FLOWERS and CAGES Page 3

  No, Dalton was happy to play his drums, harmonize, and on occasion—find writing gold.

  The heat wasn't much better inside the garage. But without the sun pounding down on him, Dalton felt a bit of relief. Looking around, he wasn't impressed—or encouraged about the fate of his car. To call the place a mess would have been kind. The floor looked like a graveyard for broken parts. And they hadn't been buried with dignity. Tossed in every direction, it was chaos layered in dirt and grease. The work bench was a bit better. He could see where someone had tried to organize the tools, but it was haphazard at best. Shiny, well-maintained wrenches, and screwdrivers warred with the rusty and dented—and it appeared to be a losing battle.

  Shaking his head, Dalton's gaze stopped on a pair of scuffed work boots that peeked out from under a dark gray SUV. The rest of the person's body was hidden from view, but Dalton assumed he had found the mechanic. Bending down, Dalton raised his voice to be heard over the music.

  "Are you Mac?"

  The thunk of metal hitting flesh was followed by a string of curse words that had Dalton raising his eyebrows. Not for the severity, or impressive variety, but because it was obvious the mechanic with the foul mouth was a woman.

  "What is wrong with you?" The dolly shot out from under the vehicle. Before it came to a stop, she was on her feet and in Dalton's face. "Never—as in do not ever—yell at someone who is working on heavy machinery. I could have been seriously injured."

  Fascinated, Dalton watched as the redheaded fury began pacing. She came to about his shoulders. Slender, though it was hard to tell. The baggy coveralls hid her shape from his view. Green eyes flashed his way. He thought she was pretty. Maybe beautiful. The grease smudged on her chin and forehead didn't enhance—or detract. But it did highlight the fact that her skin was a lovely pale shade of cream.

  "Look at that," she shoved her thumb at Dalton. "Ouch! I could have broken the bone. What good is a mechanic with a broken thumb? I need this job, mister. Money doesn't grow on trees, you know. Food. Rent. A basic quality of life. They all take the green stuff. Moolah. Dinero. Capisce?"

  Dalton stared—dazzled and tempted. She was spectacular and so full of life, he wanted to reach out to find out if the vibration she sent through the garage intensified when he made contact.

  "Do I know you?" She moved closer, then quickly seemed to dismiss the idea. "No, I wouldn't forget meeting you."

  Was that good or bad? Dalton couldn't tell. But he knew he wouldn't have forgotten either—and it was all good.

  She stopped, hands on hips, her head tipped to one side and glared. "Well, don't you have anything to say?"

  "Plenty. But I was waiting for you to wind down." When her green eyes grew wide, and her lips twitched, Dalton knew he was going to like this woman.

  "Let me think." Pursing her lips, she thoughtfully tapped her chin with her index finger. "Yes. The wind down is complete. So tell me, gorgeous, what was so important it was worth risking my life and livelihood?"

  "I hate to set you off again, but don't you think that's a bit of an exaggeration?"

  "Hello." She shoved her thumb at him again.

  "I could kiss it and make it better."

  She looked him up and down. "Mm. I'll bet you could. Unfortunately, I don't have time to play."

  Too bad, Dalton thought with regret, neither did he.

  "Are you Mac?"

  "I'll answer to it. I prefer Colleen."

  Colleen. It suited her. Dalton would have loved to find out what Colleen had on under those coveralls. Damn bad timing.

  "My car started smoking just as I reached Midas."

  "Okay. Where is it?"

  "Out front."

  "Let's take a look."

  Dalton fell in step with Colleen. He didn't want to offend her, but he had to ask.

  "It's a Porsche. Have you ever worked on one?"

  "Nope." Stopping when she got her first look at the gleaming silver body, Colleen let out a low whistle. "You poor baby."

  "I'm fine," Dalton assured her. "It's the car."

  "I meant the car." Colleen ran her hand over the sleek hood. "What did he do to you?"

  Laughing at himself, Dalton had to admit he wasn't used to an inanimate object getting all the attention. Ryder was the face of the group—and that was how Dalton liked it. But that didn't mean he faded into the background. He lived the life of a rock star. Money. Beautiful women. His life lacked neither. And the perks? There was no such thing as needing reservations. From restaurants to hotels. If Dalton Shaw wanted in, he was in. Though he could remember when that hadn't been the case, enough years had passed that it had become the norm.

