With This Fling

Anthony had sent a tow truck.

Now she wheeled the Firebird into the busy parking lot of Anthony DiLeo Automotive. She parked in his reserved space and headed inside for the verdict, not looking forward to finding out how much worse the week could get.

A sixty-inch television broadcast a daytime talk show in the waiting area, where several customers sat, eyes fixed on the screen, waiting. The whole place had a still-new-around-the-edges feel to it that wouldn’t hold up long under the daily traffic of grease-covered mechanics. Especially now that Anthony had more than doubled the size of his staff with the recent move into this larger facility.

Forcing a smile, she greeted the receptionist behind the service desk and asked, “Anthony in his office?”

“He’s got your car on a lift.”

Harley nodded and headed down the narrow hallway. Organized chaos was the only term to describe the garage. With twenty bays, and mechanics engaged in all manner of auto maintenance and repair from simple oil changes to major engine rebuilds, the place screamed thriving business. Harley had her fingers crossed these bays stayed filled, because Anthony had gambled everything on this move. He had some grand plans for his future and was accomplishing them one step at a time.

This move had been a big step.

She spotted her gray sedan and made her way back, waving at several of the mechanics who greeted her along the way.

“Hello, princess.” Anthony DiLeo, the owner of Anthony DiLeo Automotive, stepped out from beneath the lift, where she got a bird’s-eye view of her car’s dismantled underbelly.

Harley had known Anthony since she’d been six years old, and her dad had rented the DiLeo family’s garage apartment to live above the shop where he’d run his electronics business.

Anthony had been eight at the time, the middle son in a family of five boys and a girl. He hadn’t known she’d existed—until his younger brother Damon had mistaken her for a target to practice his Bruce Lee moves on.

She’d convinced Damon of his error with a bloody nose.

Anthony had stepped in to break up the tussle and for some reason that Harley still couldn’t explain, some twenty-plus years later, eight-year-old Anthony DiLeo had seemed everything the perfect boy should be. With his olive skin, tawny hair, golden brown eyes, he’d grown from perfect boy into perfect teen into perfect man, a man who—hopefully—had some good news for her.

“What’s the verdict?”

He held out a grease-stained palm filled with metal shavings. “Your tranny’s shot.”

“Can you fix it?”

“I can replace it.”

Oh, this was just getting better and better.

Grabbing a rag from a nearby tool caddy, he wiped his hands. “When did you say it first started slipping?”

“Saturday. And if you’re going to tell me you could have fixed it if I’d brought it in sooner, don’t.”

He didn’t miss the significance of that statement. “Didn’t go well with the exterminator?”

Harley shook her head.

“Charlie,” he called out. “Get the princess’s wheels down and Iovocozzi’s Navigator up. Put Sal on it and tell him I promised to have it done by five.” He turned to her. “Come on.”

She walked at his side, waited when he stopped at a sink to scrub his hands. Then he slipped his arm around her neck, felt for the outline of her holster and led her into his office.

“Sit,” he said, then disappeared back out the door, returning a few minutes later with two cups of coffee. Pressing one into her hands, he half sat on the desk in front of her.

“Thanks.” Harley felt her frayed edges begin to smooth out.

“What did the exterminator say?”

Lifting her gaze, she felt her throat tighten at the concern she saw in his. “I’ve got termites big time. No surprises there, since they’ve been falling on my head. But the damage, Anthony…” She swallowed hard to continue. “The exterminator said there’s a lot. I met with him on my lunch hour and now he’s coming back with a contractor this afternoon. They’ll give me an estimate.”

“It might not be that bad.”

She nodded, sipped her coffee, her heart beating so fast she felt dizzy. Just her luck that she’d finally bought her own home, a real home like she’d wanted forever, and bugs were eating it from the inside out.

Anthony recognized how upset she was because he set his cup aside and leaned forward to press a kiss to the top of her head. She wasn’t surprised by the intimacy. Technically they were in an off-again phase of their relationship—ever since she’d met Craig the cop and he’d met Rachel in retail.

