Not by trade. But I’m fair with a socket set. Actually, I grew up near here in a family that eats, sleeps and breathes automobiles. Most are engineers. Combustion, electronic, structural. You name it. One of my brothers builds headers for dragsters in his spare time. If I do say so myself, I’m pretty savvy when it comes to cars.”

Slater found himself backing away. After all, his engine was still in the test phase. “You don’t say?” He glanced toward her vehicle. “If you’re so savvy…why are you driving foreign-built in this town?”

Kat straightened and cracked her head on the hood. Her Trooper—and before that, her Toyota—had been a bone of contention with her brothers, too. “Look, bud, which one of us is stranded by the side of the road? Not me, thank you very much. Ask yourself who built this hunk of junk.” She tapped the front grill. “Nobody willing to put their name on it, that I can see.”

Nudging her out from under the Special’s hood, Slater slammed it closed. “Who’d you say your family works for?” he queried coolly, thinking this woman might be just a little too savvy to suit him.

“I didn’t.”

“What’s under those tarps? Hijacked car parts?”

Kat couldn’t believe she was standing in raindrops as big as hippos, talking to this insensitive lout who didn’t have sense enough to get out of the weather. “Do you want help,” she asked tersely, “or do you intend to stand around all night kicking your tires?”

Slater felt a flush creep up his cheeks. He’d been keeping this design under wraps for two years. He had a federal government General Services Administration contract to replace ten thousand agency cars, to be shipped in the not-too-distant future—which meant nothing unless he rolled them off the line on schedule. If not, the company founded by his family might well go belly-up, throwing hundreds of local men and women out of work. The last thing he needed to top off a bad week was some tomboy grease monkey psychoanalyzing him.

Except…that wasn’t entirely true; he did need her to deliver a message.

“Look, sorry to sound ungrateful,” he said contritely, flashing her a smile calculated to bring her around. “If I give you the name and phone number of my mechanic, would you mind calling him when you hit town?”

Unimpressed, Kat raised a brow. “You have a mechanic on tap at ten o’clock at night? My, my. Yet you don’t carry a cell phone? Aren’t you lucky I stopped?”

Slater yanked open his car door and dug around in the center console until he found a notepad and a pen. If he answered her sass the way he’d like to, he’d be stuck here forever. He’d been so anxious to test the latest attempt to correct the car’s fuel-line problem, he’d dashed out without a jacket, never mind a cell phone. Slater ignored the water dripping from his hair, even though it slid off the hand-stitched leather bucket seats and soaked into the Special’s plush gray carpet.

At a glance Kat took in the car’s rich interior and the man’s obviously expensive gold pen. She scooted in for a closer look and whistled softly between her teeth. Test driver, maybe? They tended to be arrogant, and possessive of their new toys.

Silently Kat accepted the note he ripped out and handed her as he rudely backed her away and shut the car’s door in her face. Local phone number, she saw. She hitched up her yellow slicker and stuffed the paper into her back pants pocket. “Who shall I say is demanding this mechanic’s lowly presence way out here on such a ghastly night?”

Slater let his gaze travel up a slender denim-covered leg that peeked out from beneath her oilskin slicker. Damned well-shaped for such a small woman, he thought, taking an unexpected jolt to the stomach. Tearing his gaze away, Slater reminded himself she was too smart-mouthed for his taste, even supposing he liked women with boyish haircuts—which he didn’t. “Name’s Slater. Tell Dempsey I’m stalled south of the twelve-mile marker out on the proving grounds with the Flintridge Special.”