Forty-two minutes of nothing but hard rock. That’s 2,520 seconds of deafening noise.

And not one single word spoken. I’m ready to pull my hair out…or maybe his, which would be a freaking shame considering how nearly perfect his is.

Finally, his Porsche 911 Turbo lets out a low cough as he decelerates in order to weave his way through the rows and rows of buildings in the Santa Monica Commerce Park.

Almost gleefully, I contain my chuckle because at night, you can’t read the signs on the doors and all the buildings look the same.

I think I’ll let him drive in circles for a while.

From out of nowhere, a dog runs in front of his car.

“Shit!” Keen nails the brakes hard and his arm goes flying across my chest.

The physical connection releases a coiled need deep between my thighs and I adamantly deny myself even a second of thinking about the pleasure that might unfurl if he touches me again.

Slamming the car in park, he gets out and looks around for the dog. It already ran off, though, and even with the dim glow of the overhead parking lights, the dog is nowhere to be seen.

Keen gets back in the car and shifts into drive. “You okay?” he asks, his voice sounding concerned and controlled at the same time.

“Yes, I’m fine. I didn’t take you for an animal lover.”

“I’m not,” he mutters under his breath, but I can tell he is—well, at least a dog lover.

“The building is over there.” I point for no other reason than I just want to get home and take these shoes off.

Really.

Just because I love dogs doesn’t mean he hit one of my soft spots or anything. In fact, the Metro Expo line opened this past spring and it is a straight line from Santa Monica to LA. I might just decide to stay at my mother’s after all.

Keen shoots forward and parallel-parks the car right between two trucks on his first try.

I’m so not impressed.

In fact, I’m rather bored.

Switching off the ignition, Keen gets out of the car. I kick my shoes off and take my phone from my purse.

Just as I click on the Candy Crush game, he opens my door. His eyes travel the length of my bare legs and land on my naked feet. “Aren’t you coming?” he huffs.

With my fingers moving in an attempt to match the three candy pieces, I don’t even look up. “I’ll wait in the car.”

All of a sudden his hard chest is reaching across my body and all I can smell is his delicious clean, fresh scent. Cartier. He’s wearing Cartier, the same cologne he wore that night, and it smells just as good. So much so that I consider the possibility of licking his neck, but then decide against it. I need to seal the new cracks in my armor very soon.

By the way, what is he doing?

When the engine starts, it becomes obvious. He’s probably worried I might suffocate in his car and disposing of my body would be a big inconvenience. Not to say the horrific impact my funeral costs might have on the bottom line.

“I won’t be long. Hit the lock button,” he commands, and then closes my door.

“Yes sir,” I murmur under my breath.

Now he can’t possibly hear me, but I swear he turns and gives me a look like he did.

Not really interested in the game after a few minutes, I go to tuck my phone back in my purse, but it slips from my hands.

Turning on the interior lights, I twist around and search the tiny backseat, which is loaded with the hottest spring and fall looks from Simon Warren. You might as well get the crash cart ready now because when I see Keen wearing these, I think I might just have a heart attack.

Carefully moving the garments so they don’t wrinkle, my hands land on something smooth and shiny. Running my palms over it, it feels an awful lot like a catalog.

No, it can’t be.

Yanking it out, sure enough in big, black bold letters the cover reads, “Simon Warren Fall Collection.”

Switching off the car, I take the keys and the catalog and get out.

That son of a bitch!

What the hell is he up to?