“Get in line.” There was the clatter of a tool and a muttered curse.

Trent's eyebrows lifted then drew together in a manner that made his subordinates quake. “Apparently I'm the first in line already.”

“Right now you're behind this idiot's oil pan. Save me from rich yuppies who buy a car like this then don't bother to find out the difference between a carburetor and a tire iron. Hold on a minute, buddy, or talk to Hank. He's around somewhere.”

Trent was still several sentences back at “idiot.” “Where's the proprietor?”

“Busy. Hank!” The mechanic's voice lifted to a roar. “Damn it. Hank! Where the devil did he take off to?”

“I couldn't say.” Trent marched over to the radio and flicked off the music. “Would it be too much to ask you to come out from under there and tell me the status of my car?”

“Yeah.” From the vantage point under the BMW, C.C. studied the Italian loafers and took an immediate dislike to them. “I got my hands full at the moment. You can come down here and lend one of yours if you're in such a hurry, or drive over to McDermit's in Northeast Harbor.”

“I can hardly drive when you're under my car.” Though the idea held a certain appeal.

“This yours?” C.C. sniffed and tightened bolts. The guy had a fancy Boston accent to go with the fancy shoes. “When's the last time you had this thing tuned? Changed the points and plugs, the oil?”

“I don't—”

“I'm sure you don't.” There was a clipped satisfaction in the husky voice that had Trent's jaw tightening. “You know, you don't just buy a car, but a responsibility. A lot of people don't pull down an annual salary as rich as the sticker price on a machine like this. With reasonable care and maintenance, this baby would run for your grandchildren. Cars aren't disposable commodities, you know. People make them that way because they're too lazy or too stupid to take care of the basics. You needed a lube job six months ago.”

Trent's fingers drummed on the side of his briefcase. “Young man, you're being paid to service my car, not to lecture me on my responsibilities to it.” In a habit as ingrained as breathing, he checked his watch. “Now, I'd like to know when my car will be ready, as I have a number of appointments.”

“Lecture's free.” C.C. gave a push and sent the creeper scooting out from under the car. “And I'm not your young man.”

That much was quite obvious. Though the face was grimy and the dark hair cropped boyishly short, the body clad in greasy coveralls was decidely feminine. Every curvy inch of it. Trent wasn't often thrown for a loss, but now he simply stood, staring as C.C. rose from the creeper and faced him, tapping a wrench against her palm.