Read Online Touch of Heaven by Maureen Smith - Free Book Online Page B

years old and president of the United States, he would still be given headlocks by his uncle.
    As Randall released him a moment later, his deep-set dark eyes—identical to Warrick’s—skimmed over his nephew’s black T-shirt and jeans. His grin turned teasing. “Good thing you’re not wearing one of those GQ suits. Wouldn’t wanna get grease stains on your fancy threads.”
    Warrick chuckled, turning and walking over to the minifridge tucked into a corner of the garage. He snagged two cold beers and made his way back over to pass one to his uncle, who wiped his hands on a rag before accepting the bottle.
    â€œI didn’t know you were heading out this way today,” Randall said, lowering the volume on the stereo. “I could have thrown a couple steaks on the grill.”
    â€œSounds good. Later.” Although Warrick had eaten the same thing for dinner last night at the restaurant, he wasn’t about to turn down one of his uncle’s juicy T-bone steaks, which had always been a crowd-pleaser at summer cookouts and family reunions. His mouth watered just thinking about it.
    â€œSo you’re staying for dinner?” Randall asked.
    â€œOf course.” Sprawling lazily in a chair, Warrick took a swig of beer. “I was hoping we could shoot some hoops, but I see you’re otherwise preoccupied.” Grinning, he hitched his chin toward the Thunderbird. “This the new love of your life? The one you were telling me about the last time we talked?”
    â€œYep,” Randall said, beaming proudly. “Two hundred sixty horsepower, three-hundred-twelve-cubic-inch V-eight. Did I also tell you the Fifty-six model was the rarest of the T-Birds, with a production total of only 15,631? Fifty-six was also the first year ofthe continental kit and the porthole window in the hardtop. Ain’t she a beauty?”
    Warrick ran an appreciative eye over the convertible, admiring its sleek, classic lines and gleaming chrome finish. “She’s a winner,” he agreed.
    â€œDamn straight. Got her at auction for a steal.” Randall chuckled. “Those amateurs didn’t know what they were parting with.”
    Warrick grinned. He remembered, as a teenager, watching in awed fascination as his uncle bargained down the price of a used car he had purchased for Warrick to drive his mother and siblings around. The vehicle had been in fairly good condition and could have fetched a higher asking price, but Randall Mayne, with the fluid ease of a maestro conducting an orchestra, had somehow talked the salesman down. The poor bastard never stood a chance. By the time Warrick and his uncle had driven off the lot, the salesman was red-faced and flustered, undoubtedly wondering what had just happened.
    Over the years, whenever Warrick found himself applying the same technique during contract negotiations with a tough client, his mind flashed back to that day at the used-car lot, and inwardly he smiled.
    Randall Mayne’s negotiating skills and killer instincts weren’t the only things Warrick had apparently inherited. If he had a dime for every time someone had told him he was the spitting image of his uncle, he’d be even wealthier than he already was. Looking at Randall—tall and broad-shouldered, with a sprinkling of gray at his temples—Warrick realized he was seeing a future version of himself in twenty years.
    He imagined his own father must have resembled Randall as well, but every time Warrick tried to recall what his dad had looked like, all he remembered was a faceless man passed out on the bed, or sofa, or floor, or wherever he’d managed to crawl and collapse after getting high.
    How many times had Warrick wished that Randall were his father? Randall was the one who had stepped in and rescued Warrick when he had veered onto a collision course with disaster at fourteen, getting suspended from school and becoming involved with notorious drug