Kitabı oku: «Here Comes Trouble», sayfa 2

It seemed exactly the kind of place that would be called Trouble. Especially considering that the barren landscape surrounding it was too marshy for farming and too rocky for developing. Reportedly there was no coal in the three mountains ringing the small valley or even a decent slope for skiing.

Just one sorry little town with a cocky name, her home for the next week or two. Or as long as it took to track down Mr. Taylor and get him to come out of hiding as Prince Charming and put on his Hugh Hefner robe.

She was about to swing the car around and head back when she got a welcome distraction. Grabbing her cell phone out of her purse, she recognized the number on the caller ID.

“Nancy, I don’t know anything yet, I just got here,” she said. Her boss, senior editor Nancy Carazzi, had called for hourly updates all morning.

“Are you sure he’s there?”

“How could I be sure of that when I’m still in my car?”

“By the trail of women lying in satisfied puddles of lust around the town square?”

Sabrina chuckled at Nancy’s droll tone. She wasn’t surprised by the question. Though her boss—and friend—had no use for men, in or out of the bedroom, even she had been intrigued by the stories about one Maxwell Taylor, the stud of southern California—at least according to Grace Wellington’s book.

Neither of them had seen a decent picture of the man, since his airline Web site only featured a group shot taken from a distance. Posed beside a fleet of planes, the owner of Taylor Made Air Charters had been indistinguishable from his staff. All of them wearing dark glasses against the sun, they had formed a solid block of blue-uniformed flyboys.

But Grace’s descriptions had been evocative to say the least. And Sabrina could picture him in her mind.

He was suave. Sophisticated. James Bond in a pilot’s cap, with an elegant, lean body and smoothed-back dark hair. He had high cheekbones, a strong chin, and deep, knowing eyes. She just knew it. Because she’d seen him in her dreams. A lot.

“You still there?”

Sabrina cleared her throat and pulled her thoughts off the book. That part of it, anyway. “I haven’t spied any women stripping and throwing themselves naked at a man’s feet.”

“Is that your plan?”

“I’m not the least bit…”

“Can it,” Nancy said. “You think I didn’t notice the dreamy look you got on your face when you were reading the Max chapter of the book? You were intrigued, Sabrina. Hell, I haven’t had any use for a penis since I decided as a kid that Betty should end up with Veronica instead of Archie, and I was intrigued.”

Laughing, Sabrina mentally admitted she’d been more than intrigued. She wouldn’t say so out loud, but in her mind she could acknowledge that her curiosity about Grace Wellington’s former lover had become all-consuming.

“It’s just curiosity,” she insisted, not sure which of them she was trying harder to convince. “Plus a lot of skepticism. And a little bit of disgust.” Okay, she could mentally admit it was titillated disgust when it came to some of the seedier details of the wicked pleasures Max had introduced Grace to.

Wiping her brow with the back of her hand, she wasn’t surprised to find moisture there. Even with the car’s air-conditioning, memories of those scenes made her break out in a sweat. But she gamely declared, “I’d never get involved with someone like that.”

“Who said anything about getting involved? That man was born to inspire clothes to drop, not dreams of wedding rings.”

Unfortunately, sex did mean getting involved for Sabrina—she couldn’t help it. Some fire and brimstone had remained burning deep inside her long after she’d shaken off the dust of her hometown and upbringing, and taken off to the big city to go to college. Her single one-night stand a few years ago had left her feeling so guilty that she’d thrown out the sexy pair of slut shoes she’d worn to the bar that night.

Racked with guilt…hmm, her grandfather would be so proud. After he condemned her for the one-night-stand thing.

She shuddered at the thought of the old man with whom she, her mother and her younger siblings had lived since Sabrina was twelve. But, hey, she was lucky. Only one-third of her childhood had sucked. Her first twelve years had been wonderful. Her sister Allie had also been old enough to remember the good times, and they’d talked often about how fortunate they were because of that.

Sadly, their brother and youngest sister had never even known what their real family life had been like, back when they’d lived in New York and Dad was alive. Since he died when they were babies, all they’d ever known was the judgmental narrow-mindedness of their mother’s father. Which might explain why Sabrina and Allie were so much alike—rebellious and anxious to escape—while the younger two were the models of proper youthful behavior.

God, she felt so sorry for them.

