“Shorter than I thoughtyouwere.”
“Well, your thoughts are pretty far from reality, I think we’ve already establishedthatfact.”
His eyes gleam with mirth. “Maybe it’s time you fill me on what really happened last night, then. Because I gotta tell you… the French maid outfit isn’t helping me stay in touch with reality. If anything, it’s making my fantasiesrunwild.”
I suck in a sharp pull of air. “It’s not what youthink.”
“Oh?” he steps closer. “And what, exactly, do I think? Since you’re somehow privy to my privatethoughts.”
I squirm a little. “You think this is…” I gesture down at the uniform. “That itmeans…”
Hisbrowslift.
I can’t bring myself to sayyou probably think I’m a prostitute,so instead I just snap, “You see this and your eyes get all…dirty.”
“Sounds serious.” His lips twist, like he’s suppressing a grin. “Should I be making an appointment with myoptometrist?”
I glare at him. “This is a uniform. For a job. An actual, honest-to-god workopportunity.”
“Getting the impression you think I’m judging you.” His eyes narrow, some of the humor bleeding out of them. “Not my style, babe. Don’t care how you dress or what you do for aliving.”
“Well, the officers who pulled me over certainly did.” I run my fingers through my tangled hair, wishing I had a brush handy. It’s probably for the best that I’ve managed to avoid mirrors, since my incarceration. “I’m almost positive they thought I was acallgirl.”
Luca’s lips twitch again. “But a high class one, seeing as you were driving a stolenBentley.”
“Borrowed! AborrowedBentley,” Iinsist.
“Uh huh.” He shakes his head at me. “Borrowed…without permission. And, apparently, drove at nearly a hundred miles per hour through a red light. In front of a parked cop. Carrying an expiredlicense.”
“How do you know that?” I ask,eyeswide.
“The cop who pulled you over filled me in, before we left theprecinct.”
“Officer McBangMe? More like Officer McBlabberMouth,” Imutter.
Luca’s eyes narrow further. “Whatwasthat?”
Shit, I really didn’t mean to say thatoutloud.
“Nothing,”Ilie.
His arms cross over his chest. “You make a habit of grand theft auto, or was this a one-timestunt?”
“It’s wasn’t grand theft auto. Maybe grandborrowingauto. And it doesn’t matter anyway, because the owner of the Bentley won’t presscharges.”
“And you know that how,exactly?”
“I just do,” I murmurnoncommittally.
“Delilah.”
“Luca.”
“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me whathappened.”
“Who says I needyourhelp?”
He staresmedown.