He wished with everything he was that he could rewind the clock, back to that day with the Road Warriors when everything had spiraled so far out of control. But he couldn’t have a do-over. He hadn’t saved that kid. He hadn’t saved the Road Warriors.
And he sure as hell hadn’t saved his own soul.
Will couldn’t stand the thought of hurting Harper in any way. He would never forgive himself if he did. And yet, everything inside of him rebelled at the thought of letting her walk permanently out of his life. Somehow, he needed to find a way to get closer to her while still keeping her safe.
He’d walked a lot of fine lines in his life, but he had a feeling this one just might be the trickiest line of all. Not to mention the most important.
Will’s computer beeped. Midnight. Time for his call. He clicked it into life and a grizzled face appeared on the screen.
“Mr. Franconi, I hope you are having a pleasant evening. I received your email. And the attachments.”
Though he lived in Italy, Rupert Rivoli was French, and his lilting accent had turned to gravel with age and cigars. He could have been anywhere from fifty to eighty. His skin was slightly sallow and dark pouches bloomed beneath his eyes. But he was the best of the best. After getting his contact info from Daniel, Will had researched the man. Rupert had been a master craftsman at Maserati—a miracle worker.
Will had a miracle of his own he wanted the man to perform. “Can it be done, Rupert? Can you make me a Birdcage Maserati kit?”
“Of course it can be done, Mr. Franconi.” He sounded almost offended. “It is only a matter of money. And time.”
“Money is no object. And I’ll pay to have it as quickly as possible.”
“You understand I will have to coordinate my work with commissioning the engine, transmission, and other parts. It is not a small undertaking, Mr. Franconi.”
“That’s why I’ll pay you whatever you need to get it done. We can start with the chassis and sheet metal pieces. Then I’ll need to lay in all the wiring. You can take longer to get the engine and transmission. Tell your crew I’ll give a bonus for early delivery.”
The older man wagged his head, staring down at the schematics Will had sent. “These will have to be modified for what you want.”
During the past couple of days, Will had combed the Internet for a similar racing model. What he wanted, though, was much more specialized. “You’re the only man who can do this.” It wasn’t flattery, it was true.
“I will try, Mr. Franconi, but my shop has customers.”
Rupert’s shop was damn near a factory. He was the largest employer in his small town. He had a reputation for overseeing every project like a hawk. Will had a feeling the man would be so intrigued by the project that he’d do a lot of the work himself.
“I’m willing to pay to get this design first in line. I’ll even pay your customers a wait fee, if that’s what it takes.”
“You make an offer a man cannot refuse. But what is the penalty if I discover I cannot deliver on time?”
There was always a penalty clause. But Will was asking for a miracle. “No penalty. Just give me your honest estimate, and I’ll work with that. Keep in mind that this is a present for a teenage boy. And I don’t want him disappointed.” Which was why Will would approach Harper about the car after it was a done deal. He didn’t want to get Jeremy’s hopes up only to crush them later.
Rupert nodded gravely. “Your son is a lucky boy.”
“Not my son. A friend.”
“Then he is very lucky to have a friend like you. I will do my best. You will hear from me by the end of the week.”
Will was the lucky one. For the first time in years, he felt major excitement stirring in his gut. It was partly the new project. It was partly doing something that would mean so much to someone else. It would be the look on Jeremy’s face when he invited the kid to help build the Birdcage Maserati.
But most of all, it was Harper.
* * *
Working from home, Harper’s Thursday morning had been so full with phone interviews and follow-ups for her recruiting company that she hadn’t even folded the weekend’s laundry. Too often, she didn’t finish putting away the previous week’s clean clothes before she had to wash the current week’s dirty ones.
She pushed her hair out of her face as she stared in dismay at the mess in the family room. On the coffee table, Jeremy’s coloring book and crayons were a hodgepodge of color. The kitchen bar was littered with papers, lists, notes, and several days’ worth of junk mail. She really needed to weed out the important stuff and toss the rest. But housecleaning was always at the bottom of the to-do list.