Nashville 3 - What We Feel (17 page)
Will knocked on the window and leaned forward. The woman sat there, staring straight ahead as if in a trance. Alarm stabbed at him. What if she was hurt?
Before he could complete the thought, the car door opened, barely missing his nose. The woman slid out of the front seat, sidestepping him until they stood a good four feet apart. Focusing to the left of his shoulder, she asked in a frigid voice, “Was there a problem with your brakes?”
The question sounded innocent enough but her tried-and-convicted tone rankled Will. He took a step back and arched a brow, taking in the wool cap pulled so low on her head that she appeared not to have any hair, the round glasses that seemed to dwarf her small face, the scarf wrapped around her neck and tucked under her chin. From the way she’d mummified herself, he could barely see where the hat ended and the scarf began.
“Hey, I’ll be the first to admit this was my fault. But you were barely moving, you know.”
The woman kept her eyes averted and appeared to be searching for words. Her response, when it finally came, was calm and reasonable. “McClanahan wasn’t exactly made for drag racing.”
He slid his sunglasses down his nose and stared at her, his eyes narrowed. Something about the woman seemed familiar. Only he couldn’t see her well enough to figure out what. He stepped back and frowned at her. “Do I know you?”
The woman hesitated. Then she quickly pushed past him and slid into the car to shuffle through some papers she pulled from the glove compartment. “I have an appointment in a few minutes so if you don’t mind, I’d like to get this over with. I assume you have insurance.”
Will couldn’t remember the last time a woman had given him the cold shoulder. Maybe he’d gotten spoiled, but her attitude ticked him off. “I do,” he snapped. “And I’d rather not get the police involved in this. I’ve had a pisser of a day, if you’ll pardon the language. Your damage is minimal. I’ll take a chance on mine. I’m late for something myself.”
Her eyes widened. “If you could please give me your company’s name.” She kept her gaze on the notepad in her hand, pen poised in midair.
“Better yet,” he said, his voice softer now, “how about if I just pay you for the damage? We could make a reasonable estimate, and if it’s more, you can get in touch with me later.”
“I’d prefer to keep this within the law.”
“I wasn’t suggesting anything illegal.”
“Convenient. You’re interested in convenience.” She nodded impatiently. “All right. We’ll do it your way.”
“Sounds reasonable enough.” He turned and made his way back to the Ferrari, deliberately taking his time. Reaching for the wallet inside the glove compartment, he pulled out a wad of cash and counted out several large bills. That ought to do it. He doubted the whole car was worth that much.
Favoring his right knee, he ambled back to the woman’s car and leaned inside to hand her the money along with a few insurance papers. “It’s all there. With a toll-free number. I don’t imagine you’ll need it, though. This should cover it.”
The woman glanced down at the money and shook her head.
“I made what I thought was a generous guess,” he said. “If it’s too much, keep the rest for your trouble.”
“Fine,” she said, looking suddenly angry. With surprising strength, she yanked the door closed, leaving him staring at her through the window.
He took a hasty step back and then grimaced when a pain shot through his leg. Suddenly he realized he hadn’t told her he’d disconnect the two cars himself. It would need to be done carefully, just right in order to… .
He reached out to pound on the window just as she fired the old clunker, jerked it into gear and surged forward.
Speechless, Will stood there watching as she floored the heap and roared through the intersection at a speed that couldn’t possibly be described as a snail’s pace.
*
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PRAISE FOR INGLATH COOPER
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RUTHS AND
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OSES…SO SWEET AND ADORABLE,
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