Craig had taken a hike, but Rachel hadn’t gotten her walking papers yet. As soon as she did, Anthony would be knocking on Harley’s door again. As always, she’d welcome him. He’d taught her an orgasm was the best cure-all for whatever ailed her, and she could use a good one right now. She had termites, a shot transmission…and Mac Gerard in hot pursuit.

What a week!

Brushing hairs away from her forehead, Anthony smiled down at her. “Let’s tackle one problem at a time here, princess.”

“Transmission.”

“Done deal.”

“I don’t have the money for the parts.” She barely had the money for her next meal, but she wouldn’t tell him that. School loans had strapped her finances tight for too long, but once she’d bought the house… “I’m having heart palpitations about what the exterminator and contractor are going to say.”

“No problem. I’ll cover the parts, but it’s going to take me about a week to get them. My suppliers put me on C.O.D. ever since the move. They want their cash up front until they’re sure I won’t crash and burn the business.”

He didn’t have to say another word for Harley to know he was offended. He’d been doing business with his suppliers for nearly ten years. She also knew it was the first of the month, and since he’d only made his third mortgage payment on this high-square-footage property, his cash must be really tight.

“Is everything all right?” She set her coffee cup on the desk. “Are your mom and Damon doing okay?”

“I covered Damon’s share of the mortgage again this month.”

She’d figured that would happen. Anthony DiLeo Automotive comprised one third—albeit the largest third—of what had become a DiLeo compound. Anthony had bought the huge property, then renovated the space into his new garage, his mother’s new hair salon and his brother’s new dojo.

Until Damon got his martial arts studio off the ground and built up his client base… “I can put in a plug with Josh. Maybe he’ll consider moving Eastman Investigations. The place we’re training in now is a dive.”

Anthony smiled, one of those blinding, white-toothed grins that had been taking her breath away forever. “That’d help. I’m going down to talk to the bank about modifying the mortgage now that the rates have dropped again. Until then, I’m screwed. Next to nobody pays cash and the credit card companies hold up my money for six weeks. But the banks cover the debit transactions every week, so I’ll get your transmission then. Okay?”

She leaned back in her chair with a sigh. “I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Anthony reached for his coffee, looking satisfied. He always liked when she fed his ego—a full-time job even when he wasn’t saving her ass.

“Well, that’s one problem off my back, thank you very much,” she said. “Now I have to figure out how I’m getting around. What’s your loaner situation?”

“Not good. I’m taking on twice the business with only two spare vehicles.”

“What are my chances of talking you out of the Firebird?”

“How about the chopper? I’m on Mama detail this week. We’ve got a doctor’s appointment this afternoon, a casino cruise Friday night and a wedding on Saturday.”

Harley was genuinely flattered that Anthony trusted her to drive his pride and joy. “Are you sure? Would you rather let Damon borrow the chopper? I’m sure he wouldn’t mind lending me his car. He barely leaves the dojo anyway.”

“Damon is not driving the chopper.” He leaned across the desk to slide open a drawer. “I’ll only trust you, princess.”

“You’ll kill me if I ding the paint.”

He scooped the keys from a drawer and held them out to her, catching her gaze above his hand. “Then don’t ding the paint.”

She plucked the keys from his fingers and smiled.

Looked like her day had finally taken a turn for the better. Now if her luck just held through the afternoon…

3

MAC USUALLY ENJOYED an occasional night gambling at Harrah’s. It was a new pastime in his repertoire, one that Josh had introduced him to. Josh had also been the one to insist they drop by the casino tonight, after returning to the office after-hours to find Mac still working.

While Mac appreciated the attempt to take his mind off the case, he finally left Josh in the Blue Dog Poker Room to walk off his restlessness in the fantasy world that made up Harrah’s. His head was cluttered with questions about how best to recover the stolen items and he was struggling to think clearly while suffering a bad case of Harley on the brain.

So he wandered beneath the starry sky in the jazz court and tried to distract himself when the dueling pianos played music that reminded him of how good she’d felt in his arms when they’d danced at the wedding.

He finally made his way to the VIP lounge to get away from the music. Flashing his ID, he greeted the doorman, then stepped inside to savor the quiet…and find the very woman who’d been haunting his thoughts as if she’d materialized straight from his imagination.

