On His List (Entangled Flirts) by Wendy Sparrow

Chapter One
    All Remy had to do was to follow her brother’s instructions to the last detail and everything would be fine. Just get in the car and drive the big, black, hulking sedan where she was directed. Don’t touch the client’s stuff. Don’t talk too much. Drive the speed limit exactly. Treat every request like a commandment. And, seriously, don’t touch his stuff.
    Her upcoming passenger clearly had some issues if Denny had felt that needed to be driven into her gray matter. It wasn’t like she was all handsy about touching other people’s possessions for crying out loud.
    “Hell, Denny, it’s not like I was going to go rabid and lick all his things. I’ll try to restrain myself,” she’d said this morning. “And you know me, I can be quiet.” Mostly at funerals and only then for short periods of time, but it did happen.
    Denny pleaded, “You can’t be yourself. You have to be like me.” It was the wrong thing to say to a younger sister, but they needed today’s job. Like, really needed it. The rent money, stashed in a coffee tin, had been stolen last week in a break-in that had also claimed yet another cheap DVD player among other things.
    She wouldn’t have put it past their lousy landlord to have stolen their stuff. She already suspected he’d taken some of her underwear when he’d replaced the faucet in their bathroom. The three-hundred-pound slob was probably wearing her Victoria’s Secret leopard-print thong while collecting the rent money.
    The jerk had given them until Friday to come up with the rent. Rent money they wouldn’t have if Denny called in sick with a migraine today. And even though none of this was her fault and it was her day off—and she deserved a day off—it always came back to the money.
    It sucked.
    So, she was here. At San Francisco International Airport. Following directions. Which she hated.
    And the guy had asked for Denny specifically. This was so going to blow up in their faces.
    She waited beside the black sedan, flipping the sign around and around while she examined all the possibilities heading her way. Owen Savoy was young, so he wasn’t that whale of a guy who kept glancing at her while digging through his pockets. He looked short of breath and far too old to be giving her those looks. Did she look like she needed a sugar daddy? If he popped a blue pill, she’d hide in the car until he went away.
    Then there was the woman who kept stomping around and snarling at people. Airports really brought out the worst in some freaks. She’d just yelled at a kid for bumping her Gucci purse. If it weren’t a knockoff, that purse could pay Remy’s and Denny’s rent for the month. She squinted. Hmm. It might be a knockoff, but since this was about the closest Remy had ever been to Gucci, she couldn’t be sure.
    For a second, Remy entertained the fantasy of running over, snatching the lady’s purse, and selling it to pay rent. Desperation did funny things to a person.
    The whale was still eyeing her up, down, and sideways. Maybe she should have worn something less sexy. Her cherry red, silk camisole hugged the definition of lingerie, and only the skirt she wore declared her outfit “work attire.” She frowned down at the short skirt. Maybe it erred on the side of working girl attire.
    No. It was sexy. Just sexy.
    Remy hoped Owen Savoy would keep this driver swap to himself if she provided a little eye candy. But it also attracted wrinkly and creepy…and sweaty. The whale guy was a puddle over there. Yikes!
    Hurry up, Owen. You’ve got twenty seconds before that guy melts like the Wicked Witch of the West from ogling this look I’m rocking.
    The automatic doors opened with a whoosh , and she glanced over hopefully, only to feel sucker punched. Lean and tall with a warm golden tan, short black hair without a strand out of place. She couldn’t see his eyes due to the sunglasses he’d put on for the few moments he’d be outside, but the deep grooves on either