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  Leo

  (Her Dominant Boss #3)

  by

  K. R. Max

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  http://krmaxwrites.wordpress.com

  Cover design by KR Max.

  Author's Note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  Leo: Her Dominant Boss #3

  Charlie

  I wince as my ‘67 Mustang jolts over yet another pothole. This road is for shit, but I’m only an hour or so away from my destination. At least, that’s what my cell phone’s satellite navigation was telling me up to about twenty minutes ago when the battery died. Now I just have to pray this road spits me out somewhere near a mile marker, or even a sign.

  It’s after two in the morning, and I know choosing to drive through the night was a bad idea, especially along mountain roads. But dammit, I need this job. An actual paid job as a mechanic is waiting for me in Caulville, as opposed to the eternal unpaid apprenticeship I’m leaving behind.

  I’m still pissed about that. I spent the last two years in Craig’s auto shop, taking the sexist bullshit that swarms around most any garage, learning everything I could. Pulling all hours, keeping a smile on my face, and maintaining my dad’s pride and joy, a cherry red 1967 Mustang fastback, on the side. After a drunk driver strayed onto my parents’ side of the road six years ago, this car is all I have left of them. I restored it myself. It’s what got me into the classic car restoration business. I was spending so much time around Craig’s shop, he said I might as well start learning something.

  Not that he’s the only person I learned anything from. The internet’s a wild and crazy place, all that knowledge just waiting at your fingertips. With my dad’s ‘stang to practice on, and Craig’s employee discount on parts, I’ve picked up more in the last few years than guys twice my age. Which I know because Wilson, a good ol’ boy in his fifties and Craig’s shop manager, is part of the reason I’m now squinting through the windshield at a road which seems determined to destroy my car’s suspension before I can reach my destination.

  As long as the V-belt holds, we’ll make it. I know my car. Which is part of the problem. Wilson doesn’t like women who know more than he does about cars. I managed to hide it for the most part, but I think the last straw dropped when a local guy brought his Impala in last week and I had it done in under an hour. A simple fix, but the client left with a smile on his face and my number in his hand. I don’t know which part pissed Wilson off more, but I can guess.

  Either way, when a job opening came up, I knew it was mine. Right up to the moment Craig told me David got the job. David. A skinny meth-smoking piece of shit who could barely tell the difference between a Shelby and a Barracuda, and never made it to work on time. When I asked him why, he just spouted some bullshit about me being too distracting, and the customers don’t want or trust a female mechanic. But I was welcome to stay on as an apprentice, if I wanted.

  Whatever. I managed not to quit on the spot. Figured I’d need him for a reference. But as soon as I got home, I pulled out my laptop, another relic from before my parents died, and started looking up jobs. Didn’t take long to find this place, well into the next state, where no one’s ever heard of Charlotte Hanrahan. I applied under the name of Charlie Hanrahan, though. It’s not a lie. I’ve been called Charlie by pretty much everyone, including my parents, since before I could walk. I wasn’t surprised to get accepted within twenty-four hours. Good mechanics are hard to come by and I’ve worked on exactly the kinds of cars Brent Classics are renowned for doing right by. I mean, it might be a little tough when I get there and the manager finds out I’m a woman, but all I need is a trial run. Once he sees what I can do, he’ll have to give me the job.

  First I need to get there. By now, I can’t be more than twenty minutes away, and I sigh with relief as the cliffs to either side open up and the gradient starts to level out.

  And then there’s a screeching squeal and my stomach dives straight into my boots.

  Oh God. Please no. Don’t let it be the V-belt. One of the great things about working at an auto shop is paying cost for any parts you need. But I quit my job there as soon as I got accepted at Brent, which means no more low cost parts, especially the one part I’d known I’d needed but forgot to order in before I left.

  Shit. Shit shit shit.

  I put the car in park and slide out, pulling my toolbox along with me. I lift the hood and angle the flashlight, praying for all I’m worth. Two seconds later, my stomach rolls over. The belt is clearly visible, frayed and loose. This isn’t a clean up job. My V-belt is toast.

  The roar of a classic muscle car echoes over the ticking of the hot engine in front of me, and I look up to see headlights approaching. I sigh. I know I should be grateful someone’s coming by, but there isn’t a chance in hell they’ll have the part I need. Maybe I can borrow their phone...to do what? I have no friends, certainly not eight hundred miles from where I used to live, and no money for a tow. I can’t leave my classic beauty unattended by the side of the road, even with a messed up V-belt. Someone’s sure to ‘relocate’ it and I’d never see it again. I’m stuck.

  I need a new belt, and out here in the middle of nowhere, some time after two in the morning, I haven’t the faintest clue how I’m going to get it. I am officially screwed.