Harley.

She sat alone, contemplating the drink she held with both hands. Gone was her requisite black—she’d dressed in cream leather, a formfitting pantsuit that molded her slim curves.

She presented him an unfamiliar opportunity to observe her without having to think on his feet or dodge physical blows. He simply admired the way the color emphasized her skin, how her delicate profile peeked through the tumble of red hair.

She seemed different tonight. Something more than the wardrobe change. Then he recognized what that difference was. Though Mac hadn’t made the connection before, hadn’t realized she functioned with shields up against the world, he suddenly understood now, when those shields were so noticeably absent.

Something about the slump of her shoulders. And the way she’d hooked her feet around the chair legs to lean forward, as if she needed the table to support her. She seemed somehow unguarded, all alone in the world.

This was Harley uncensored. The Harley he needed to seduce. They were making each other crazy with this unrequited lust and he didn’t understand why she couldn’t see that, why she fought him so hard. All they needed to do was satisfy their hunger and go their separate ways. It was simple. Inevitable.

Mac didn’t hesitate. Covering the distance, he slid into the chair across from her. She snapped her head up and blinked those deep blue eyes.

“You’re not seeing things, Harley. It’s me.”

She brought a shaky hand to her forehead. “I’m in hell.”

“No, you’re in Harrah’s.”

“No, you’re here. I’m in hell.” She dropped her face into her outspread hands and Mac thought he saw her shudder.

That was his second clue that all was not business as usual. The first had been her reaction to him—normally after she’d made the nasty comment, she would have taken off and left him to chase after her.

“Is everything all right?”

“Why are you here?” Her voice was muffled behind her hands.

“I came with Josh.”

That got her attention, and she lifted her head. “Josh is here, in the casino?”

Mac nodded but he didn’t get a chance to gauge her reaction, because she slid the chair back and got to her feet, treating him to a head-to-toe view of slim curves enveloped in leather.

That sensation clenched low in his gut again as he took in those curves, so beautifully shaped and well toned for her obsession with the marital arts. Leather hugged her long legs like a second skin, outlining the length of her thighs and the sweep of her calves. Her shoes were stylish, but the heels low enough to run in. She was ever ready for trouble.

“I am so out of here,” she said, staring down her nose. “Do me a favor and tell Josh you didn’t see me.”

Mac considered the logic of that statement and recognized his next clue that all was not right with Harley.

She was unsteady on her feet. Just the slightest waver, but enough to convince him that the nearly full drink she’d been nursing hadn’t been her first.

“Allow me,” he said, standing.

“I don’t need your help.”

She pulled away and there it was again. She wove a bit to the left like a ship listing in a breeze.

“I’m not offering my help.” Slipping an arm around her shoulders, he steered her away from the table. “I’m trying to cop a feel. I have a hard time getting dates, so I haven’t felt the real thing in a while.”

Miracle of miracles, she didn’t resist, just leaned into him so her shoulder fit neatly under his arm and her gun dug into his ribs. His next breath comprised of clean hair mingled with some spicy scent and Mac inhaled deeply, amazed and amused by the way the fragrance chased through his senses. He forced his legs into motion.

“You told me you didn’t have problems getting dates,” she said. “You said you went to the wedding alone because of me.”

“I lied.”

Tipping her head back, she lifted those big blue eyes to his. “Really? So you don’t want to sleep with me?”

Steering her past the buffet, he angled his mouth close to her ear and whispered, “There’s no want. I intend to sleep with you as soon as I can convince you to get naked.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, I get it now. You’re desperate. You could have picked an easier mark, Gerard.”

“True, but I don’t want easy. I want you.”

He couldn’t have explained and didn’t bother trying, not when bracing himself for her comeback. But to his surprise, she only gave an exasperated huff and kept walking.

Mac took advantage of the moment and buried his smile in her sweet-smelling hair. Alcohol might not outwardly impair her much but it certainly made her chatty.

Guiding her toward the door, he told the doorman, “Nigel, please get word to Josh Eastman that I was called away.”

