Page 52 of Midnight Enemy

“Wow,” Ana says, eyes wide.

Orson’s shirt hangs over the top of a pair of caramel-colored chinos. The shirt is black, but the placket, turned-back cuffs, and the inside of the collar are made of a paisley material the same color as his bright blue eyes. His haircut is so sharp it could cut glass, and his jaw issmooth as. He’s wearing his fancy watch on his left wrist. He looks classy and rich and sophisticated.

What the hell does he want with me?

“I bet he smells amazing,” Ana says.

“He does.” I bite my lip as her eyebrows rise. “I mean I bet you’re right. He looks like the kind of guy who wears expensive cologne.”

Her lips curve up, but she just says, “Are you ready?”

“No.”

She winks at me, then goes over to the door and answers it as he approaches.

“Hello, Ana,” I hear him say.

I pick up my clutch and walk forward. It’s weird; he’s not six foot eight or anything, but it feels as if he fills the doorway. I guess it’s his presence or his posture. He stands there as if he owns the world. As if he’s a Bond villain who expects to be obeyed.

“Hello,” he says. “Why are you glaring at me? I just got here.” His gaze slides down me. “Wow.”

“She looks good, doesn’t she?” Ana says.

“She does.”

“It took her half an hour to decide what to wear.”

“Ana!” I push past them both and walk outside. “Come on,” I say to him irritably.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Ana calls.

“That doesn’t leave much,” I yell back and poke my tongue out at her.

Orson chuckles, then to my surprise, goes around to the passenger side and opens the door. I stare at him. He stares back, then gestures for me to get in.

“I thought you were going to ask me to drive,” I say. “But I’m guessing you wouldn’t let a woman behind the wheel of your baby.”

“Happy to,” he replies. “It has parking assistance for female drivers.”

“Fucking cheek.”

“You started it.”

Our eyes meet, and our lips curve up.

“Are you going to be trouble tonight?” he asks softly, lifting a hand to stroke a strand of hair off my forehead.

His touch banishes all words from my brain, and I can only stare into his eyes. My God, he’s so incredibly handsome. My gaze drops to his mouth, and I remember kissing him, his firm dry lips, his searching tongue.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he scolds, “or we won’t be going anywhere. I’ll drive us around the corner, and we can park for two hours and have each other for dinner.”

Rolling my eyes, trying not to think how wonderful that would be, I get into the car. He closes the door, then walks around and gets in the driver’s side.

I buckle myself in and look around the car’s interior, stunned. It’s beautiful, black and gleaming, and it smells of new carpets and polished wood and leather, as well as of Orson’s distinctive cologne.

He starts the engine, and it purrs, then roars as he puts it into drive and heads out of the commune.

He glances at me as he drives and says, “Do you like the car?”

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