That Kind of Girl (Fillmore & Greenwich Book 2) (7 page)

"Go." She shooed him with the rag in her hands.

Grinning, he saluted her. "Sure thing, boss."

Instead of returning to the car that was supposed to be fixed, she kneeled in front of the Black Shadow. The engine was in surprisingly good shape, but she had an idea on how to optimize it.

Poppy would have been leery about changing anything about the motorcycle. The Vincent Black Shadow was sacred.

But
she
owned the bike. She pursed her lips. No one would be able to tell what she'd done—it wouldn't be noticeable unless someone took the engine apart. And it really would make it run much better.

"Excuse me," a masculine voice said from the garage door.

She knew that voice. Her head popped up, all thoughts of engines and changes gone as she turned to face her unknown mural painter. "It's you," she said stupidly, standing up.

"I came to clear something up." He approached her, a motorcycle helmet in one hand and a bunch of dark red roses in the other. He must have noticed her puzzled look, because he shoved them toward her. "These are for you."

"Um. Okay." She stared at them, not sure what she was supposed to do. No one had ever given her flowers before. She was more a case-of-motor-oil kind of girl.

He frowned. "Aren't you going to take them?"

"Yeah." She carefully accepted them. They felt awkward in her hand, so she quickly put them on top of her worktable, next to her tools.

He watched her, his brow furrowed as if he were trying to figure something out.

Maybe she was supposed to do something different with them, like put them in water or something. She lifted her head. Well, he'd caught her off guard, and she couldn't help if she reacted weird. She didn't even know his name, and he was bringing her roses?

She blinked. "Your name? I still don't know it."

"Remy Savage."

Oh, hell, no.
She froze. This wasn't Sebastian's artist. "Siobhan sent you."

He stepped forward. "I'm looking for a dance partner, and your parents suggested I talk to you."

"I don't dance." She stiffened, feeling like she'd been duped somehow, even if it was illogical.

He looked pointedly at the tango shoes that were still on the desk.

Damn it. She strode past him, into her office, and shoved the shoe back in the box. "That doesn't mean anything."

"Hmm." He followed her in, not looking like he believed her. "Your mom said that you do dance."

"Not anymore." She'd loved to tango at one time—she'd loved all the dances—but one afternoon had changed everything. Talk about a sign. If she'd ever needed one to point out the destructive path she was following, it'd been the day she'd come home from school early and found her mother in bed with another man, one she danced with all the time.

George wasn't going to be that way. She didn't need the passion if it meant causing all that pain. "I'm a mechanic, and I thought you were an artist."

That made him frown; his jaw clenched as though she'd just insulted his mama. "Not anymore," he said, his voice tight.

Something in her chest cracked. It surprised and saddened her so much she had to put a hand over her heart. "Then I guess we don't have any reason to talk," she said, wanting him to contradict her.

"Listen"—he raked a hand through his already disheveled hair—"can we just discuss this? Siobhan said that you were an amazing dancer, and I tend to believe her."

George snorted, setting her butt on the edge of the desk and crossing her arms. "That's your first mistake."

Remy—even his name was delicious—shook his head. "Siobhan knows the dance. The dance is in her soul. She values it too much to make compliments when they aren't warranted. Your mother is a true
tanguera
. You have her look."

"My mother is a terrorist." She hugged herself tighter. "And I'm nothing like her."

He didn't look like he believed her.

She stood up and met his gaze. "If you can't do the mural, then you should just leave."

He stood silently, legs braced wide, still in his leather jacket, holding his helmet. His expression was shadowed, guarded. She wondered what he was thinking.

Finally, just when she'd given up on him, he said, "I can't leave until you dance with me."

She barked out a laugh. "Not gonna happen, buddy. I hate tango."

"You listen to tango music." He pointed up at a speaker.

Resisting the urge to turn it off, she glared at him instead. "That doesn't mean anything."

"We'll see." He smiled suddenly, and it struck her mute. It was a glorious smile—although it kind of made him look like a lion amused by a mouse. Saluting her, he walked out of the garage.

"As if," she said. Grabbing the roses, she tossed them in the trash and turned her back.

But then she whirled around and plucked them out of garbage. Smoothing the wrapper, she couldn't help but lift them to her face. They smelled sweet and innocent.

Swallowing the sudden flood of emotion, which she hadn't asked for and didn't want, she started to put the roses back in the bin. But at the last moment, she set them behind her desk until she could take them home, where no one would see them and think she was a wuss.

Georgina's brush-off the day before didn't faze him. She wanted to tango—he saw the longing in her eyes when he'd talked about it.

Remy pulled up across the street from the garage and killed the engine. He eased off the motorcycle's seat and removed his helmet, staring at the partially open metal door. Open just slightly more than halfway, it didn't invite anyone to enter.

