Chris closed his eyes and shook his head. "I had to ask."


* * *

Lugging the heavy warmer, Melanie limped in one shoe across the lobby to the security desk. The guard dialed Slickert, Cashman, and Rich and handed her the phone. She let it ring twenty times. No answer. She hung up and called the Pampered Palate.

"Pampered Palate," a gravelly voice said at the other end. "Gourmet To Go. It's on time or it's on us. May I help you?"

"Nana, it's Melanie. I'm-"

"Melanie! Thank goodness you called," Sylvia Gibson said. "The lawyers canceled their order not five minutes after you left."

Melanie huffed out a breath. "Great. I'm here now. What happened?"

"I don't know. Some emergency. They all had to leave. Looks like we'll be eating chicken for a while."

"I guess so." Melanie blew her hair out of her eyes. "How are things going there, Nana? Is everything all right?" Melanie worried that her seventy-five-year-old grandmother would overwork herself.

"Everything's great. Mike's brother came in to help out with the deliveries, and Wendy's manning the front register."

"Good." She glanced at her watch, forgetting it was broken until she saw it still read 7:10. "I'm leaving now. I'll see you within half an hour."

"Take your time, dear. All's well here. The evening rush is over."

Melanie hung up, thanked the guard, and hefted the heavy box into her arms. She limped across the lobby, then struggled with the revolving door, maneuvered herself around, and stepped outside.

That's when she discovered it was raining.

Actually, rain could not describe what was coming down. It was pouring. Pouring as if to make amends for a century-long drought. Torrents of water rushed from the canopy protecting the doorway. The rain fell in a veritable sheet, large drops that splashed up a good six inches once they hit the sidewalk.

"It figures." Of course her umbrella was in the car. Even though the Dodge was close by, Melanie knew she'd be drenched by the time she reached it. Looks like I'll be getting my bath sooner than I wanted.

She kicked off her one unbroken shoe, tossing it and its heel-less mate into a trash can. Drawing a deep breath, she made a run for it.

A deluge of stinging rain pelted her, soaking her before she'd taken a dozen steps. She scurried across the cement, intent on reaching the sanctuary of the Dodge. While struggling to balance the box and unlock her door, she heard a car door slam.

"It's about time you got here," a deep voice said.

Melanie paused and looked up. A tall man stood under a big black umbrella. He'd obviously come from the Mercedes she'd blocked in. He frowned at her over the roof of the Dodge.

Uh-oh. Mr. Mercedes looked pretty pissed. She squinted through the wet darkness and shook her streaming hair from her eyes. No smile, bunched-up eyebrows, set jaw, possible teeth grinding. He sounded pissed, too. Hopefully he didn't harbor latent homicidal tendencies. She wished she hadn't abandoned her shoes. The only weapon she had was a fried chicken leg. Well, she'd beat him to death with it if she had to.

She lifted her chin. "I beg your pardon? Are you speaking to me?"

"You should beg my pardon. I've been waiting out here for almost fifteen minutes." He peered at her through the rain. "Where I come from, people who double-park run the risk of getting their tires slashed."

"Must be a lovely neighborhood," she muttered under her breath. Realizing he had a legitimate complaint, she said, "Look, I'm really sorry. I only needed to run upstairs for a minute-"

"Since I've been waiting for fifteen minutes, that's not really true, is it?"

Melanie's anger flared to the surface. Well, excuuuuuse me, Mr. Mercedes. She had already apologized. Did this bozo want a blood oath?

"Like I said, I'm sorry. I'll just get in my car and toddle on home." Suddenly wondering if Mr. Mercedes was angry enough to turn violent, she opened the car door, shoved the box of food across the seat, and slid in, quickly slamming and locking the door. She looked over and was relieved to see him get back into his car.

Melanie stuck the key in the ignition and turned it. A weak grrrrr sounded and nothing else. She tried it again. An even weaker grrrrr came out. On the third try, nothing. She thunked her forehead on the steering wheel.

"This day has to end… this day has to end… this day has to end!" She turned the key again, but only silence met her ears.

A tap sounded on the driver's window and Melanie yelped in fright. She looked up and saw a face peering at her from beneath a black umbrella. Touching her palm to her beating heart, she took a deep breath. Mr. Mercedes. She rolled down the window an inch.

