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technical term or would you like me to dumb it down?"
    "Throw me the tough stuff. Maybe I'll learn something."
    "This," Colleen patted the car, "is what we professionals call a big, juicy lemon."
    "Lemon is technical?" Frowning, Dalton rubbed the back of his neck. "What's the dumbed-down term?"
    "Lemon," Colleen grinned, showing off her straight, white teeth.
    Dalton wondered if the heat melted his common sense, but he liked Colleen. Her sassy mouth and easy smile appealed to him beyond the desire he normally felt for the opposite sex. Lust was easy. Like was another thing entirely. It could lead to something rare. Something he had neither the time nor inclination to explore—friendship. With surprising regret, Dalton pushed the thought aside.
    "Do you think you can fix it?"
    "Maybe." Colleen shaded her eyes. "But why bother? Have the dealership replace it. Or get your money back. I can probably get it running. But it's just a matter of time until something else goes wrong."
    "I don't suppose there's a place in town where I can rent a car?"
    "Are you passing through?"
    "No. I'll be in town for a few days."
    Eyes narrowed, Colleen nodded as though coming to an important decision. "Would a classic Thunderbird do?"
    "Are you kidding?" Dalton had almost purchased a T-Bird before deciding a new car would be more practical. "Where do I go?"
    Colleen took a set of keys from her pocket. "One hundred a day—in advance. Plus a thousand-dollar security deposit."
    "What year is it?"
    "Fifty-five. Everything is original. "
    It sounded too good to be true. "How can you be sure?"
    "Because I restored it myself." Colleen looked at him, her gaze steady.
    Dalton figured he could change his mind if the car turned out to be a piece of junk. But he doubted that would be the case. He didn't know why, but he was certain Colleen wouldn't have offered if it were. A person didn't restore a car overnight. She had to put in a lot of time and effort. Which meant she wouldn't rent it to him unless she really needed the money.
    "Well? What do you say?"
    "A classic T-Bird?" And the chance to help Colleen? "I say hell, yes."
     
    IN THE OFFICE, Dole peeked through the slats of the window blinds. He looked hard, unable to believe his eyes. But there was no mistaking the tall, dark-haired man. Dalton Shaw had come a long way. Rich and famous—the son of a bitch.
    Grabbing the phone, Dole punched in the number he knew by heart—a number he hadn't used in years.
    "Hello."
    "It's Dole. Dole Wharton?" When there was no answer, he added, "From the garage at the end of town?"
    "I know who you are. What do you want?"
    Dole wasn't the sharpest tool in the box, but he recognized contempt when he heard it. Knowing his next words would knock the stuck-up bastard on his ass, Dole felt a surge of glee.
    "You'll never guess who's back in Midas."
     

CHAPTER THREE
     
    COLLEEN RESTED HER hands on the tile. Head bent, she sighed with pleasure, as the stream of water rushed over her tired body, washing a day's worth of dirt and perspiration down the drain. There were times when she thought nothing was better in the world than indoor plumbing. Books made traveling back through time sound romantic—especially when a sexy Scot waited on the other side. Nope. Colleen wasn't going anywhere that didn't have hot and cold running water. A bath in a cool lake did not equal the sheer delight of standing under a fully pressurized shower.
    Besides, outside the pages of a novel, that Scot would have smelled to high heaven. Oral sex with a man who hadn't washed his dick in who knew how long? If at all? Colleen shuddered at the thought.
    Reaching for her one indulgence—an expensive body wash that left her smelling like wildflowers instead of motor oil—Colleen lathered her body starting at her feet and slowly working up. Not surprisingly, her thoughts turned to a certain sexy man who she would have bet a month's pay washed his privates on a daily basis.
    Colleen laughed. Dalton Shaw.