“You’re supposed to be tempting the man into misbehaving. At least that’s what you said when you came to me with this whole harebrained scheme.”

“Don’t remind me,” Sabrina said, shaking off the dark thoughts. “I’m still wondering if I had some kind of psychotic break.”

Nancy snickered. “Don’t sell yourself short. You can do it…you’re just his type.”

“Alive and breathing?”

“Yes. But also beautiful, vulnerable…So why not misbehave yourself while you’re at it?” Nancy asked.

“I’m not looking for a fling with a playboy,” she insisted.

“Yeah, yeah. You want someone nice.”

“Exactly. Decent, funny. A combination of Jimmy Stewart, Tom Hanks and every father from every old 1950s black-and-white family sitcom on TV Land.”

“Boring.”

She went on as though Nancy hadn’t spoken. “The kind who’ll be loyal and faithful.”

“Get a Labrador.”

“Gentle,” she added.

“Get a girlfriend.”

“Well hung.”

“Get a dil—”

“Don’t say it,” Sabrina ordered. “I prefer male sexual organs that are actually attached to a body.”

“Strap-on?”

Groaning helplessly, Sabrina muttered, “A male body.”

Nancy sighed. “Picky picky.”

One thing was sure, whoever the next serious guy in her life happened to be, he would not be the type who’d get so angry when a woman broke up with him that he’d seek cruel revenge. Like seducing her innocent younger sister, getting her pregnant and walking out on her.

Her sister Allie was currently waiting out the last two months of her pregnancy in Sabrina’s apartment. Allie’s entire life had been ruined as part of the stupid revenge plot concocted by a guy Sabrina had dumped.

Yes, she’d had enough scumbags to last her whole life. It was nice, decent men from now on. No wicked studs need apply.

So her almost overwhelming need to see this Max Taylor in person had to be about curiosity, that was all. She simply couldn’t believe any man could be a modern-day combination of Valentino, James Bond and a porn star—as Grace claimed.

Skepticism and curiosity, she reminded herself. Not interest. Not in a million years.

She was about to continue arguing that point, but a noise distracted her. A metallic banging split the quiet afternoon air. It came from beyond a small stand of scraggly trees right off the road. Just after it came the loud, familiar tones of a calliope—the plaintive call to come to the circus.

Glancing that way, she caught the sparkle of something brilliantly shiny—a beautiful gleam of light that seemed entirely out of place in this gray-washed landscape.

Sabrina liked shiny things—bright lights, big city, loud music, fun. Just one more holdover from an early childhood with her funny, doting father that life with Grandfather hadn’t been able to extinguish.

Which, she supposed, was why she ended the call, dropped her phone in her purse and stepped out of the car. The music and the colors were calling to her.

And her curiosity wasn’t going to let her head back to Trouble without finding out where they were coming from.

CHAPTER TWO

TROUBLE MIGHT be the name of this town, but as far as Max was concerned, a better one would be The Mental Ward. After two weeks in the Pennsylvania community his grandfather called his kingdom, he was ready to run screaming off a bridge. Anything to escape the sounds of people calling him a savior—or a villain, the rattle of cars on their last piston, or—worst of all—the excruciating chirp of dozens of cuckoo clocks, all cuckooing their black little hearts out when the minute hand struck twelve.

The clocks. They were the tormenting fiends who’d convinced him he was one inch from insanity. At least one—usually more—of the vile things decorated every room of Max’s grandfather’s house, where Max was staying. And his grandfather loved them as much as he loved the dusty old furniture that had come with the place.

A lumpy couch he could live with. A few dozen cackling birds he could not. They’d driven him out early this morning, seeking both peace and quiet and a distraction. Any distraction.

Only not a female one, which was the biggest frustration of all. He was here to live down his reputation. Not add to it.

Coming to Trouble had been about more than talking his grandfather into unloading this bottomless pit he’d dumped a mountain of money into. The man did have a thing for lost causes and a sob story—apparently this tiny town being bankrupted by an embezzling crook had tugged at Mortimer’s heartstrings.

Max couldn’t forget his second objective, however—to lay low and stay out of the limelight while his lawyer took care of this Grace Wellington nonsense. Which was why he’d been here for days and had so far not given so much as a second glance to a nicely curved feminine ass.

Not that he’d seen any. Which was probably a good thing, even though it felt like a bad one.

There were only two things Max liked as well—or did as well—as women. Piloting. And tinkering with machinery.

