Dire Means Read Free Page A

had strong-armed property management into funding private security guards for the sole purpose of throwing such bums off building property. No, this girl wasn’t a scummy bummy. She was clean, classy, and sizzling.
    She tilted her head coyly and leaned to one side—tentative—seeming ready to apologize if Brandon showed the slightest offense at her approach. “Excuse me, sir. Are you Mr. Chargon?”
    A smile spread on Brandon’s face. “Yes, that’s me,” he said. His eyes drifted from her long dark hair down to her candy-apple high heels and back up to her eyes.
    At fifty-one years old, Brandon had a belt-straining paunch and was bald—except for sideburns that looked like fuzzy, mirrored maps of Florida that didn’t quite make it over the tops of his ears.
    “I’ve been searching for you,” she said, extending her hand. Her grip was firm and her need to look down into his eyes wowed Brandon.
    “What can I do for you?” he asked. In his instant fantasy, her answer might lead them somewhere private—for the alcohol that could enable all sorts of possibilities. From experience, he knew he had no chance to score with a woman this hot without getting half a dozen drinks in her first.
    “I’m sorry to be so forward, but are you the man who drives the ‘57 Ford Fairlane convertible I see pull into the parking garage almost every day?”
    “Darling, could we talk a little while longer if I was that man?”
    “Oh, God, yes! I love that car! Please tell me it’s yours!” She folded her hands and pressed them under her chin to contain her excitement.
    Brandon grinned like a terrible poker player who had just drawn a royal flush. He tucked his left hand in his pocket and worked his thumb to remove his wedding ring. If he had carried some tanning lotion to remove his ring’s tan line, he would have tried to smear some on.
    “As a matter of fact, young lady, you’re in luck! That Fairlane is one of my kids.” Brandon loved his cars. The Fairlane convertible was his favorite of the more than thirty classics he owned. His “kids” had his undying love, time, attention, and patience—often to the exclusion and envy of his wife of twenty-two years. “Care to take a ride in it?” he said, offering what he hoped was an unfair temptation.
    “Oh, you wouldn’t!” She touched his arm and held her mouth wide open.
    “If you have the time, let’s go,” Brandon said. He pulled his ringless hand from his pocket and made a point of scratching his nose in exhibition of his erased marital status.
    “NO—are you serious? You’ll take me for a spin?”
    “Absolutely.”
    “Can we ride her topless?” she asked.
    Brandon felt an adrenaline rush at what he hoped was innuendo and he jerked his gaze from her breasts back to her face. “Sure, but if we go topless, you might want to take a sweater since it’s cool out today.” Before he finished his sentence, he cursed himself; a chill would only enhance the scenery this girl offered.
    “I’ve got a sweater and hair clip in my office. Do you mind coming with?” she said, pointing up.
    Brandon checked his watch.
    “I’m on the third floor—come with me. It will take only a minute,” she urged, and then winked at him.
    “Well, if you’re going to beg...” Brandon laughed. He turned for the elevators that had just opened and disgorged a load of tired workers, headed home for the day.
    She tugged his arm and leaned close enough for him to smell a hint of her perfume. “Wait, I’ve got a faster way.” She led him around the corner of the lobby to the freight elevator.
    “So, do you work in building management?” Brandon asked, pointing to the freight elevator that required coveted key cards from the building management.
    “No. I supervise security upstairs. I’m rarely out and about so you probably would never have seen me.”
    “And that’s a shame!”
    She laughed and pulled a key card from her purse and then held it to the elevator’s security pad.