Car

We walked back to the front of the house, and past the fairly fresh plaster that might have hidden ridiculously lethal booby traps, out over a front porch the size of a tennis court, and down several steps to the circular drive, where the car Lara had lent me was waiting.
I stopped so suddenly that Anastasia nearly walked into my back. She caught her balance with a hiss of discomfort, and then looked up and caught her breath. "Oh, my."
Nearly two tons of British steel and chrome sat idling in the drive. Its purring engine sounded like a sewing machine. The white Rolls limo was an old model, something right out of a pulp-fiction adventure film, and it was in gorgeous condition. Its panels shone, freshly waxed and without blemish, and the chrome of its grill gleamed sienna in the light of dusk over the Château.
I walked down to peer inside the Rolls. The passenger seating in the back was larger than my freaking apartment. Or at least it looked that way. The interior was all silver-grey and white leather and similarly colored woodwork, polished to a glowing sheen and accented with silver. The carpet on the floor of the Rolls was thicker and more luxurious than a well-kept lawn.
"Wow," I said quietly.
Anastasia, standing beside me, breathed, "That's a work of bloody art."
"Wow," I said quietly.
"Look at the filigree."
I nodded. "Wow."
Anastasia gave me a sidelong look. "And there's plenty of room in back."
I blinked and looked at her.
Her expression was innocent and bland. "All I'm saying is that it is rather crowded in your apartment right now..."
"Anastasia," I said. I felt my face getting a little warm.
The dimples reappeared. She was just teasing me, of course. In her condition it would be some time before she could engage in that kind of activity.
"What model is this?" she asked.
"Um," I said. "Well, it's a Rolls-Royce. It's... I think it's from before World War Two..."
"It's a Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith, of course," said Lara's voice from behind me. "At this house? What else would it be?"
I looked over my shoulder, to see Lara Raith standing in the shadowy doorway of the house.
"You have special needs, obviously," she said. "So I provided you with an appropriate vintage. Nineteen thirty-nine." She folded her arms, rather smugly, I thought, and said, "Bring it back with a full tank."
I tilted my head at her in a gesture that wasn't quite an affirmation, and muttered, as I opened the passenger-side door, "The loan officer will have to run a check on my credit first. What's this thing get, about two gallons per mile?"


Turn Coat Chapter 28, Page 255-256