CHAPTER 2The red Jaguar was pulled up at an askew angle on the garage apron. There was no sign of Peter Rinaldi. I backed and turned and got onto the road while she adjusted her nylon thighs.
“Ouch!” she said. “It’s hot!”
I could feel it through the padding of my trousers, stored sunshine. It would be stinging hot for her.
“You’re saving my life, you know that,” she said. “I have to be at the Beverly Hills Hotel in about fifteen minutes.”
“We’ll make it,” I said. “What happened to the Jaguar?”
“Oh that mother! I don’t know what happened. It stopped. I had to coast off the road…if the gate was closed…something else, man!”
I made it around that bad curve and we started down the canyon.
“You in the industry?” she said.
“Uh—no. I have my own business.”
Pier face brightened. “Oh, you’r
