Page 81 of The Millionaire's Mechanic

You didn’t burn bridges when you were starting a new business.

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Rainer got the visitor’s notification from Waters when he was on his way home.Samantha Jones.Wasn’t that a television character? Why the hell was a television character visiting Georgia?

After he opened the hyperlink on the name, he recognized the photograph. He vaguely remembered the blonde who had sold him one of his Ferraris.

Hmm. He knew Powell liked Mitch as Mack’s accomplice, but as far as he knew, they hadn’t found anything definitive on the man.

Rainer texted Powell back.

Has she been cleared?

So far, she’s clean, but the search is only 90% done.

Ah.Well, that was good enough for him. Powell’s background checks were better than the CIA, or so Waters had told him more than once.

But when he got home, there was something off in Sam’s smile. He noticed the brittle edge in her expression as he approached the gate, having parked his car a few spots down from Georgia’s workspace.

Rainer slowed his steps, wondering if he should call back his security detail. Per the routine they had established in the last month, his bodyguards had gone upstairs on arrival, while he lingered with Georgia down here. Waters, the man assigned to her today, would stay with them until she was done and ready to go upstairs.

It wasn’t the first time they’d had company either. Judy, Ephraim, and a few other friends from their old neighborhood had cleared Powell’s background check gauntlet. As he’d planned, they came and sat in the conversation area, chatting with Georgia as she worked on a restoration, or in one case, a former neighbor’s car.

He really shouldn’t have been surprised to see Samantha here. The saleswoman was sitting on a rolling stool between the couch where Waters was watching her with a dreamy expression, and the ‘Vette, which was on the car ramp. Georgia was underneath on the creeper, working and talking like nothing was wrong.

And she’s right. Everything is fine.

Samantha raised a manicured hand to hail him. “Hello Mr. Torsten—or can I call you Rainer now?” she asked, switching to his first name without waiting for an answer.

Grabbing a soft drink from the fridge he sat down. Samantha smoothly included him in the conversation she and Georgia were having about a new restaurant she’d tried, located a few blocks from them.

She was perfectly charming. For some reason, though, Rainer’s hackles didn’t lower. Maybe it was the subtle tension carving a shallow groove around her mouth, or the way she kept glancing at Waters. Rainer retreated a few steps to the edge of the work zone, toward the hood end of the Corvette, wondering if he should nudge Georgia into knocking off sooner rather than later so they could excuse themselves.

I hope she doesn’t invite Sam to dinner.

He was chiding himself for the ungenerous thought, when Waters suddenly slumped over, dropping his phone on the concrete with a clatter.

Rainer scrambled to his feet “Waters? What’s wrong?”

He’d taken a few steps in the guard’s direction when Sam leapt out of her seat, the hand she’d had in her bag snapping up. His brain registered the strange outline of the oversized pistol a split second before he reacted.

Rainer threw himself onto the hard floor. Rolling automatically, he opened his mouth to shout a warning as something whistled past him.

He jerked his head, realizing that the object shot at him wasn’t a bullet, but a tranquilizer dart.

What the fuck?

“George, stay down,” he yelled when he heard the distinctive sound of the creeper’s wheels on the concrete.

He crawled around the front of the Corvette, intending to pull her out from the other side, but Sam was on him. Between one blink and the next, she’d switched guns, swapping out the tranquilizer for a sleek Berretta. And she was pointing it at his head.

Time slowed down. Samantha was yelling at him, but he couldn’t make out the words. But he got the gist when a dark van shot into the garage, tires squealing.

And then shit got confusing. The headlights of the Corvette flared, the engine turning over.

“Get back,” Georgia shouted. He turned his head just in time to see her behind the wheel of the Corvette as she floored it. The car shot forward.

Rainer jumped, his back slamming against the chain links as the ‘Vette pinned him against one corner. Georgia had managed to get the vehicle wedged so that the open door was forced against the side panel of the car on the right, effectively trapping him between it and the back of the fence.

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