He’d gone flying this morning, and, as always, the freedom and beauty of an endless blue sky had helped. Zipping and soaring between a few fluffy white clouds provided the kind of mindless delight he otherwise only got with sex. But once back on solid ground, the feeling had quickly disappeared. He was still tense…restless.

Which was why he was now cussing and coaxing the rust-covered engine of an ancient carousel back to life. He’d stumbled across the glorious ruin in the falling-down remnants of what had been Pennsylvania Kiddie World during one of his daily get-out-to-stay-sane walks earlier this week. Something about the place had appealed to him, unlike anything else in Trouble. Certainly unlike the moldering, cuckoo-clock-infested ruin in which he was currently residing with his happy-as-a-pig-in-mud grandfather.

He supposed there were benefits to being the grandson of a town owner, because he’d been able to get the power to this park turned on. Not that it seemed to have done any good. The poor carousel motor hadn’t made so much as one long groan of agony in the days he’d been tinkering with it, even if he had managed to get a few wailing notes of the calliope to belt out.

“Come on, sweetheart, I know you’re tired and old, but you must have one more go-round in you, merry or not.”

“Excuse me?”

Jerking his attention from the control panel, which had required a good quart of WD-40 before even allowing itself to be opened, Max swung his head around and stared over his shoulder. A woman had come up behind him in the tiny, weed-encrusted, abandoned amusement park, which had once been the cubic zirconia jewel in Trouble’s dubious crown.

And speaking of jewels…good Christ, was the woman standing in front of him one. A blonde. She was a blonde. His absolute weakness.

She was also tall, curvy and had the kind of lips that’d make a man howl to the night in pure, primal hunger.

No. No howling. No wolfing at all, remember?

Swallowing his libido, he offered her a smile. “Sorry. I guess you caught me talking to myself.” He stood and brushed his hands off on his jeans, leaving a smear of grease on one thigh. Stepping closer, he forced himself to keep this encounter friendly, neighborly.

When what he wanted was sexy and suggestive.

She smiled back, also noncommittal. Cordial but not flirtatious. Unfortunately. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your work.” Pushing her sunglasses up onto the top of her head, she revealed a pair of bright sky-blue eyes.

Damn. A blue-eyed blonde with a pretty smile and a pair of succulent lips. A smooth-skinned face with soft cheeks and the tiniest jut in her jaw that said she was stubborn. A bright, smiling angel appearing in this private corner of perdition just like the sun coming out on a cloudy, overcast day….

He felt like groaning out loud. Who, he wondered, had he wronged in another life to have such temptation presented to him when he couldn’t—simply could not—give in to it?

She looked him over, head to toe, with that calm, innocent glance women always hid their interest behind. A tiny hint of color appeared in her creamy cheeks and she licked at her lips—those lips—to moisten them.

Just throw a lightning bolt at me and be done with it.

“Talking to yourself—that can be a dangerous thing,” she said, her voice throatier than he’d have expected from such a soft-looking female.

“So can cutting a hand on some of this sharp, rusty metal.” Max grinned. “I feel like I ought to sweet-talk her to make sure she doesn’t scratch me.” Hmm…had that sounded suggestive? He hadn’t meant it to.

Like hell. Knock it off, Taylor.

Her full lips twitching, she gazed at his hands. “Are you hurt?”

“Not yet. But I have the feeling I will be by the time I coax this old sweetheart into action.”

The blonde glanced toward the carousel, one fine brow lifting as she studied the decrepit wreck. The only intact portion was the mini-carousel perched on the top, its mirror-tiled roof still sending out flashes of light when the sun hit it the right way. As for the rest…the once brightly colored circus animals were now mostly a uniform gray, with spots of red or green occasionally showing through. The zebra was missing its front legs, and two jagged shards were all that remained of the lion’s mane. Behind each animal, old-fashioned mirrors—dingy and cracked—provided a distorted, fun-house reflection of the washed-out menagerie, duplicating and emphasizing the sadness of each pitiful creature

He had no doubt what the stranger was looking at—but did she see? He couldn’t help wondering if the blonde saw the same aching, sad beauty that had captivated him the first time he’d spotted this place, set back off the road in a tangled, forgotten clearing.

“I can’t believe this thing hasn’t been torn down.” She kept her words in close, as if talking to herself.