"I don't mean to harp on this," he said in a distinctly sarcastic tone through the crack, "but when you said you were leaving, I sort of assumed you meant sometime tonight."

Ha, ha, ha. Very funny. Mr. Mercedes was a veritable Jerry Seinfeld. Smothering a groan of annoyance, Melanie turned the knob to lower the window farther.

The knob came off in her palm.

She squeezed her eyes shut and mentally cursed the Dodge in six languages. Pulling herself together, she looked up at Mr. Mercedes. She couldn't see much through the crack in the window, but what she could see didn't scream serial killer. At least he didn't have CRAZED MURDERER tattooed on his forehead.

He was just a tired businessman trying to get home from work. Of course, he seemed a tad irritated, but who could blame him? She was a bit out-of-sorts herself. Deciding her choices were to face Mr. Mercedes or rot in the Dodge, she opened the door. He backed up to give her room to get out.

"Look," Melanie said, standing under his umbrella, trying to keep her impatience under control, "I'm really sorry about this, but now it seems that my car won't…"

Her voice trailed off as she got her first look at Mr. Mercedes. Good grief. Melanie stared at him and her breath deserted her body in a whoosh. Must be a trick of the light, and the sheen of the rain. No man could be that gorgeous.

He stood at least six two, and his face looked like something out of a Ralph Lauren ad. All sculpted planes, bedroomy blue eyes, and a firm, square jaw, complete with sexy five o'clock shadow.

A stark white dress shirt contrasted with his ebony hair and accentuated his broad shoulders. He'd loosened his conservative paisley tie, and his shirtsleeves were rolled back, exposing tanned, muscular forearms. Dark gray dress pants hugged his lean hips. Her eyes traveled back up his long length. No doubt about it: The good-looks god had clearly favored this guy. He had to be married. She looked at his left hand. No ring. Probably gay.

"Your car won't what?" he asked, bringing her thoughts back to her present problem.

Melanie snapped her gaze back up to his face. He was staring at her, frowning, his annoyance evident. "Start," she replied. "My car won't start."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. I don't know much about cars, but I know when one won't start. It growled at me twice, then died."

His gaze shifted over her shoulder to look at the Dodge. "No offense, but it looks like it was time for it to go."

Melanie took immediate umbrage. Nobody insulted her car. She drew herself up to her full five feet eight inches. "Hey, this car is a classic. It's in perfect condition. Almost. It might not be as fancy as your wheels, but it gets me where I've got to go… or at least it did until a few minutes ago."

"Mind if I give it a try?" he asked. When she hesitated, he looked skyward. "Listen, lady, I'm not about to steal your car, okay? I'm tired, I'm hungry, I'm soaked from the knees down, and I'd like to get out of here sometime before midnight. Until that piece of… er… your car gets moved, I'm stuck."

Sheesh. What a grouch. And at least he was only wet from the knees down. She was soaked through to her skin. "Be my guest," Melanie said, sweeping her hand in a grand gesture toward the driver's seat.

"Thanks. Here," he said, passing her the umbrella. "Hold this."

He slid into the driver's seat and yelped in pain, pushing up his hips as high as the steering wheel would allow.

"Watch out," Melanie warned. "There're a couple of broken springs in the seat."

He sent her a withering look. "Thanks."

"No problem."

He turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. "You said it growled at you?" he asked, looking up at her.

"Twice. Then it died."

"Well, I'd guess that your battery is dead. Do you have jumper cables?"

Melanie shook her head. "’Fraid not."

He muttered something under his breath that Melanie didn't catch, but based on the look on his face, she decided that was probably for the best.

"Maybe the person who's parked in front of you or behind you will show up," she suggested, hoping it was true.

"Based on the day I've had, they've probably gone on vacation and won't be back 'til Christmas." He took a deep breath. "I might as well jump you-"

"Whoa, buddy. Hold it right there." Melanie backed up several steps. "If you touch me, I'll scream. I've got chicken legs and I'm not afraid to use them."

He stared at her as though she was an escapee from the home for the criminally insane. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"If you think I'll stand here and let you jump me-"

"Your car. I'll use my jumper cables to jump-start your car."

Melanie felt her face flush with embarrassment. "Oh. Right. I knew that."

He muttered again and shook his head. "I'll just pop the hood." He slid across the seat, got one leg out of the car and stopped. Melanie stared down at him and waited. He jerked forward a few times but didn't move.