“I’ll take care of it, Mr. Gerard.”

He led Harley onto the floor where hundreds of slot machines flashed and beeped for attention. She blinked against the sudden glare.

“Sure you want to run off?” he asked. “It’s still early.”

Glancing at the slots, she said, “The night’s over for me.”

A cryptic remark from a woman who lived to be blunt? Mac suspected here was yet another clue that all was not well, although the fact she’d been drinking already confirmed it. The teamwork training session they’d attended had lasted a full five days, and during that time she’d declined even a sip of wine at dinner. He’d assumed her devotion to the martial arts meant she didn’t drink alcohol—an assumption reinforced at the wedding when she’d toasted the bride and groom with lime-laced water.

He should have known not to assume.

A doorman swung the door wide in the front lobby and Mac led Harley to the valet. “Where’s your ticket?”

She rummaged through her purse, bracing herself against him for support, before handing over her ticket.

The feel of her body pressed close did amazing things to his. He felt each smooth curve as a promise, the clothing separating them a reminder of the bare skin below. Pressing another smile into her hair, he treated himself to a breath filled with her faintly spicy scent, enjoyed a calm moment with a woman with whom calm didn’t usually factor into the equation.

She finally tipped her head back, and those blue eyes searched his, the color of midnight in the glare of artificial lighting that threw the night-dark city into shadows beyond. She must not have liked what she saw because she pulled out of his arms and said, “Will you stop—”

The rapid-fire rumble of a motorcycle’s engine drowned out her protest.

“Would you look at that,” Mac said, admiring the Harley-Davidson chopper the valet pulled into the driveway. Sleek lines of highly polished chrome showcased a bright red body and a low-slung front wheel that was much sparser in design than any hog built today. A very well-maintained classic.

The valet left the bike to idle and slid off in front of them. He must have noticed Mac’s interest because he shot him a smile and said, “It’s awesome.”

Mac watched in surprise as he handed the helmet to Harley. She accepted it, tipped the guy and turned to him.

“Harley on a Harley. That’s just priceless, Price.”

She ignored him, so he grabbed her hand. “I’ll drive.”

“It’s a one-butt ride.”

“It’s a two-butt ride unless you’ve decided to spend the night in this casino.” He brushed her aside, slid onto the smooth leather saddle and couldn’t stop a low whistle. “I had no idea you were a closet biker. My opinion of you has just jumped several notches.”

“Don’t let it go to your head. I’m only baby-sitting it for a friend. He’ll kill me if you ding his paint.”

He’ll kill me.

Well, here was unexpected info that fitted another piece of the puzzle into place. “I won’t hurt the bike.”

“You’re not driving the chopper, Gerard.”

“Neither are you, Harley.”

The valet shifted his attention between them, understanding finally dawning. Mac had to give the kid a lot of credit when he faced down a scowling Harley and asked, “Miss, would you like me to call a cab?”

She exhaled sharply, obviously not alcohol-impaired enough to miss that she’d lost this battle.

“No, thanks. Looks like I’ve got a chauffeur.”

The valet retreated and Mac kept his mouth shut as she tugged on the helmet and climbed behind him. His pulse kicked when she slipped her thighs against his and threaded her arms around his waist. He put the bike into gear, leaned into the throttle and steered onto the street.

Well, here was another perk to broadening his horizons. Mac hadn’t ridden a bike since college. And never a ride as sweet as this or with a girl so tempting. He wiggled backward to make her spread her thighs wider.

Mmm-hmm. The heat of her body contrasted nicely with the cooling night air. The bike maneuvered silkily, tires chewing up the road beneath a steady rough-velvet roar of engine. Mac maneuvered through the streets toward the Garden District, enjoying the whip of the wind, the way it snapped his clothes against his skin.

The only negative tonight was learning there was someone who might interfere with his plans for Harley.

He’ll kill me.

Who was he? Mac knew Harley wasn’t married. They’d worked together closely for the past five months and he hadn’t heard anything about a boyfriend or any sort of companion. He’d assumed Harley wasn’t involved.

Another reminder never to assume with this woman. But he was finding out more about her tonight than he had since they’d first met and he wasn’t about to retreat now. Not with a chance to find out what might be holding her back from a fling.