“Me, either,” he admitted. “From the service records on it, I’d say it’s been closed since seventy-eight.” Which meant it was probably almost as old as this woman. Just the right age.

For ignoring. He forced himself to focus on the book. And remember he was here as the boy next door. Not the wolf beneath the porch.

“I caught the sparkle of it out of the corner of my eye and couldn’t resist exploring. I bet a lot of kids around here have had the same impulse.”

“I would have when I was a kid.”

As she met his gaze, her blue eyes sparkled. Her chuckle was as throaty as her voice as she admitted, “Me, too.”

Their smiles and immediate mental connection to mischievous childhoods provided an instant rapport, one that took Max by surprise.

The blonde carefully stepped over the toolbox, which lay open on the ground, a smattering of hand tools jumbled inside.

Not Max’s—it was from his grandfather’s house. Max’s toolbox was immaculate. Some things a man just couldn’t mess around with. Like his tools.

And this woman.

“I guess the clang of metal I heard from the road was you doing some, uh, coaxing with your hammer?”

“Is that all you heard?”

“That and some music.”

“Whew. Glad you didn’t hear me yelling, so you won’t be reaching for the soap to wash my mouth out.”

Her gaze shifted to his mouth. Which made his blood grow one degree hotter and his jeans grow one size tighter.

“Don’t tell me you were cursing at your sweetheart.”

“Guilty. Patience isn’t my strongest attribute.”

He’d like to tell her what his strongest attribute was, but that seemed like a dangerous idea. Besides, if she liked danger, she’d know exactly what he was talking about and would continue the subtle innuendo of their conversation.

She stepped closer to the carousel, focusing only on it, obviously not a danger-seeker. That was probably just as well.

“It is a ruin,” she murmured, running a hand over the flank of a shabby horse whose braided tail was now merely a stump. “But somehow, it’s…it’s almost pretty in spite of that.”

She did see. And just like that, Max realized he liked her. Didn’t know her name or a thing about her, but the woman had vision. He liked a person with vision.

Especially when she also had incredibly long legs nicely hugged by sinfully tight jeans, and a mouthwatering hint of cleavage peeking from the scooped neck of her sleeveless top.

Stop.

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “It tells a story.”

“A wistful one.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of pathetic, but I guess ‘wistful’ works.”

“She’s not pathetic. She’s majestic…but worn. Weary.”

“Very weary. I can’t even get a moan out of her, much less a ride.”

Bad choice of words. The blonde’s lips parted as she breathed over them.

He tugged his attention off her mouth. Off her face. Off anything that could make him think things he should not be thinking. Which pretty much left the ground.

Nope. Flat, open surfaces suitable for rolling around on didn’t work either.

“Not going to make it easy on you, is she?”

He lifted his eyes from the soft grass circling the perimeter of the park. “No way. She’s stubborn. Keeps herself tight as a drum—dry—no matter how much I try to lube her.” He almost groaned. This was going from bad to worse. Mentally kicking himself, he gave it another shot. “I can’t loosen her up and get her going.”

God, he was out of control. Blathering suggestive comments without any mental volition whatever. Like his mouth was on flirtation autopilot. It was just…second nature.

The woman kept watching, silently. Something that looked like amusement might have been dancing in those blue eyes of hers, but he couldn’t be certain. Because her expression remained merely curious—friendly—not the least bit sexual or inviting.

“I mean,” he said forcefully, almost dragging appropriately inane words from the un-sexed corner of his brain, “this thing might be too much for me to handle.”

Not great. But acceptable.

He hoped.

“You keep insulting her and she’s definitely going to scratch you,” the blonde murmured as she stepped around him to examine the junction box. She bent over, her jeans pulling tight against the finest hips and backside he’d seen in months, and Max had to send up a prayer for strength.

“You actually think you can get it working?” she asked. She crouched down, shoving a long strand of fine, blond hair back and tucking it behind her ear.

No, he really didn’t. But damned if he wasn’t going to try. “What can I say? I like to tinker and I don’t like having to give up on anything.”

Merry-go-rounds. Sex. Marriages.

“Are you a mechanic?”

In the early days of his business, he’d been a jack-of-all-trades. Mechanic, pilot, reservations clerk. Flight attendant. Anything to keep Taylor Made in the air and in the black. “On occasion. I definitely know my way around a toolbox.”

