Maggie circled the vehicle, touching it, breathing in, as if trying to make it a part of her. Her eyes were wide, her expression one of wonder. He’d seen that look on a woman’s face before, but usually only when giving expensive jewels or shopping trips to Paris and Milan.

“You have to let me do this,” she told him. “No one will love her more than I do.”

George Collins had been one of the best restorers and mechanics in the business. Had he passed on his greatness to his daughter or was she simply trading on his name?

Maggie opened the passenger door. “Rats,” she muttered, then looked at him. “They’ve chewed the hell out of the leather. But I know a guy who can work miracles.”

“How long would it take to restore her?” he asked.

She grinned. “How much money do you have?”

“An endless supply.”

“Must be nice.” She considered the question. “With express delivery and my contacts, six to eight weeks, assuming I can find what I need. I’ll want to fly in someone to do the upholstery and the painting. I’ll do everything else myself. I’m assuming I can get metal work done locally.”

“You can.”

She straightened and folded her arms over her chest. “Do we have a deal?”

Qadir had no problem working with women. He liked women. They were soft and appealing and they smelled good. But the Phantom was special.

“You can’t refuse me because I’m female,” Maggie told him. “That’s wrong. You know that’s wrong. El Deharia is forward and progressive.” She looked away, then turned back to face him. “My father is gone and I miss him every moment of every day. I need to do this for him. Because that’s what he would have wanted. No one is going to care more about doing this right than me, Prince Qadir. I give you my word.”

An impassioned plea. “But does your word have value?”

“I’ve killed a man for assuming less.”