She lifted her chin. "I beg your pardon? Are you speaking to me?"

"You should beg my pardon. I've been waiting out here for almost fifteen minutes." He peered at her through the rain. "Where I come from, people who double-park run the risk of getting their tires slashed."

"Must be a lovely neighborhood," she muttered under her breath. Realizing he had a legitimate complaint, she said, "Look, I'm really sorry. I only needed to run upstairs for a minute-"

"Since I've been waiting for fifteen minutes, that's not really true, is it?"

Melanie's anger flared to the surface. Well, excuuuuuse me, Mr. Mercedes. She had already apologized. Did this bozo want a blood oath?

"Like I said, I'm sorry. I'll just get in my car and toddle on home." Suddenly wondering if Mr. Mercedes was angry enough to turn violent, she opened the car door, shoved the box of food across the seat, and slid in, quickly slamming and locking the door. She looked over and was relieved to see him get back into his car.

Melanie stuck the key in the ignition and turned it. A weak grrrrr sounded and nothing else. She tried it again. An even weaker grrrrr came out. On the third try, nothing. She thunked her forehead on the steering wheel.

"This day has to end… this day has to end… this day has to end!" She turned the key again, but only silence met her ears.

A tap sounded on the driver's window and Melanie yelped in fright. She looked up and saw a face peering at her from beneath a black umbrella. Touching her palm to her beating heart, she took a deep breath. Mr. Mercedes. She rolled down the window an inch.

"I don't mean to harp on this," he said in a distinctly sarcastic tone through the crack, "but when you said you were leaving, I sort of assumed you meant sometime tonight."

Ha, ha, ha. Very funny. Mr. Mercedes was a veritable Jerry Seinfeld. Smothering a groan of annoyance, Melanie turned the knob to lower the window farther.

The knob came off in her palm.

She squeezed her eyes shut and mentally cursed the Dodge in six languages. Pulling herself together, she looked up at Mr. Mercedes. She couldn't see much through the crack in the window, but what she could see didn't scream serial killer. At least he didn't have CRAZED MURDERER tattooed on his forehead.

He was just a tired businessman trying to get home from work. Of course, he seemed a tad irritated, but who could blame him? She was a bit out-of-sorts herself. Deciding her choices were to face Mr. Mercedes or rot in the Dodge, she opened the door. He backed up to give her room to get out.

"Look," Melanie said, standing under his umbrella, trying to keep her impatience under control, "I'm really sorry about this, but now it seems that my car won't…"

Her voice trailed off as she got her first look at Mr. Mercedes. Good grief. Melanie stared at him and her breath deserted her body in a whoosh. Must be a trick of the light, and the sheen of the rain. No man could be that gorgeous.

He stood at least six two, and his face looked like something out of a Ralph Lauren ad. All sculpted planes, bedroomy blue eyes, and a firm, square jaw, complete with sexy five o'clock shadow.

A stark white dress shirt contrasted with his ebony hair and accentuated his broad shoulders. He'd loosened his conservative paisley tie, and his shirtsleeves were rolled back, exposing tanned, muscular forearms. Dark gray dress pants hugged his lean hips. Her eyes traveled back up his long length. No doubt about it: The good-looks god had clearly favored this guy. He had to be married. She looked at his left hand. No ring. Probably gay.

"Your car won't what?" he asked, bringing her thoughts back to her present problem.

Melanie snapped her gaze back up to his face. He was staring at her, frowning, his annoyance evident. "Start," she replied. "My car won't start."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. I don't know much about cars, but I know when one won't start. It growled at me twice, then died."

His gaze shifted over her shoulder to look at the Dodge. "No offense, but it looks like it was time for it to go."

Melanie took immediate umbrage. Nobody insulted her car. She drew herself up to her full five feet eight inches. "Hey, this car is a classic. It's in perfect condition. Almost. It might not be as fancy as your wheels, but it gets me where I've got to go… or at least it did until a few minutes ago."

"Mind if I give it a try?" he asked. When she hesitated, he looked skyward. "Listen, lady, I'm not about to steal your car, okay? I'm tired, I'm hungry, I'm soaked from the knees down, and I'd like to get out of here sometime before midnight. Until that piece of… er… your car gets moved, I'm stuck."

Sheesh. What a grouch. And at least he was only wet from the knees down. She was soaked through to her skin. "Be my guest," Melanie said, sweeping her hand in a grand gesture toward the driver's seat.

"Thanks. Here," he said, passing her the umbrella. "Hold this."

He slid into the driver's seat and yelped in pain, pushing up his hips as high as the steering wheel would allow.

"Watch out," Melanie warned. "There're a couple of broken springs in the seat."

He sent her a withering look. "Thanks."

"No problem."

He turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. "You said it growled at you?" he asked, looking up at her.

"Twice. Then it died."

"Well, I'd guess that your battery is dead. Do you have jumper cables?"

Melanie shook her head. "’Fraid not."

He muttered something under his breath that Melanie didn't catch, but based on the look on his face, she decided that was probably for the best.

"Maybe the person who's parked in front of you or behind you will show up," she suggested, hoping it was true.

"Based on the day I've had, they've probably gone on vacation and won't be back 'til Christmas." He took a deep breath. "I might as well jump you-"

"Whoa, buddy. Hold it right there." Melanie backed up several steps. "If you touch me, I'll scream. I've got chicken legs and I'm not afraid to use them."

He stared at her as though she was an escapee from the home for the criminally insane. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"If you think I'll stand here and let you jump me-"

"Your car. I'll use my jumper cables to jump-start your car."