“I don’t think even Mr. Goodwrench could get this old beauty going again.”

“I don’t think he works on merry-go-rounds. And I’m pretty sure he doesn’t make house calls.” Crossing his arms, he leaned against a striped carousel pole, which was a muddy brown and gray color, rather than red and white. “So I guess I’m all you’ve got, baby.”

The woman tilted her head back to look at him from beneath her wispy bangs, as if she thought he’d been talking to her.

He hadn’t. Well, maybe he had, just a bit. He couldn’t help it. Flirting with women had come naturally to Max since childhood, when he’d realized his older brother Morgan was always going to be known as the smart, determined one and his younger brother Mike was a fearless daredevil who also had the whole baby thing working in his favor.

Max had his charm. He’d been using it since third grade, when he sweet-talked his teacher out of calling his parents after he’d been caught on the playground organizing an enthusiastic game of Han Solo Kisses Princess Leia.

He’d been Han Solo. Little girls had been standing in line waiting for their turn to play Princess Leia.

Even at age eight the middle Taylor son had understood the appeal of the bad-boy. Let Luke Skywalker get the glory—the Han Solos of the world were the ones who got the girl.

But not this one.

No. He couldn’t afford those kinds of games right now. Not until he got some good news from his lawyer that his threats to sue Liberty Books had succeeded in halting—or altering—Grace Wellington’s book. Until then, he had to be on his best behavior.

“Well, I guess I’d better get back to work,” he said.

Perfect. His voice had held a combination of down-home friendliness and sincere work ethic while also silently telling her to move along.

Having to play Mr. Squeaky Clean was ridiculous at this point in his life. It seemed impossible that a tiny publisher he’d never even heard of might be so desperate to keep their book project going that they’d go after him personally. Would any legitimate publishing company really try to get some tabloid to do an expose on Max, showing him as the Don Juan he was made out to be in Grace’s book?

Outrageous.

Though he came from a wealthy family—and his grandfather was pretty well known—there was absolutely nothing about Max’s life that would garner the interest of a national magazine. His marriage had been pretty crazy, but not headline worthy. And he’d done some stupid shit following the breakup—but again, nothing to write about in the papers.

Grace, however, was another story. The woman had been the Paris Hilton of her decade before she’d married an up-and-coming congressman. When he’d become a down-and-out congressman and had committed suicide after getting his hand caught in a publicly funded cookie jar, she’d gotten even more attention.

So, yes, it could happen. There were a lot of jaded people out there who got off on reading about the rich and scandalous, so Grace’s book might grab some attention. And if the chapter about him really had gotten most of the rich women of southern California talking, he supposed the publisher might be pretty desperate to keep it.

His lawyer sure seemed to think so. Suspecting the publisher might try something extreme now that Max had threatened to sue, he’d warned Max to keep himself out of trouble. So Max had dug out his dented halo and would be wearing it from here on out—if it killed him.

And it might.

Playing nice and proper was bad enough on a regular day, but with a female like this one—with a body made for silk sheets, sighs and sin—it was proving torturous. He hadn’t expected to come to Trouble and stumble over a woman who made him stupid with lust, but here she was.

Which seemed almost too convenient, didn’t it? He hadn’t met an unattached, attractive woman between the ages of fifteen and forty since he’d shown up in town, and now here was one who’d tempt the Queer Eye guys to go straight. Out in the woods…alone…smelling so damn sweet and looking so damn delicious. What were the odds?

Not very good.

Suddenly, Max began to wonder if his lawyer might have been on to something. Maybe somebody out there was trying to set him up, to put his ass over the flame and see if he cried “Fire!” before being barbecued.

Could this blonde be some kind of reporter? Some tabloid shark using herself as bait?

All of his senses on high alert, he found a well of determination deep inside that enabled him to put on his best “I’m a trustworthy guy” face. That look—and the matching attitude—would stay there, too. At least until he found out exactly who this woman was. And why she was here.

One thing was certain—no matter how much she attracted him, Max Taylor’s business meant a whole lot more to him than any woman. So from this moment on, this one was strictly hands-off.

Which was exactly the silent message he sent her as he smiled, nodded goodbye and murmured, “Well, have a nice day.”

Then he bent down and returned to work on the engine, praying the blond sweetheart would leave before he forgot he was supposed to be a nice guy.