“Which house?” he yelled over the roar of the engine when he’d turned onto her street.

She directed him down several blocks then into the driveway of a mansion, only dimly lit in the glow of antique ironwork post lamps. Mac took in the pristine white facade, the huge classical pillars of the portico, tried to see if the mansion had been divided into apartments—the unfortunate fate of so many Garden District homes.

“Let me off,” she said, and he brought the bike to a stop in the driveway. “I’ll get the garage door.”

She slipped off and headed up the drive unsteadily. He walked the bike behind her, prepared to catch her if she went down. He parked beside two high-ticket sedans, neither of which were Harley’s cars. Plucking the helmet from her, he strapped it to the tail bar.

“Can you call someone to pick you up?” she asked.

He glanced at his watch, but couldn’t make out the time in the dark. “Don’t you want to invite me inside?”

“I’d rather you didn’t even know where I live.”

“Getting to know each other will help us get along.”

“Or make us dislike each other more.” Her bravado was slipping around the edges and he took the opportunity to wrap his arm around her shoulder and steer her out of the garage.

“That way.” She motioned to a flagstone walkway leading away from the house.

Clouds separated, allowing moonlight to illuminate the neat lawn and a sizable cottage on the north corner of the property that had likely begun life as a guest house.

He helped her up the steps and waited while she fished through her purse for keys. After unlocking the door, she flipped on the porch light and he glimpsed the interior, an open floor plan, sparsely decorated and very neat. He recognized the lines of antebellum architecture and the gleam of wooden floors.

“Are you going to call a cab?” She swayed slightly before leaning against the doorjamb for support.

“Are you okay?”

A beat of silence passed before she admitted, “I don’t usually drink.”

Opportunity knocked again and Mac didn’t hesitate. He scooped her into his arms and kicked the door shut.

“Gerard—”

“Hang on or I’ll drop you. You’re heavier than you look.”

She made an unladylike grunt but did as he asked, wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder. He navigated through the cottage easily in the darkness and found her bedroom off the living room. He reached for the light switch but she grabbed his hand.

“No light.”

“You want the bathroom instead of the bed?” He’d already passed one but saw another doorway across the room that might lead to a private bath.

“No. My head is swimming. The bed.”

He’d been fantasizing about hearing those words and it figured that when she finally said them she wouldn’t mean them.

But he enjoyed the feel of her in his arms and took the opportunity to observe her inner sanctum. For a woman who made weapons and leather a fashion statement, her bedroom was surprisingly feminine. Tester bed with a lace canopy and a surplus of equally lacy pillows tossed over the matching comforter. Floral wallcovering. Filmy sheers on the windows.

So there was a real woman behind the shields. Wasn’t Harley just full of surprises?

Depositing her gently on the bed, he watched her curl up and close her eyes.

“Come on. Off with the jacket.” He lifted a boneless arm and tugged off the sleeve. She didn’t resist until he tried to move her to get at the other.

“Leave me alone,” she insisted. “Just let me sleep.”

“After I get some of these clothes off you.”

“You wish.” She gave another of those unladylike snorts, her sarcasm firmly in place.

“No surprise there. Now come on, give me the gun. You can’t sleep with it digging into your back.”

“I can.”

“No, you can’t.” Sinking to the edge of the bed, Mac lifted her into his arms to strip the jacket away. The instant he brought her up against him, awareness kicked in. She was a nice armful, much more appealing than when she was attacking him during training.

She helped him by shrugging off the jacket and each brush of her bare arms sharpened his awareness that they were sitting on her bed, at night, with the promise of skin between them.

He drew a deep breath. Another.

After dropping her jacket on the foot of the bed, he unfastened the holster. More contact with skin as he followed the leather straps down her back, around her waist. She shifted against him, her breathing growing shallower. He knew she must be aware of his hands hovering just through her clothes, because when he started on her one-piece pantsuit, she tried to brush him away and said, “Don’t.”

“Shh.” He swept her hair away from the zipper. “I want to put you to bed so you can sleep comfortably.”