  "I didn't do anything. The car betrayed me—not the other way around."

  "It's a car, hotshot. It wasn't programmed for betrayal. If something happened, it's on you."

  Colleen reached into the driver's side, popping the hood. Dalton was no longer worried about her competency. Good or bad, he was dying to see her at work. He could always replace the transmission—or whatever. Watching her red hair gleam in the brutal sunlight. Seeing the way her coveralls stretched over her ass—her very shapely ass—as she checked under the hood was worth the price.

  "It's probably the radiator." Dalton leaned in.

  Colleen snorted. "You wish. See this?" She held up a handful of wire. Between the charred ends and a smell that was something between burned rubber and freshly tarred road, there was little doubt she had found the source of the problem.

  "That doesn't look good."

  "You have to love a man with a flair for stating the obvious."

  Inexplicably, Dalton felt a blush rise up in his cheeks. In this heat, at his age, and with his experience, he wouldn't have thought it possible. Thank God his already flushed skin made it impossible to detect.

  "The car is practically showroom new. That," he nodded toward the wires, "should not have happened."

  Dalton wanted to add that it couldn't be his fault, but he held his tongue. Obvious was bad enough. He refused to sound petulant.

  "You're right." Colleen tested another connection, tugged on a hose, then pushed him back before closing the hood. "Do you want the technical term or would you like me to dumb it down?"

  "Throw me the tough stuff. Maybe I'll learn something."

  "This," Colleen patted the car, "is what we professionals call a big, juicy lemon."

  "Lemon is technical?" Frowning, Dalton rubbed the back of his neck. "What's the dumbed-down term?"

  "Lemon," Colleen grinned, showing off her straight, white teeth.

  Dalton wondered if the heat melted his common sense, but he liked Colleen. Her sassy mouth and easy smile appealed to him beyond the desire he normally felt for the opposite sex. Lust was easy. Like was another thing entirely. It could lead to something rare. Something he had neither the time nor inclination to explore—friendship. With surprising regret, Dalton pushed the thought aside.

  "Do you think you can fix it?"

  "Maybe." Colleen shaded her eyes. "But why bother? Have the dealership replace it. Or get your money back. I can probably get it running. But it's just a matter of time until something else goes wrong."

  "I don't suppose there's a place in town where I can rent a car?"

  "Are you passing through?"

  "No. I'll be in town for a few days."

  Eyes narrowed, Colleen nodded as though coming to an important decision. "Would a classic Thunderbird do?"

  "Are you kidding?" Dalton had almost purchased a T-Bird before deciding a new car would be more practical. "Where do I go?"

  Colleen took a set of keys from her pocket. "One hundred a day—in advance. Plus a thousand-dollar security deposit."

  "What year is it?"

  "Fifty-five. Everything is original. "

  It sounded too good to be true. "How can you be sure?"

  "Because I restored it myself." Colleen looked at him, her gaze steady.

&nbs
p; Dalton figured he could change his mind if the car turned out to be a piece of junk. But he doubted that would be the case. He didn't know why, but he was certain Colleen wouldn't have offered if it were. A person didn't restore a car overnight. She had to put in a lot of time and effort. Which meant she wouldn't rent it to him unless she really needed the money.

  "Well? What do you say?"

  "A classic T-Bird?" And the chance to help Colleen? "I say hell, yes."

  IN THE OFFICE, Dole peeked through the slats of the window blinds. He looked hard, unable to believe his eyes. But there was no mistaking the tall, dark-haired man. Dalton Shaw had come a long way. Rich and famous—the son of a bitch.

  Grabbing the phone, Dole punched in the number he knew by heart—a number he hadn't used in years.

  "Hello."

  "It's Dole. Dole Wharton?" When there was no answer, he added, "From the garage at the end of town?"

  "I know who you are. What do you want?"

  Dole wasn't the sharpest tool in the box, but he recognized contempt when he heard it. Knowing his next words would knock the stuck-up bastard on his ass, Dole felt a surge of glee.