SABRINA HAD NO BUSINESS being out here on the outskirts of town drooling over the hottest male she’d ever seen. But somehow, she couldn’t make herself walk away. Instead, she wandered around the old abandoned amusement park, surreptitiously watching him work.

If there were such a thing as an orgasm in a box, this man would be the spokesman for it. That smile, that husky voice, that knowing look—oh, yeah, $29.95, ladies, flip the lid and start moaning.

She’d buy a case. That was for sure.

His face had sent her heart into overdrive at first sight, and his playful smile had made her stomach roll over about ninety-four times. The body—whew, that big, massive body—had awakened all her most feminine parts and started them zinging. Sparking. Melting.

He had her tense with excitement, hyper-reactive, on alert. Wondering what to say to make him drop his wrench, rise to his feet and get back to paying attention to her rather than the merry-go-round.

Which didn’t make any sense.

He wasn’t her type. Not at all. A muscle-bound hunk wearing dusty jeans that clung to lean hips and solid thighs was not on her list of acceptable men. He certainly wasn’t the nice, Tom Hanks type she’d been telling Nancy about earlier.

No. This brown-haired mechanic with his second-skin black T-shirt that clung to a pair of arms thick enough to burst its sleeves was definitely not for her. His shoulders looked broad enough for a lumberjack—as if he bench-pressed the cars he worked on. His thick, blond-streaked brown hair was windswept, and a little too long for “nice.” It was also much too tempting for finger-curling.

Everything else was wrong, too. His face was too lean, his jaw too square, his eyes—those incredible green eyes—were much too bright and knowing. His mouth was too wide, his smile too confident, his laugh too enticing. His hands…his big, strong, rough hands…Oh, God help her.

No, no, no. He would not do at all.

So why in heaven’s name couldn’t she make herself leave? Even when she should have—given his provocative comments. Then again, he’d looked so innocent, so friendly-but-not-slimy when he’d made them, that she wasn’t entirely sure he’d been coming on to her. Every word he’d said had made perfect sense in the context of the carousel.

And sex.

So which, exactly, had he been talking about?

The carousel. It had to be. This guy was too simple—too openly friendly, blue-collar working man—to play the kind of word games she’d been imagining. He was a small-town mechanic who saw the prettiness in a broken-down old carnival ride and was spending his spare time trying to revive it. Generous, sweet, gorgeous.

Perfect.

Could it be that simple? Could he just be the kind of nice, fabulous man women talked about meeting but never did? A good, honorable guy, despite his rock-hard, sex-on-two-legs appearance?

If only.

He had to have a flaw. Have the IQ of a rabbit or like to scratch his crotch and drink cheap beer while watching monster truck rallies on weekends. Something.

He was married. A chauvinist. A gambler.

She didn’t for a moment suspect gay. No way would any woman think that. The female half of humanity would never stand for it—they’d stage a billion-woman protest march at the very idea.

But there had to be something—some imperfection she wasn’t seeing. Because no way could he look this good and be the man of her dreams.

The man of her nice dreams. Her happily-ever-after dreams.

Not her wild, erotic, do-me-’til-I-can’t-move dreams about smooth-talking, Mr. Suave playboy, Max Taylor.

The idea that one man could be both was simply too far in the realm of science fiction to seriously consider.

Sabrina had to admit one thing. She somehow suspected her Max Taylor dreams were going to be supplanted by big-hot-hard-mechanic dreams, at least for the time being.

So, go! She shouldn’t be out here, wondering about this man, not when she had a job to do. But something wouldn’t let her leave. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe even a hint of cowardice about her real mission in Trouble, since she had about as much in common with a femme fatale as she did with Queen Elizabeth.

Whatever the reason, she suddenly wanted to take a few minutes for herself. Just a little longer to try to get to know this stranger who was apparently obsessed with bringing a sad old ruin back to life.

She’d begin her “mission” soon enough—dressed in the expensive knockoffs and playing the part of a rich, bored woman visiting a quaint American village. Trying to tempt Satan’s sexy henchman into revealing his wicked seducer tendencies.

Hmm.

Tough job. But somebody has to do it.

But until she threw herself into some incognito role, she just wanted to be herself for a while longer. Why not, for a few more moments, enjoy the company of this simple mechanic, who probably had never seen the wife of a congressman—much less gotten her naked in the ladies’ room of a trendy Los Angeles restaurant?