Pawn by Greg Curtis Page B

all the right curves where a man would want them, and the face of an angel. In fact if someone had gone through and created a list of all his likes and wants, she would have been the woman that ticked all his boxes. Every single one of them. And then she smiled and he knew he’d done her a terrible injustice with his thoughts. She was beyond that.
     
    “Hello?” It was embarrassing how long it took him just to find that single word, but she was far from what he’d expected. Then again, he wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Kirby was often going on about his surfer chick neighbours at work, and how they all jumped into his arms, but this was no teenage hottie in a bikini. This was a woman in all her splendour.
     
    “Oh, have I come at a bad time?” The woman seemed genuinely concerned, something he simply wasn’t used to. Maybe she had good reason though, since he was covered from head to foot in grease. Jaguars, especially classic E types, weren’t the most reliable of vehicles, and getting at the engine’s innards even to do something as simple as clean a few sparkplugs was a messy job. But it had to be done. Especially when he needed a reliable car, just in case. And besides, he’d figured when he’d first moved in that a little grease on his face would make for a good disguise.
     
    “No, no that’s fine. Just working on the car.” He answered on automatic, really only staring at her face. She was a stunningly beautiful woman, the sort whose face would be found on great works of art, and whose body should have been gracing the catwalks of Paris. In all his life he’d never seen such a dream given form. And when she smiled, she only became more so.
     
    “Will it live?” She smiled some more in good humour, and he almost went weak at the knees. What was wrong with him? He never reacted like this to a woman. And yet he couldn’t seem to stop himself.
     
    “Yeah, she’s just old.” Was that the right thing to say to a vision of beauty standing on his doorstep? Letting her know that he drove an old wreck of a car? Surely no woman ever wanted to hear that. And why yeah instead of yes? He knew how to speak the Queens English properly, and not like some vagrant street kid.
     
    “She’s a classic Jaguar.” Desperately he tried to cover up for his lapse, and failed again. As explanations went it was probably ok, but as recoveries went it was simply awful, and he would have kicked himself if he could have. In a single sentence he’d just switched from an uneducated street kid to a stuck up petrol head who referred to his car as a woman. What woman would ever find either of those attractive? And he wanted her to find him attractive. Desperately. He’d never wanted anything so much in his entire life.
     
    “Can I help you?” Mentally he kicked himself a few times as the words slipped out as though he was a shop assistant, wondering if he was really as bad with woman as it appeared. Maybe he was. But it had never mattered before.
     
    “Yes, I’m Di. My home is just next door and I saw that there was someone new in Mr. Winstone’s home and thought I’d introduce myself.” Of course she was. Kirby had always said he liked his neighbours, but he’d never said what was so good about them. Suddenly it was all becoming obvious. Lucky dog! So why did he suddenly hate him so much?
     
    “I’m very pleased to meet you. I’m Russ.” Changing his name had always been necessary, but he’d compromised by picking another name similar to his own. That way he’d hoped, he’d still respond normally if someone called him by it. He’d read too many books where the hero was caught out by not recognising his assumed name. Still he’d never liked Rufus as a name anyway. It sounded like a dog’s name.
     
    “Kirby’s just letting me stay here while I work on my car and he’s overseas. He has a large garage.” As cover stories went it wasn’t brilliant, but it was all he had come up with over the previous