nicely. Even in those coveralls she was quite the unit. Mel had grown up and grown out, in all the right places.
“You forged this,” she accused.
Some of his amusement over seeing her again vanished. “Nope.”
“Prove it.”
Now the last remnants of friendliness went as well. “How am I supposed to do that, Mel?”
“I don’t know. But I prefer you do it from far, far away.”
Given that he’d just found out that his father had been royally screwed right before he’d died, Bo wasn’t going anywhere. “I want to talk to Sally.”
Mel’s eyes iced over. “She’s not here.”
“I’ll wait.”
“I’ll call you.”
Clearly, she wanted him gone. Too bad for her. “Where is she, Mel?”
She rolled her lips inward, her eyes suggesting she’d like to see him in hell. Too bad he was already there. But her attitude did give him some pause because he knew bugger well why he was pissed. He just honestly had no clue why she’d be. He’d have thought she’d be a bit more welcoming, actually, even offer to help him out, especially when she heard what he had to say.
But she did not want to hear anything from him. In fact, she snatched the deed out of his hands, then whirled off.
“Oh, hell no you don’t.” Entangling his fingers in the back of her coveralls, he tugged her back.
“Don’t touch me.”
But he wanted answers, and he wanted them now, so he held good and tight, clearly infuriating her. She was stronger than he remembered, and in the ensuing struggle, her hair fell from its precarious hold, smacking him in the eyes and mouth. She smelled like some complicated mix of shampoo and plane oil, and he shook his head to clear the silky strands from his vision, firmly taking her arms in his hands.
“Back off,” she snarled, struggling against him in a way that had him enjoying this little tussle far more than he should. “Let go, or I’ll kick your balls into next week.”
“Easy, now,” he murmured, just barely managing to hold on to her. “I kick back.” Wrapping an arm firmly around her, he held her squirming body close while with utmost care he pried the deed out of her fingers. “I’ll just take this.”
With a muffled growl, she yanked free of his grasp, the radio and phone at her hip clinking, as well as the various tools she had in her pockets.
Always prepared, Mel was, and it amused him some that so little had changed. Then he watched her nicely rounded ass as it sashayed off. He took a second to appreciate the view, thinking too bad he was here for one thing and one thing only, because she might be fun.
That is if she’d ever learned the meaning of fun, which he seriously doubted.
He followed her from the tarmac into the lobby, nearly losing his nose in the door that she tried to shut on him. “Look at that,” he said in her ear. “As sweet as ever.”
The only sign she’d heard him was her hand curling into a fist at her side.
She wanted to deck him. Seems Little Miss Hot-Head was still quite…well, hot-headed.
Not to mention, just plain hot.
Thrusting her nose high enough into the air as to actually endanger her to a nosebleed, she strutted her stuff across the lobby floor toward the front door, tools clinking.
Once upon a time she’d barely come up to his shoulder, and had been a cute thing with guarded eyes and a slow-to-surface smile. She was still barely up to his shoulder, and he watched with appreciation as she quickly and efficiently moved across the floor with enough attitude for ten women, those coveralls hugging her hips and legs, the radio on one hip and a cell phone hanging off the other, and a wrench in her back pocket, slapping against her ass as she moved…
He rubbed his jaw as she stalked right up to the reception desk, perched a hip on the corner and leaned over the beautiful woman sitting there, whispering something in her ear.
The woman immediately swiveled her head and leveled a shocked gaze on Bo.
Bo recognized her, and could tell by the effort it took her to even out her expression that she recognized him as well. By the time he got over there, Dimi was staring at him with cool eyes that gave nothing away. “Bo Black,” she said as if his name left a bad taste on her tongue.
He hadn’t expected a red-carpet welcome, but this hostility was getting old bugger quick. “Okay,” he said easily. “Let’s get this out in the open.”
Twin glares.
“I don’t have a beef with either of you,” he tried calmly. “I just want to see Sally.” Or wrap his fingers around her neck and squeeze…
“Sally isn’t available,” Dimi said.
Mel had one leg swinging jerkily from her perch, revealing her irritation. As if he couldn’t see it all over her face.
Irritated himself, Bo put his hands on the desk and leaned in closer. “When will she be available? Tomorrow?”
Mel blinked once, slow as an owl, and didn’t answer.
Dimi stared down at her fingers, which were fisted and white-knuckled.
“In a week?” he asked with what he thought was great patience.
Nothing.
Shit. He took a deep breath. “A month?”
Neither woman moved, just Mel’s leg swinging, swinging, swinging. He eyed them both a long moment, then forced himself to relax, because he had two things on his side. One, a boatload of patience, and two, nothing else was more important than this. “I can wait as long as it takes,” he warned.
“You don’t have a job?” Mel asked.
“At the moment, I’m doing a bit of chartering.”
“With the Gulfstream.”
“Yep. And I’m getting back into antique-aircraft restoration.”
“Like Eddie.”
The mention of his father’s name never failed to deliver a rush of memories and nostalgia, and now was no different. Bo found his voice softer when he answered this time. “Like my father, yes.”
Dimi bit her lower lip, looked at Mel. Mel gave her a slight shake of her head, telling Bo what he needed to know.
Mel was the one in charge.
“So what are you going to do?” Mel asked. “Stand around and watch us run the place until Sally shows up?”
Bo made a show of looking around, at the decided lack of customers, at the slightly shabby look to the interior of the lobby, at the nerves leaping off of the two of them that could together provide enough electricity to run a small Third World country. “Seems to me you could use some help around here.”
“We’re fine,” Mel said tightly.
“Fine? Maybe. But who’s got the deed, Mel?”
Myriad emotions crossed their faces at that: horror, dismay, frustration.
“Yeah, think about that,” he suggested, then whistling beneath his breath, he straightened and walked away.
Mel stared at his strong, sleek back as he headed across the lobby toward the hallway that led to the private offices in the back, and felt her stomach sink.
“What is he doing here?” Dimi hissed.
Mel leaned in and grabbed the phone. “You heard him.” Her gaze was still locked on Bo as she punched in the number she’d memorized years ago: Sally’s cell. “He wants to talk to