  ***

  Leo

  I stare at the red lights ahead of me. A classic ‘67 or ‘68 Mustang, if I’m not mistaken. Very distinctive taillights. Whoever’s driving must be crazy to be out on these roads at this time of night. Not that I can talk, but I know the area. Dad’s ruby wedding anniversary gift to my mom, a huge country house, is less than half an hour from here. It made sense when I left the office to stay there instead of at a hotel for the first leg of my trip.

  That is, until a massive accident closed the freeway and left me jolting over barely maintained back roads in my Pontiac GTO, the boxes of parts I’m carrying to the shop clanking and sliding around in the trunk. Not that the car can’t handle the terrain, but it’s not my first choice.

  Still, local or not, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know they could be out here all night. Cell signal is spotty this far out. Chances are, they can’t even get a call out for a tow, and it’s a pity to see a beautiful car just sitting at the side of the road.

  I pull over and check my phone. There’s a faint signal, but who knows how long it’ll take for a tow truck to get out here? I know I’m just making excuses to go and check out someone else’s pretty piece of automotive beauty, but who cares? It’s a male bonding thing. I put my hazards on and climb out.

  “Hey, need a hand?”

  A head appears from under the raised hood of the car, and my first thought is, that isn’t a man. My second thought isn’t really in words, more of a urgent swelling south of my belt buckle, because man, she is hot. Huge green eyes lit up like emeralds in the GTO’s headlights, full lips, and a body with more curves than the Monaco race track.

  And a wrench gripped tight in her left hand.

  Shit.

  I need to get myself under control. A woman stranded at the side of the road in the middle of the night isn’t necessarily going to be happy to see a guy, any guy, let alone one who’s clearly very turned on.

  I think cold thoughts. Eskimos, igloos,
my mom’s face when she finds out I’ve dumped yet another short term fling, and gradually my hard on fades and I figure I can get a little closer to this Mustang-driving goddess without embarrassing myself, or sending her running in a panic.

  She hasn’t lowered the wrench and I hold my hands up in what I hope is a non-threatening way. At six foot two, it’s kind of hard for me, but I’m giving it my best shot. The last thing I want is for her to be scared of me, whether she makes me want to spread her across the hood of her car and eat my fill or not.

  “Broke down,” she says in a terse voice, clearly not wanting to encourage me. To someone with nine figures in the bank, this is unusual.

  “That’s a pity,” I say. “Anything I can do to help?”

  I do my best to keep a light, carefree tone, as I take in the car. The silhouette is stunning. “She’s a beauty. Sixty-seven?”

  I look back at her in time to see her eyebrows twitch and even from here I can see her pupils dilate. She’s got a good look at me and now she’s not quite as uninterested.

  “Yeah. My dad’s.” She’s still working on that back off tone, even though I can see a spark in her eyes. Then she looks back at the engine beside her and her lips twist with regret. “V-belt blew. I’ve been meaning to order it in but unless you’ve got one of those in the back seat...” She sighs.

  This is an unusual situation for me. The woman is genuinely more interested in her car than she is in me, and she’s pretty damn interested in me.

  “Well, I don’t have one in my back seat,” I tell her, and I’m rewarded with a smile that short-circuits my brain. I stare at her as fireworks go off behind my eyes, then shake my head and pull myself together. “But I do have one in the trunk.”

  Her look of absolute shock is worth it and I’m sorry I have to turn away in order to get the part from the trunk. I saunter up to her, holding it out and she stares at it, then looks up at me, her lips parting on a gasp as she takes me in.

  “I’m not even going to ask why you have one of these. Just... th-thank you,” she stammers, dragging her eyes from the belt, and my chest, up to my eyes. “I can’t pay for it, though. I-I’m...between jobs at the minute.”

  “That’s okay. Consider it a gift. I’ve got three more of them back there.”

  I grin down at her and she smiles, then reaches for the part but I shake my head.

  “The least I can do for a lady is fit it,” I tell her, and something flickers behind her eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was disappointment, which doesn’t make sense because any women I know would jump at the chance for a guy to get covered in engine grease instead of them.

  This girl just keeps on surprising me.

  “Sure,” she says, her tone harder than I was expecting. “Why not?”

  I’m about to pull out my phone to turn on the flashlight when she lifts a heavy Maglite and I smother a laugh. She’s definitely not your average girl.

  She hands me the wrench I need without even waiting to be asked, lips twitching with amusement when I raise an eyebrow at her.

  “Uh, thanks.” I get to work loosening a bolt, wondering if she’s offended that I offered to fix her car.

  "Watch that bolt, it likes to cross-thread," she says.

  I’m paying more attention to the sound of her voice than what she’s saying, so I’m taken by surprise a moment later when the bolt slams to a halt and flatly refuses to move. I grab the flashlight from her and take a closer look, swearing under my breath when I see the problem.

