Finding Love After Dark (Vegas After Dark #4)

Chapter 1

one

Storm

“ W hat the hell?” I grumble as I search my pockets and small crossbody bag for my keys to the shop. Fuck. If I’ve lost them—again—Dad is going to go off the deep end. I’ll never hear the end of it. He’s barely shut up about the last time, which was only a couple months ago.

With a sigh, I drop my bag on the desk in the small office just off the repair bays and attempt to mentally retrace my steps for the day.

Obviously I had the keys when I opened the shop this morning. I only left the building for lunch and know I had them then since I’d stopped at our storage shed for a couple of parts.

That means the keys need to be here in the shop somewhere. Strolling through the main bay, I chat up the mechanics while surreptitiously scanning the area for the keys. Since none of the guys tease me about lost keys, I’m pretty sure none of them found my large, jailer’s style keyring.

You’d think something that large and with the number of keys, I’d have an easier time keeping track of them. Since I completed my work assignments earlier and the cars have been picked up or delivered back to their owners…

Shit. I must have lost the keys in one of the two vehicles. Probably when I was finishing up the complimentary interior detailing Rankin Repair is known for. We wipe down the interior surfaces and do a vacuum of floors and seats so there’s no trace a mechanic has been in the vehicle.

Sometimes I think people come in for oil changes and minor engine repairs just to get their interiors refreshed. I’m happiest under the hood making repairs but don’t mind finishing up that bit of final cleanup.

Except when I may have left something extra in the vehicle.

Back in the office, I pull up the records for those two vehicles. One’s a midlife crisis car, low slung and sporty. The other an upscale SUV. A grin relaxes my lips. There were two kid seats and I’d tucked all the small toys I’d discovered under the seats between them. If I had to guess, I probably added my keys to that pile.

Owner’s name… Quinlan Marshall. Some tiny bell of recognition pings although I’m unable to figure out why it sounds familiar beyond being a customer. Putting off making the call, and secretly wishing my keyring would magically reappear, I straighten the piles of papers and rearrange the stacks on the desktop.

Dad sticks his head into the office to let me know that he’s closing the shop a little early. For once I don’t argue that we might lose business and he gives me an odd look at my agreement. There’s only one auto waiting for a part to come in early next week. Otherwise the bays are clear. Why shouldn’t he and his cronies head out on their bikes for a late afternoon ride. Weather’s perfect.

Besides, with everyone gone, I can make the call about my keys without the chance of someone walking in and discovering my crisis.

Once the rumble of Harley engines fades from the rear of the building, I pull up Mr. Marshall’s information, take a deep breath and dial.

After two rings there’s a soft click and I assume I’ll be talking to his voice mail, but the phone continues to ring.

“This is Marshall.”

The low rumble of his voice settles deep in my chest. And a bit lower. I’m a sucker for a deep voice and bite back a wistful sigh.

“Hello?” he says.

“Uh, hi, Mr. Marshall. I’m Storm Rankin from Rankin’s Repair.”

“Checking up on your work? My vehicle’s running better than it has in a month. I’m well pleased and will give a five star rating on the review sites.”

“Thanks. That’s great. But I’m calling for a different reason. There’s a good chance I… uh, lost my keys while detailing your interior.”

He’s silent for a long moment, then a chuckle even deeper than the underlying tone of his speaking voice erupts through the phone. “That’s a new one.”

I furrow my brow. “A new one?”

“Yeah, that’s quite the come on line. Next I’m assuming you want to meet up to find your…keys.”

I imagine him doing air quotes as he says ‘keys’ and I frown. “All I want is my keyring. I’m perfectly fine with you checking then letting me know if you have it or not.”

“Ah, and then you’ll show up at my door?”

Despite how his voice affects my body—I cross my legs and squeeze a little pressure where I’m tingling—this isn’t about me coming on to him. Why would I do that to some random guy anyway?

“No. Not necessarily. You could simply drop the keys off here at the shop tomorrow. I just need to know if they’re in your vehicle or if I need to start searching somewhere else.”

There’s another long pause.

“Mr. Marshall, please. I don’t want anything from you…” Except maybe to have you keep talking. “…other than my keys.”

I hear him release a long breath. “Okay, fine. I’m not doing anything this evening anyway but I really can’t leave the hotel right now. Your shop’s not far off the strip. Could you meet me in the Excalibur hotel parking garage?”

The request surprises me and I glance at his address. He’s a local. Lives in a pretty swanky part of Vegas. Why is he at a hotel? Closing my eyes, I shake my head. What does it matter as long as I get my keys back. “I can be there in twenty minutes.”

“Fine. I’m on the third reserved level. Twenty minutes.”

I hold my phone out to stare at the screen. He hung up without any fanfare after his brusque statement. Well, goodbye to you, too, Mr. Marshall.

Twenty minutes is going to be a tight timetable. Not enough time to call for a rideshare. The distance is easily walkable in that amount of time if I don’t dawdle. I double check all the shop doors before I slip out the front entrance, and make sure that tricky lock catches. I don’t meet many other walkers until I reach the strip then I weave through the slow moving tourists and make it to the hotel with only a couple minutes to spare.

Finding my way into the parking garage is more difficult but once I’m on the correct level, I see a tall man standing next to one of many white SUVs. I pause to catch my breath then stride purposefully toward him.

“Mr. Marshall?”

He looks up from the book he’s reading. A book? An actual printed on paper book? I love to read so my opinion of the man rises.

“Ms. Rankin?” He reaches into a pocket of the light jacket he’s wearing then pauses and closes the book. “Describe your keyring.”

“I appreciate you’re being careful. It’s a large brass ring, like an old fashioned jailer’s. Along with an attached Rankin Repair promotional keyring, there’s six keys. Three go to the shop. One for my apartment, and two for my car. A Dodge.”

I hold out my hand and wait.