She slid onto the black leather seat, took her keys from his offered hand and started the engine up.
“Love that low rumble,” he remarked as he got in on the passenger side. “Two eighty-nine V8 in the ’66, yes? Yeah. I’d bet there’s a lifter cam to get more power, from the sound of ’er. Very slick car. I like the Fastback, too, but this model gives me more headroom with the top up. But I’m glad you’ve got it down. It’s a beautiful night. Let’s take her out and feel the wind in our hair.”
Layla grinned. “Duff, I hate to tell you this, but you have no hair.”
“I have a little scruff on the old dome. And I have quite the eyebrows, I’m told.”
“You want to feel the wind in your eyebrows?”
He smoothed a hand over his head. “You work with what you’ve got. And I’ve got other qualities. Too much charm in one man could be lethal, hence the shaved head. Balances the world out a bit.”
She laughed as she shifted, then signaled and pulled onto the street. As she headed down St. Claude they were both quiet, enjoying the ride as the rich, sultry tones of Jill Scott played from her iPhone hooked through the car speakers. Eventually she hung a right on St. Bernard and caught the 10 south, heading toward the center of the city. She opened the engine up, and the familiar roar purred through her body.
“Ah, there she is,” Duff said so softly she could barely hear him.
He said it as if he were talking to a lover with approval, coaxing her, seducing her, and she didn’t know if that low tone was aimed at her or her car. But it almost didn’t matter. It had the same effect either way. Suddenly she was acutely aware of the powerful engine rumbling beneath her, making the seat vibrate—making her vibrate in all the right places. Between her thighs. In the steering wheel beneath her hands. Deep in her belly. And it was a huge turn-on—the power of the car, and controlling that power, next to the man she was going to hand her power over to. She had to bite back a groan.
Focus on the road, woman.
When the 10 turned into the Pontchartrain Expressway she pressed down on the gas, and the wind whipped around her head, her curls bouncing against her cheeks.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, and once more a shiver of lust went through her.
Turning to him, she marveled at how finely carved his profile was, silhouetted against the amber lights from the highway as they flashed by: the square jaw, fine jawline, high cheekbones. Handsomest damn man she’d ever seen. She had to force her eyes back to the road.
“Layla.”
“Hmm?”
“The speedometer only goes up to one-forty. Can this baby go any faster?”
“Yeah, it can. But we’d have to wait until at least midnight before I’d dare race on the highway.”
“Another time, then,” he said.
It warmed her up inside for some inexplicable reason—that there would be another time. That he wanted there to be.
“Come on. Let’s see a little taste of what your girl can do.”
Laughing, she hit the gas and felt the world rush by. Duff let out a hard chuckle, and she knew he was feeling that same deep pleasure at the power of the car, at the freedom of speed.
“You’re a bad influence—you know that, don’t you?” she yelled over the roar and the wind, easing up on the pedal a bit.
“I try.”
She turned to glance at him once more, found his gaze on her and a grin on his face.
Oh, Lord, those dimples.
As she turned back to the road, she felt a wet drop on her cheek. “Damn it, it’s starting to rain.”
“Pull off here.”
She got off at the next exit, and Duff got out to put the top up while she wiped down her leather seats with a towel she kept on the backseat.
He got back in the car. “Hey—how far is this City Park I keep hearing about?”
“The park? Not far. You want to go to City Park at eight o’clock at night? You can see a lot more during the day.”
“All of New Orleans is better at night, or so it seems to me. Or maybe that’s the morbid Scotsman in me. But I also may have heard that the café there is open twenty-four hours. Something about the best beignets in the city. Why don’t we go wait out the rain there?”
“You’re right. New Orleans is better at night—I’ve always thought so, too. Well, not better. Maybe simply more suited to me. I can feel the old magic of the city after dark, you know?”
He nodded, smiling just enough for one devastating dimple to crease his cheek. “We are on the same page, my lovely. Take me there.”
It was a request as much as it was a command, but she didn’t mind the command part—that was the part that made her all soft and shivery. She started the car and turned around, driving back toward the city.
“Who did you hear about the beignets from?”
“Jamie. Well, his girl, Summer, actually. Do you know her?”
“A bit. We’ve run into each other at the club, and chatted a few times. I like her.”
“I’d have thought you might. She’s a spitfire, that one.”
“So she is,” Layla agreed.
“So are you.”
“You don’t even know the half of it,” she told him, grinning as she maneuvered the car over the wet streets.
“Not yet. But I’ve seen enough of a preview to understand you’re no pushover. Don’t ever think I’m that delusional. And I’m not interested in a pushover. Not since I met you.”
“Am I supposed to swoon at your feet now? Imagine that I’m the first woman you’ve said something like that to?”
He was quiet a moment. “You are, in fact.”
“Wh—” She had to stop herself. She didn’t know how to respond. He couldn’t have meant that. And yet, apparently he did. She bit her lip.
“Are you surprised?” he asked. “Well, so am I, to be honest, but there it is. Ah, I see the place.”
Glad not to have to explain herself—or for him to have to explain any further—she pulled into a spot in front of the Morning Call café. Through the rain the red-and-blue neon sign seemed washed in color, and she had to squint to make out the shape of the giant coffee cup with the words “Open 24 Hours” beneath it.