Crazy Love Read Online Free

out of yet another thought, she jerked her head around. “Don’t what?”
Geez.
What an amazing idea, an amazing plan. She could break into Whitfield’s, snatch the Godwin file, and be back in time for—
    “Don’t think what you’re thinking.” Hawkins looked up from the keyboard. “Back up and rewind, Baby Bang. You’re not going to Washington, not without Dylan’s approval.”
    “Yes, I am.” It was too perfect, the ultimate coup, the—
    “No, you’re not,” he said, his steady gaze adding enough weight to his words to make a girl think twice.
    But damn. It would be so easy.
    “I could.” Honestly, she didn’t have a doubt in her mind.
    “I know you could,” he agreed. “And you’re too good to spend the rest of your life knocking around the office, but it’s got to be by the book from here on out.”
    “What book?” SDF didn’t have a book.
    “The Skeeter Jeanne Bang Rule Book, all eight volumes of it.”
    Except for that book.
Dammit.
    “He’ll come around,” Hawkins said. “Just give it a little time. Let me talk to him tonight.”
    Time. She let her gaze go back to Dylan’s door. She’d run out of time—again.
Damn him.
He’d closed himself into his private office, and if everything went the way it usually did, that was it. He’d be gone in the morning, and she wouldn’t see him again for weeks, months.
    Suddenly, it wasn’t almost more than she could bear, it was
way
more than she could bear.
    “Talk all you want. I’m out of here,” she said, turning on her heel and heading for the door that led to the garage. It was eight o’clock on a Friday night, and she was going to blow off some steam. All she needed was a fast car, nerves of steel, and to throw down some cash at the Midnight Doubles.
    The car was waiting for her out in the bay. The cash was in her hip pocket, and her nerves were pure titanium alloy. Just let the rice-car boys try to mess with her tonight. She’d bury them up to their eyeballs in asphalt.

    DYLAN’S office was a refuge of near-Zen simplicity, containing a desk with two black laptops, a lamp, and a phone. The bookcases and file drawers were made out of beech and matched the desk and the door. Pale green woven-grass wallpaper covered the walls. There were no photographs, no plants, no loose supplies scattered anywhere.
    The main office, where everybody worked, was full of high-tech equipment and gadgetry and enough Scandinavian-designed furniture to host a team meeting with a cocktail party on the side. There was only one chair in Dylan’s office—for a reason.
    He settled into that chair with a bottle of Scotch and a glass of ice he set on the desk. The bottle was almost empty, which didn’t bode well for his plans.
    Neither did the sudden roar and rumble coming from the garage. The ice in the glass shimmied. The floor hummed, and the walls shook with the power of the engine
somebody
was firing up out in the bays.
    “Sonuvabitch,”
he muttered, lofting himself out of the chair. Dylan couldn’t recognize every single car Steele Street owned by the sound of their engine—but he recognized this one. It was unmistakable, and it wasn’t supposed to exist. He’d personally given the destruction order back in January, and the best damn mechanic they had was supposed to have obeyed.
    Instead, she was out in the garage giving it gas and making the whole place rattle.
    The girl was
completely
out of control. Somebody needed to take her in hand, rein her in, put a leash on her,
something,
and it obviously wasn’t going to be Superman.
    He jerked the door open.
    “Where in the hell is she going?”
    Hawkins checked his watch, then looked up. “At eight o’clock on a Friday night in August, I’d say she’s going to the Midnight Doubles.”
    “Driving Mercy?” He couldn’t believe it.
    “That would be my guess,” Hawkins said, oddly undisturbed by a situation that Dylan found damn near apocalyptic—Skeeter racing Mercy against a bunch of idiot