  "You'll never guess who's back in Midas."

  CHAPTER THREE

  COLLEEN RESTED HER hands on the tile. Head bent, she sighed with pleasure, as the stream of water rushed over her tired body, washing a day's worth of dirt and perspiration down the drain. There were times when she thought nothing was better in the world than indoor plumbing. Books made traveling back through time sound romantic—especially when a sexy Scot waited on the other side. Nope. Colleen wasn't going anywhere that didn't have hot and cold running water. A bath in a cool lake did not equal the sheer delight of standing under a fully pressurized shower.

  Besides, outside the pages of a novel, that Scot would have smelled to high heaven. Oral sex with a man who hadn't washed his dick in who knew how long? If at all? Colleen shuddered at the thought.

  Reaching for her one indulgence—an expensive body wash that left her smelling like wildflowers instead of motor oil—Colleen lathered her body starting at her feet and slowly working up. Not surprisingly, her thoughts turned to a certain sexy man who she would have bet a month's pay washed his privates on a daily basis.

  Colleen laughed. Dalton Shaw. Who expected a famous musician to pull his outrageously expensive sports car into the parking lot of Dole's Body Repair? Things like that just didn't happen. Add her sore thumb, the heat, and her frustration with life in general to the surprise factor. Was it any wonder she hadn't recognized him?

  Not that those things kept her from flirting. She had been distracted—not dead. It had been awhile, but Colleen recognized the zing—the zip of awareness—immediately. And felt his interest in return. Strangers were in short supply around Midas. Ones who looked like Dalton? Colleen smiled, turning her face to the spray of water. Nobody looked like Dalton—stranger or otherwise. His short dark hair and that crazy, sexy beard. On top of a long, lean body. It made Colleen tingle when she thought that not long ago, he stood close enough to touch.

  The entire episode had been odd—and exhilarating. The fact that Colleen had offered to rent Dalton her car—her baby—said it all. Nobody touched the T-Bird except Colleen. From the moment she polished the final piece of chrome, it had been off limits. Maybe it was the heat. Or her hormones. Or finding out the man standing less than three feet away was a certified superstar. She preferred to think it was the promise of some easy money. Whatever the explanation, she had promised Dalton Shaw the use of her car. He hadn't given her time to change her mind. He had taken out his wallet, removed a wad of cash that made her jaw drop, and peeled off two thousand dollars without a second's hesitation.

  Colleen hadn't expected things to move that quickly. Who carried that kind of cash around? She thought he would need to visit a bank—fifty miles down the road in Phoenix. Faced with handing over the car keys, a case of nerves hit her—hard.

  "I understand." Dalton had smiled. It was a killer smile. "All you have is my word—"

  "And your money," Colleen added, fanning herself with the stack of hundreds.

  "And my money. If you need more, that's not a problem."

  They stood in one of the few patches of shade. Though Colleen always covered her car with the protective tarp, this spot under an old, ragged strip of awning was unofficially hers. No one bothered her baby back here—not if they knew what was good for them.

  "It isn't the money." Colleen laughed to herself. She was fairly certain it was the first time that combination of words had left her mouth. "I know it's just a car, but…"

  "I understand. You put a lot of yourself into restoring it. Not simply your time and effort. Your heart. And a bit of your soul."

  "Yes." Colleen was surprised that Dalton understood—nobody else did. Not her mother. Not her friends. It took a stranger to see what she hadn't been able to put into words. Her heart and a bit of her soul. How did he know?

  As though he heard her thoughts, Dalton answered. "It's a little like writing a song. There is always a bit of me in it."

  Colleen wasn't proud of what happened next. It made her seem like one of those women she always ridiculed. Dalton reached up and removed his sunglasses. That was all it took. When he turned his blue eyes her way, every last bit of doubt melted away. It was crazy and illogical and so not her. But there it was. Proof that Colleen McNamara was no better than a giggly, empty-headed teenager. A sexy smile and a pair of the deepest blue eyes God ever created, and she was putty.

  Five minutes later, Dalton drove away. He had been the one who insisted on signing a quickly put-together receipt—something that had flown out of Colleen's mind.