Melanie felt her face flush with embarrassment. "Oh. Right. I knew that."

He muttered again and shook his head. "I'll just pop the hood." He slid across the seat, got one leg out of the car and stopped. Melanie stared down at him and waited. He jerked forward a few times but didn't move.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

He looked up at her with an unreadable expression. "You said something about broken springs in the seat?"

Melanie nodded. "Yeah. Why?"

"It seems my pants are… snagged."

"Snagged?"

"I'm stuck."

"What do you mean?"

He sent her a potent glare. "Which word are you having trouble with-I'm or stuck?"

"Sheesh. There's no need to be sarcastic."

He wiggled his butt a bit. Melanie could almost hear his teeth grinding together. "Stuck. Caught. Trapped. I can't move."

Melanie shook her head in sympathy. "Bummer. But I know just how you feel. I've ruined a dozen pair of hose on those darn springs."

He stuck his hand under himself and yelped. "Jesus! Look at this! I'm bleeding!" He withdrew his hand and held up fingers smeared dark red. "I'll probably get tetanus from this rattletrap."

Melanie bent over, grabbed his hand, and peered at it in the dim interior light. Then she sniffed. "Barbecue sauce."

"Excuse me?"

"That isn't blood. It's barbecue sauce. A stray packet from a previous delivery order, no doubt. Here." She reached under the seat and handed him a wad of paper napkins.

He wiped his fingers and scowled at her. "So, my pants are ripped and stained."

"Seems so. Hope you know a good dry cleaner."

"Great. That's just great."

Melanie considered pointing out to him that the barbecue sauce wasn't doing her upholstery any good, but it didn't seem like something he would appreciate hearing.

"I think I could use a little help here," he said testily.

"Oh. Sure." Melanie rested the umbrella between the open door and the car roof and leaned in across him, trying to see where his pants were caught. "Sorry," she mumbled, pushing her way in. "Gotta crawl over you. Passenger door doesn't open."

Chris stared down with disbelief at the woman sprawled across his lap. Her short skirt was hiked up and barely covered the essentials. Since her backside was practically in his face, he couldn't help but notice the curve of her hips. She had a great butt. At the moment, however, her long, lean legs, encased in ripped hose, stuck out the open door, dangling in the rain. He prayed none of his coworkers happened by. This definitely did not look good.

Something pinched his rear and he sucked in a breath. What the hell was she doing to his ass?

"Hey, lady," he said, annoyed to be placed in this awkward spot, "if you're so anxious to cop a feel, I'd rather find a more private place."

She pushed herself up and glared at him. Her head was only inches from his and with the aid of the interior light, Chris got his first good look at her face. Her hair was half plastered to her head, half sticking up at crazy angles. She looked like she'd stuck her finger in an electric socket.

Her mascara had run, forming black moons under her eyes. They were big, limpid, chocolatey-brown eyes and they studied him with clear exasperation. She had creamy skin, and a battalion of pale freckles marched across her straight nose. Two deep dimples winked at him from the sides of her mouth. Despite his annoyance, his eyes lingered there for several heartbeats. She had the most incredible, lush mouth he'd ever seen.

His gaze dropped. Her shirt was soaking wet and clung to her like a second skin, clearly outlining soft curves encased in a lacy bra. The words PAMPERED PALATE were embroidered on the pocket. She was the woman from the elevator. He breathed in. She smelled like fried chicken.

"Listen, you pervert," she said, her eyes flashing, "I was not copping a feel. I was trying to save your pants."

She was breathing hard, and every time she inhaled Chris felt her breasts pressing against him. Soft, full breasts that made his groin tingle and his heart speed up. Jeez, I must be losing my mind. She looked like a drowned rat. This woman was nothing but a pain in the ass-literally. He was simply suffering from malnutrition-induced dementia. Of course he would be affected by a woman who smelled like chicken. It had nothing to do with the sexy curves plastered against him.

Wanting her away from him as soon as possible, he said, "If you'll just move, I'll save my own pants."

She scooted off him, stood and grabbed the umbrella. "Fine. But don't blame me if-"

The sound of material ripping was unmistakable.

"Uh-oh," she said.

Gritting his teeth, Chris got out of the car. He peered inside and saw a good-sized piece of dark material on the seat. Hoping it wasn't what he suspected, he picked it up, dangling it between his fingers.

Dark wool.

Like from a man's suit. His suit. His brand-new suit.

"Oh, boy. That doesn't look good," she said. "Looks just like my panty hose did." She peered around at his backside, then straightened. Her amusement was clear. "Hmmm. I see you're a boxer man."

Chris mentally counted to ten. The sooner he jumped her car, the sooner she'd be on her way, and the sooner he could get home. Without a word, he popped her hood, then walked to his car to get the jumper cables. He left the umbrella with her. There wasn't any point in bothering with it-his suit was already ruined, and the rain was tapering off a bit.

She stood under the umbrella and waited while he attached the cables.

"Okay," he said, several minutes later. "Turn the key."

She slid into the car and turned the ignition, and the engine coughed to life. Chris almost jumped for joy. He quickly disconnected the wires from both cars and replaced the cables in his trunk.

"I think that should do it," he said, slamming the Dodge's hood.

"Yes. Thank you very much." She smiled, and two deep dimples winked at him. "My name's Melanie Gibson. But everyone calls me Mel."

He stared at her. "Your name's Mel Gibson?"

"Yup. What's yours?"

He couldn't believe he was standing in the rain talking to a lunatic woman who thought she was Mel Gibson. "I'm Peter Pan."