  "Son of a bitch. You're right. It cross-threaded." A few more swear words and some careful maneuvring of the wrench later, I finally get it to cooperate. "Got it."

  I hold up the offending piece of steel, then give her an assessing look, before turning back to the engine. "Why don't you replace it?" I ask, as I settle the new belt into place.

  "One bolt?” she says, her voice rolling with amusement. “Have you ever tried sourcing a single bolt for a '67 Mustang? It's not that easy."

  I laugh. "I bet."

  I finish bolting the replacement in with a twinge of regret. For all my wealth and travel and the opportunities I’ve had to meet with all sorts of people, I’ve never connected with a woman like this. She knows every single bolt of her gorgeous classic car, and while I’ve been fitting it, never once has she tried to distract me in any way, even though I wouldn’t have turned her down, which she must know. The last time I worked on a car in front of a woman, the chick kept rubbing up against me like a cat. This girl cares more about her car, right down to a cross-threading bolt, than about any kind of fling with me, and that’s hot as hell.

  I could use her in my shop. Part of me wants to use her in a whole host of other ways, too, but really great mechanics, especially those knowledgeable about classic cars, don’t come along that often.

  I straighten up and go to drop the hood, but stop myself just in time. Instead of stepping back, she’s already bent over the part, examining my work, giving me an excellent opportunity to check out the curvy ass pulled tight against the worn denim of her jeans. The urge to pin her there, spread her hands wide, pull down her pants and taste her honey is almost overwhelming but instead I take a step back and adjust my rock hard dick, waiting for her to stand up and put me out of my misery.

  Finally she straightens up and drops the hood. “Thanks,” she says, as she turns around, and the word peters out on a breathy sigh. Heat burns in her cheeks and she forces herself to meet my eyes. She’s clearly into me, and just as clearly doesn’t plan on doing anything about it.

  And yet, I see her fingers twitch. She knows how to fix her own car, but she let me do it. It pissed her off at the time, but I’m willing to bet she’d let me do a few other things, now. Things that would make her scream. Things that would make us both come harder than we’ve ever come in our lives.

  But I’ve got a business to run, and I can’t pass up an opportunity like this. “You said you were between jobs. I run a classic car restoration company. I could really use you there.”

  Her eyes flare and a wild surge of emotion floods her eyes. Elation, hope, then regret.

  “I already have a job,” she says, with a rueful smile. “I’m due to start tomorrow morning. That’s why I’m out here in the middle of the night.”

  She looks up at me, and I stare down at her, knowing I won’t see her again. Hell, it’s after three o’clock in the morning by now. I’ll probably think I dreamed her when I wake up tomorrow. But I can’t walk away like this, not without something to remember her by.

  “In that case,” I tell her, raising a hand to cup her jaw. “I changed my mind. I do need payment after all.”

  One kiss. That’s all I plan on taking. But as soon as my fingers touch her skin, my plan disintegrates and all I can think is, more.

  Offers her a job but she already has one. Since he won't see her again, he figures he'll kiss her instead. She's clearly into him, just like he's into her. He intends to stop at a kiss but things rapidly get out of hand.

  ***

  Charlie

  His hands cup my jaw, cradling my face like something precious, his eyes alight with some emotion I’ve never seen on a guy’s face before. Well, not when they were looking at me, anyway. I’ve seen a few guys look like that when they clap eyes on my ‘stang, but that’s about it.

  This guy, though, is totally focused on me. His eyes bore into mine, dark with lust and intent, and hot, sweet honey trickles through my veins, pooling somewhere deep and hot and wet inside me. Heat radiates from his hands and I can feel myself melting into his touch. He possesses me in this instant, his grip gentle but firm, not that I want to break free. He moves closer and my hands find his waist and the hard, rippling muscle beneath his shirt. I spread my fingers, sliding over dips and hard planes, and he leans in and brushes his lips over mine.

  I gasp. I can’t help it. The heat, the sheer electric connection between us, the pressure of his lips against mine is almost too much to bear. And then his li
ps descend once more and his tongue slides into my mouth and I melt against him with a moan.

  His hands slide from my jaw to my neck, his thumbs rubbing against the pulse pounding in my throat. At first I was pissed at him for thinking I couldn’t fix my own car, but he never made a single dismissive remark, and then he offered me a job.

  And now he’s kissing me like I’m the only woman in the world, and my skin is lighting up with a thousand fireworks, light coruscating over me, setting the fine hairs along my arms alight. He turns me around and lowers me to the hood of my car, one hand delving into my hair while the other closes more firmly around my throat.

  As my airway closes, somewhere deep in the back of my mind I know I should be afraid. But instead my body arches and writhes against him, heat and moisture gathering between my thighs, building to an ache which demands release.