  Turning off the water, Colleen stepped from the shower. She didn't think Dalton Shaw was about to abscond with her car. In all likelihood, he would return it without a scratch. However, if something did happen to her sweet ride? It was exactly what she deserved for turning into a huffing, puffing, blithering fangirl.

  Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, Colleen dramatically clasped her hands to her chest, her eyelashes batting wildly.

  "Dalton Shaw," she gasped at her reflection. "Take my car. Take my common sense. Take me!" With a sneer, she stuck out her tongue and sent herself a big, wet raspberry. "Idiot."

  Shaking her head, Colleen wrapped her hair in a towel. Yes, it was foolish. And maybe she would regret her decision. But damn, she laughed. Alone in her apartment, with no prying eyes to judge or mock, she could admit one thing. Dalton Shaw has the bluest eyes.

  THE NORTH SIDE of Midas, Arizona bore little resemblance to the place where Dalton's car died an ignominious death. Technically, they were same. They had the same city government headed by the same mayor. The aquifer provided water to all the residents—rich and poor. And the same brutal sun beat down on every home. That was where the similarities ended.

  The privileged class in Midas wasn't large. In a town of fewer than ten thousand residents, the poor far outnumbered the rich. However, those who had money had a shitload of it. And with money, came power. Power that reached far beyond the Midas city limits all the way to the governor's mansion, the United States Senate—and beyond.

  Dalton had come to Midas, a cock-sure twenty-two-year-old man. He had left in chains. Less certain of himself, but he had discovered one thing. Right didn't matter when wrong had the face of a rich man's son. That bit of knowledge had come at a hefty price. Almost a year of his life.

  Though Dalton wouldn't say that prison had been an experience he would recommend, it had taught him a lot about himself. His reward—if he believed in that kind of thing—had been a damn good life. Friends. Success. Money. As Dalton crossed the line between the south of Midas and the north, he didn't feel the dread he had expected. He was no longer a nameless, faceless nobody.

  One Tweet. A single Facebook post. A hint on Instagram. That was all it would take to have the social media world descend on this sleepy little Arizona
town. Fame—Dalton's kind of fame—came with power. Power he wasn't afraid to wield.

  Dalton turned onto a pretty little street. Tree-lined, the grass in every yard was green and meticulously manicured. Cookie-cutter houses lined up like good little soldiers. Stamped with bland conformity, the colors didn't vary beyond a shade of beige. Not too dark, not too light. The same porch with the same front door with the same windows. Not too big, not too small.

  As he pulled into the driveway of the one marked with a black two-sixteen on the curb, Dalton wondered if this were the inspiration for The Stepford Wives? The thought sent a chill down his spine. His sister was in that house. At least, he hoped it was still Maggie.

  Laughing at himself, Dalton turned off the engine. Colleen's car—that was how he thought of it—drove like a dream. The engine hummed—quiet but powerful. She had restored the interior with meticulous care. If he didn't know better, Dalton would have sworn the car sat suspended in time for the last sixty years. Colleen wasn't good. She was a master. If she decided to restore cars full-time, she could make a fortune.

  "Dalton?"

  Maggie ran from the house, waving. Taking a deep breath, Dalton exited the car. Opening his arms, he greeted his sister with a warm hug. He tried to feel the connection—the bond between siblings—but it wasn't there. It never had been. Dalton found it sad because he knew how special a brother/sister relationship could be. He saw it between Ryder and Zoe. Unconditional love. A blood bond that nothing could sever.

  Sadness and guilt were the two emotions he associated most with Maggie. Sadness that they would never be close. And guilt that Zoe—his friend and bandmate—was the true sister of his heart.

  "I'm so glad you're here." Maggie held onto Dalton's arm. "Come inside. We'll have a long talk and catch up."

  They were going to have a long talk, all right. Something was going on, and Dalton wanted answers. However, getting them from Maggie wasn't easy. In so many ways, she was like their mother. Beautiful in a wistful kind of way. The soft, flyaway blond hair, the pale blue eyes. The slight build that ran toward brutally thin. And the ability to pretend the world was perfect even as it crumbled into a million irrevocably broken pieces.