Page 3 of Courting Catherine
Several others listed services provided by the shop and their rates. Trent supposed they were reasonable, but he had no yardstick. There were two vending machines against a wall, one offering soft drinks, the other junk food. A coffee can held change that customers were free to contribute to or take from. An interesting concept, Trent thought.
“Excuse me,” he said. The boots kept right on tapping. “Excuse me,” he repeated, louder. The music upped its tempo and so did the boots. Trent nudged one with his shoe.
“What?” The answer from under the car was muffled and annoyed.
“I’d like to ask you about my car.”
“Get in line.” There was the clatter of a tool and a muttered curse.
Trent’s eyebrows lifted then drew together in a manner that made his subordinates quake. “Apparently I’m the first in line already.”
“Right now you’re behind this idiot’s oil pan. Save me from rich yuppies who buy a car like this then don’t bother to find out the difference between a carburetor and a tire iron. Hold on a minute, buddy, or talk to Hank. He’s around somewhere.”
Trent was still several sentences back at “idiot.” “Where’s the proprietor?”
“Busy. Hank!” The mechanic’s voice lifted to a roar. “Damn it. Hank! Where the devil did he take off to?”
“I couldn’t say.” Trent marched over to the radio and flicked off the music. “Would it be too much to ask you to come out from under there and tell me the status of my car?”
“Yeah.” From the vantage point under the BMW, C.C. studied the Italian loafers and took an immediate dislike to them. “I got my hands full at the moment. You can come down here and lend one of yours if you’re in such a hurry, or drive over to McDermit’s in Northeast Harbor.”
“I can hardly drive when you’re under my car.” Though the idea held a certain appeal.
“This yours?” C.C. sniffed and tightened bolts. The guy had a fancy Boston accent to go with the fancy shoes. “When’s the last time you had this thing tuned? Changed the points and plugs, the oil?”
“I don’t—”
“I’m sure you don’t.” There was a clipped satisfaction in the husky voice that had Trent’s jaw tightening. “You know, you don’t just buy a car, but a responsibility. A lot of people don’t pull down an annual salary as rich as the sticker price on a machine like this. With reasonable care and maintenance, this baby would run for your grandchildren. Cars aren’t disposable commodities, you know. People make them that way because they’re too lazy or too stupid to take care of the basics. You needed a lube job six months ago.”
Trent’s fingers drummed on the side of his briefcase. “Young man, you’re being paid to service my car, not to lecture me on my responsibilities to it.” In a habit as ingrained as breathing, he checked his watch. “Now, I’d like to know when my car will be ready, as I have a number of appointments.”
“Lecture’s free.” C.C. gave a push and sent the creeper scooting out from under the car. “And I’m not your young man.”
That much was quite obvious. Though the face was grimy and the dark hair cropped boyishly short, the body clad in greasy coveralls was decidedly feminine. Every curvy inch of it. Trent wasn’t often thrown for a loss, but now he simply stood, staring as C.C. rose from the creeper and faced him, tapping a wrench against her palm.
Looking beyond the smears of black on her face, Trent could see she had very white skin in contrast with her ebony hair. Beneath the fringe of bangs, her forest-green eyes were narrowed. Her full, unpainted lips were pursed in what, under different circumstances, would have been a very sexy pout. She was tall for a woman and built like a goddess. It was she, Trent realized, who smelled of motor oil and honeysuckle.
“Got a problem?” she asked him. C.C. was well aware that his gaze had drifted down from the neck of her coveralls to the cuffs and back again. She was used to it. But she didn’t have to like it.
The voice had an entirely different effect when a man realized those dark, husky tones belonged to a woman. “You’re the mechanic?”
“No, I’m the interior decorator.”
Trent glanced around the garage with its oil-splattered floor and cluttered worktables. He couldn’t resist. “You do very interesting work.”
Letting the breath out between her teeth, she tossed the wrench onto a workbench. “Your oil and air filter needed to be changed. The timing was off and the carburetor needed some adjusting. You still need a lube job and your radiator should be flushed.”
“Will it run?”
“Yeah, it’ll run.” C.C. took a rag out of her pocket and began to wipe her hands. She judged him as the kind of man who took better care of his ties than he did of his car. With a shrug, she stuck the rag back into her pocket. It was no concern of hers. “Come through to the office and we can settle up.”
She led the way through the door at the rear of the garage, into a narrow hallway that angled into a glass-walled office. It was cramped with a cluttered desk, thick parts catalogues, a half-full gumball machine and two wide swivel chairs. C.C. sat and, in the uncanny way of people who heap papers on their desks, put her hand unerringly on her invoices.
“Cash or charge?” she asked him.
“Charge.” Absently he pulled out his wallet. He wasn’t sexist. Trent assured himself he was not. He had meticulously made certain that women were given the same pay and opportunity for promotion in his company as any male on his staff. It never occurred to him to be concerned whether employees were males or females, as long as they were efficient, loyal and dependable. But the longer he looked at the woman who sat busily filling out the invoice, the more he was certain she didn’t fit his or anyone’s image of an auto mechanic.
“How long have you worked here?” It surprised him to hear himself ask. Personal questions weren’t his style.
