Extrait

Extrait offert par Tracy Wolff

(Source : http://tracywolff.blogspot.be)

“Is that what I think it is?” I whisper, leaning down to get a closer look. I nearly whimper as I see the distinctive interior, then clasp my hands behind my back so I’m not tempted to touch it. Or try to steal it.

“You really do know cars.” Ethan sounds surprised, but I’m too busy trying not to lick his Ferrari to get offended.

“You don’t have to ‘know’ cars to know of this one. There were only thirty-six of them ever made. I mean, as long as you don’t count all the imposters that came afterward.”

“It doesn’t bite, you know. You’re welcome to touch it.”

The urge to do just that is a throbbing need inside me. I want to lift the hood, to peer inside it and see if it’s really as beautifully built as all the magazines and websites say. But I’m afraid once I get started pawing at it, it’ll be hours before Ethan can drag me away.

“No, that’s okay.” I try not to sound too reluctant. “I’d rather have my question answered.”

“Don’t look so sad. There’ll be other chances.” This time when he puts a hand on the small of my back and guides me to the house, I barely startle. I’m getting used to being touched by him.

Too bad I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad one.

“Where did you find her?” I ask, craning my head around for one last look at the Ferrari. She gleams under the garage’s recessed lighting.

“I’m not sure if I should be pleased or insulted that you’re a lot more impressed by my car than you are by me.”

I don’t bother denying the obvious. But I do say, “You should be pleased. Most women wouldn’t have a clue how awesome it is that you own one of those babies.”

He narrows his eyes, contemplates my words. “Okay, you’ve convinced me.”

We enter the house, then walk down a short, winding hallway that leads to a huge, state-of-the-art kitchen. Now, I love cooking as much as the next girl—probably even more—but I think the fact that I am chomping at the bit to get back to the garage says everything you need to know about me.

“Are you hungry?”

“Not really. The ice cream sundae you bought me at the zoo contained enough calories to keep me going for the next week.” Especially considering the fact that I ate an entire pint of Cherry Garcia by myself last night. When I finally start running again, my heart and my ass aren’t going to know what hit them.

“Don’t worry. You’ll work it off.” Ethan’s grin is wicked as he propels me through the kitchen and into a formal dining room with a table that will sit twenty-four comfortably. I don’t even know twenty-four people I’d want anywhere near me, and Ethan throws intimate dinner parties where he doesn’t even have to put a leaf in the table to entertain that many. It boggles the mind, and underscores just how different we are in so very, very many ways.

Ethan doesn’t seem to notice my discomfort at his friend and furniture situation. He’s too busy throwing open the huge double doors that make up a large portion of the dining room’s back wall. “Come on,” he tells me. “You can get changed out here.”

Relieved because his words don’t sound sexual in the slightest—not that I actually thought he would jump me or anything—I’m still a little wary as I walk out onto his mammoth patio. There’s a gigantic vanishing-edge swimming pool directly in front of me, and sixteen chaise longues in the exact same shade of blue-gray as his roof.

“We’re going swimming?” I ask cautiously. It doesn’t sound like that bad an idea, actually. I’m a little sticky from a sunny afternoon spent at the zoo, and the pool does look inviting.

Except Ethan has crossed to an outdoor closet at one end of the small pool house that graces the right side of the property. And he’s not pulling out swimsuits for me to try on. He’s pulling out wetsuits.

“Even better,” he tells me. “We’re going surfing.”