Like Georgina.

For some reason, it made him want to breach her walls even more, which was so weird, because since Giselle died he preferred everyone to keep their distance.

"Oh. It's you."

He turned to find the strange gypsy woman he'd met the other day. Today she wore a dark scarf around her hair, and her eyes were rimmed with red. In spite of his misgivings, he felt compelled to ask, "Are you okay?"

She nodded, her eyes filling with tears. "It's just that my landlady passed away yesterday. I usually have tea with her at night, and I found her when I went downstairs."

His chest squeezed, and the words came to his lips so quickly:
I'm sorry for your loss. I'm sure she went quickly and painlessly
. But he knew that no words eased the empty feeling of having lost a loved one.

He wanted to walk away from her—this wasn't something he wanted to face. He'd done it already, and that agony had been enough for his entire life.

But the young woman's eyes . . . They looked at him like she was a puppy needing solace.

Sighing, he lifted her chin with a finger. "You gonna be okay?"

Her lips quivered, and a tear leaked from the corner of her eye. "Dolores was really good to me. I'm going to miss her."

"What are you going to do to honor her?" he asked.

The gypsy blinked. "Honor her? I hadn't thought of that."

"I bet it'd make you feel better, and she'd have appreciated it."

She looked up at him with a brilliant, if watery, smile. "You really are a good man. George is lucky."

"George? You mean Georgina?" He narrowed his eyes, cautious. "What do you know about us?"

"Everything." She clapped her hands so they pressed together. "Do you want to know how many children you'll have?"

"Me?" He took a step back. "I don't have children and I never will."

"Yes, you will." She smiled cryptically.

"My wife is dead." The words fell from his lips like ice.

The gypsy's gaze filled with sadness again, this time directed at him. "I know, and that sucked, but it's time to move on, isn't it?"

He gaped at her. When he could finally speak, he said, "Who are you?"

"Esme," she said simply, offering her hand to him.

He felt compelled to take her hand even though he knew he should run in the opposite direction.

She leaned in. "This is where you tell me your name," she whispered.

"Remy Savage," he said reluctantly.

"No way!" She laughed, the sound pure joy. "What an awesome name. You could be a hero in a romance novel, or a bartender."

"A bartender?" That settled it: she was loony.

"Because of your arms. You look like you can shake a mean lemon drop." She reached out and squeezed his biceps. Then she gazed up at him, all the laughter gone from her eyes. "You'll need strength to deal with her. She's been garaged too long. She needs someone who'll take her on the road, who's strong enough to keep her from careening off the edge. Someone man enough to make her purr."

He glanced at the garage. "Are you talking about Georgina?"

"Who else would I be talking about? Don't worry, I've got my money on you." Esme smiled and patted his chest. "Carry an extra helmet from now on."

"Is this like the roses?" he asked, skeptical. "Because those were a fail."

"You need to play the long game, Remy." She smiled happily. "Don't forget the helmet. You'll miss opportunities if you don't have an extra one."

"What opportunities?"

"Seriously?" She rolled her eyes and, shaking her head, walked down the street like she was headed to see the wizard.

Remy watched her until he couldn't see her any longer, mostly because he wasn't sure if she was the sort of person who'd suddenly show up and stick a knife between his shoulder blades.

He turned to face the garage again, a little stunned to see Georgina standing in the threshold. She wore pale blue coveralls and a white wifebeater underneath. A baseball hat covered her head, but strands of red hair escaped from the back and sides. Her hair glinted like fire in the sunlight, and he wondered if he'd get burned if he touched it.

She looked him up and down, and then she scowled. "What are you doing here?" she yelled across the street.

He strode to her. He had to. Truthfully, he couldn't help himself. "I've come to get to know you."

She scowled again, crossing her arms. "Why the hell would you want to do that?"

Because he wanted her as his tango partner. "Because I need more details about this mural you want."

Her scowl turned into an endearing pout, although he knew if he told her that, she'd punch him.

She stuck her hands in her pockets. "You said you don't paint."

"Maybe I know the right person for the job." He felt a ping of guilt, because he had no intention of painting anything.

She looked at him with distrust. Then she huffed and motioned him inside. "Fine."

He followed her inside the garage. Instead of traditional tango music, Gotan Project was playing today. Some tango dancers eschewed modern music, only wanting the classics like Biagi and Canaro. Remy loved to dance. He tangoed to anything, even Justin Timberlake, given the chance.

He turned and took in the space. It could have been an auto repair place anywhere in the country: old car posters, grungy and torn; sparse, uncomfortable seating, and a dirty coffee pot sitting in a corner. It didn't really seem like Georgina, not that he knew her beyond what Siobhan had told him.