features were a vague blur in his memory, but her eyes had been an attention-grabbing silver-blue. Unusual and beautiful, they were probably the result of colored contacts, he thought, and immediately lost any interest in her. Greg could appreciate beautiful women, and had no problem with them making the best of their appearance, but when they moved on to this level of artifice to try to attract attention, he tended to be turned off.
Shrugging her out of his thoughts, he relaxed back against the elevator wall, his mind immediately turning to his coming trip. Greg had planned a lot of outings; he'd never been anywhere like Mexico before and wanted to enjoy all there was to do. Along with the usual lounging on the beach, he hoped to get in some parasailing, snorkeling, and maybe go on one of those boat rides where you got to feed the dolphins.
He also hoped to fit in a trip to the Museum Casa Maya, an ecological park with a reproduction of how the Mayans lived centuries ago and walking paths where you could see the local animals. Then there was the night life. If he had the energy after his active days, Greg might just hit the dance bars like the Coco Bongo or the Bulldog café where half-naked people gyrated to deafening music.
The elevator's cheerful ding drew Greg's thoughts from half-naked dancing women to the panel above the doors. P3 was lit up; parking level three. His floor.
Nodding politely to his companion, he stepped off the elevator and started through the large, nearly empty parking garage. With half-naked women still dancing on the periphery of his mind, it took Greg a minute to notice the sound of footsteps behind him. He almost glanced over his shoulder to see who it was, then let the matter go. The sound was the hollow tap tap of high heels on concrete; sharp and quick and echoing loudly in the nearly empty space. The brunette was obviously also parked on this floor.
His gaze moved absently over the open space toward where his car should be, but got caught on one of the supporting beams as he passed. The large black P1 painted on the concrete beam made him slow in confusion. Parking levels 1 and 2 were reserved for visitors to the various offices and businesses in the building. He was parked on P3 and had been sure the elevator panel light had read P3 when he'd looked… but it appeared he'd been wrong. Stopping, he started to turn back the way he'd come.
This is the right floor. There is the car ahead.
"Yes, of course," Greg murmured, and continued forward. He strode up to the lone vehicle.
It wasn't until he opened the trunk that the thought broke through his mind that the little red sports car wasn't his. He drove a dark blue BMW. But as quickly as that thought—with its accompanying alarm—claimed him, it blew away like fog under the influence of a breeze.
Relaxing, Greg set his briefcase inside the trunk, climbed in after it, arranged himself in the small space, then pulled the trunk closed.
Chapter 1
"Mmm. Your hair smells good."
"Umm, gee, thanks, Bob." Lissianna Argeneau peered around the dark parking lot they were crossing, relieved to see they were alone. "But do you think you could get your hand off my ass?"
"Dwayne."
'"What?" She glanced up into his handsome face with confusion.
"My name is Dwayne," he explained with a grin.
"Oh." She sighed. "Well, Dwayne, can you get your hand off my ass?"
"I thought you liked me." His hand stayed firmly planted on her left butt cheek, squeezing in an altogether-too-friendly manner.
Resisting the urge to club him over the head and drag him into the bushes like the Neanderthal he was, she forced a smile. "I do, but let's wait till we get to your car to—"
"Oh. Yeah. My car," he interrupted. "About that…"
Lissianna stopped walking to peer up into his face, her eyes narrowing suspiciously on the discomfort that suddenly flickered across his expression. "What?"
"I don't have a car," Dwayne admitted.
Lissianna blinked, her brain slow to accept this news. Everyone over the age of twenty owned a car in Canada. Well, practically everyone. Okay, perhaps that was an exaggeration, but most single males of dating age had wheels. It was like an unwritten law or something.
Before she could comment, Dwayne added, "I thought you'd have one."
It sounded almost like an accusation, Lissianna noted and scowled. In some ways, the women's movement really hadn't done them