Sylvie fixed him with her sexiest grin. “Who says I let someone else restore her?”
His eyebrow rose. “Impressive.”
“I had a lot of help from George. He’s quite the car buff too.”
“Sergeant Williams? Was this when you were a rookie cop?”
“Oh, no. Way before that.” Still smiling, she looked down, weighing her next words. “George and Cynthia took me in. I was a homeless kid.”
“Oh. I didn’t know.”
“I was lucky,” she said. “I wasn’t on the street long before George found me and fixed that situation.”
“Where?”
“Denver. I don’t care to say where I’m from originally. As far as I’m concerned, Lyons is my home.”
He was surprised at the defensiveness that had crept back into her voice. Alex got the impression that, even though he was the only one around, she was justifying herself to someone else.
“So, George taught you about cars,” he said, attempting to get her back onto a happier topic.
She didn’t hesitate to switch. Her head snapped back up and her smile brightened. “Yeah. Hey, hop in. I know you’re dying to see what she can do.”
“That I am.” Alex opened the passenger door and slid onto the black leather seat. The whole car smelled like new leather and he wondered if greasy-smelling fast food had ever crossed the threshold. Under the rich leather smell, he caught a whiff of her coconut perfume. Leather and beach. Not far off from what he knew in California. The decadent combination drove him a little wild and he shifted in his seat.
She grinned at him from the driver’s side. “Nice, huh? You like it?”
“I fucking love it.” He ran his hand over the leather, noticing her watching his hand intently. He squeezed the edge of the seat just to check and yes, her pupils dilated ever so slightly. Damn. “I could run my hand over this all day.”
“The, uh, leather was custom-made,” she nearly stuttered, her pupils dilating. “Sourced from a friend’s cattle ranch just east of here. Even had him stamp the uh, horses on the seatbacks, even though the design was discontinued in the sixty-seven models, because I love the way it looks.” She cleared her throat and started the Mustang. Rock and roll blared from the speakers and she quickly turned it down. “Oops, sorry.”
“Oh, hell, turn it back up. I love that song.” He held up a hand. “Right after I listen to this baby purr.”
“Sylvie grinned. “We rebuilt the Cobra Jet engine. She even has the R on her VIN. She sounds good, doesn’t she? Just tuned her up.” She thumped the dash. “My girl’s in good shape if I ever want to drag race.” She put the Mustang in reverse, turned the radio knob and “All the Young Dudes” came back on as she threw her arm over the seat and turned her head to back up. “Love, love, love music. I haven’t been the same since Bowie died,” she said.
“Please. Left the planet, you mean.”
She rewarded him with a broad smile. “Never say die, huh?”
They pulled onto the road and he could practically feel the car—Alison’s—need to take off almost as much as her driver needed the release. “Where are we taking her today?” he asked.
“Well, we have two choices after Watchdog. We could go east and open her up across the prairie. Or, we could go up into the mountains and you can see how much fun she is to handle through the switchbacks.”
“I vote mountain. I haven’t had much of a chance to get up there past the foothills.”
‘Good choice.” She brightened. “You want to take the puppies along?”
That surprised him. “You don’t mind two Malinois in the car?” He touched the leather again and her gaze lingered a moment.
“I have a thick blanket I throw over the back seat. They’ll be fine, a couple of well-behaved gentlemen like them.” She winked at him and hit the gas on Highway 36, sending his pulse racing like the car. As if Alison could read the mood, Eddie Money’s “Shakin’” came on next and he chuckled. She caught it and laughed, too.
“Officer, I believe you’re speeding.”
“Well, it’s a crime that the speed limit along here is only forty-five, so.” She grinned.
They sped along, passing cars where they could on the two-lane road.
“Not to be sexist—”
“Which is how every sexist comment starts,” she said, though good-naturedly. “You’re going to ask me why I got into rebuilding cars and not, I don’t know, baking or embroidery.”
“Guilty.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She nodded. “Cynthia tried to teach me how to bake. Have you ever had one of her cookies?”
“No, dammit. I’m usually out with the dogs when Arden stops by with a plateful that Cynthia’s dropped off. They disappear quick.”
“Then you’re missing out, my friend. Anyway, she thought she’d teach me how to find my way around the kitchen and it was a disaster.” Sylvie laughed. “Lucky I didn’t burn their house down. She finally shooed me out the back door and pointed me toward their garage where George had gone to hide and said, ‘Go learn something useful from him.’”
“Hide?”
“Yeah. He was great at swooping in and rescuing me, but once I came to live with them, he realized he had no idea what to do with a fourteen-year-old girl. So, he hid out in the garage a lot at first, thinking Cynthia could do all the raising. She saw through that pretty quickly.”
Alex grinned. “So she sent you out the door.”
“Yup. But with a plateful of cookies—ones that she made; mine were blackened hockey pucks—so that he’d let me in. And it worked. While he washed the grease off his hands, I walked around the car he was working on, and then I asked a bunch of questions while we ate. That night, we both came in for dinner covered in grease. We were inseparable every Sunday afternoon after that.” The smile on her face warmed his heart. “He taught me everything I needed to know about cars. When I told him I was thinking of following in his footsteps he thought I meant auto repair.” She laughed. “Could’ve knocked him over with a feather when I said not cars, law enforcement.”
Alex chuckled. “I bet he was proud though.”
“More like terrified for me. He did everything he could to talk me out of going to the police academy. But I told him that I wanted to pay forward everything he and Cynthia had done for me, and that started with helping kids on the street.”
Sylvie paused. “Sometimes, you know, there’s this adversarial relationship that goes on between cops and people on the street. But not always. I wanted to be an officer because I knew what it was like to not have a place to live, and that it didn’t automatically make me a criminal. If I’d stayed on the streets though, I was bound to get caught up in drugs and all that. Get found and exploited by the wrong people. That’s what happens, you know? People use people and it’s wrong.” Her voice had gone quiet and serious.
Alex wanted to lighten the mood. “But you’re a good cop, and I’m sure you’ve made a difference in people’s lives.”
She shrugged. “I do what I can. It’s not always easy. I wanted to work in Denver, on the streets I used to live on, but that’s not how things played out.” She hung a right onto Highway 66 and headed for Watchdog. “But kids wind up on the street in Boulder, too. Especially now.”