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Mac had been twelve at the time and remembered feeling uncomfortable with all the talk about love. But as an adult he remembered her words when he thought about his future—he, too, wanted to settle down with a woman he loved with the same devotion his grandfather had shown his grandmother.
And somehow his grandmother had known. After her funeral services, his grandfather had pulled Mac aside and pressed the rings into his hand. “She wanted you to have these, Mackenzie. You were her namesake,” he’d explained. “She wanted to look down from heaven and know you loved someone as much as I loved her.”
Mac had been touched by his grandmother’s regard, but he hadn’t taken her rings that day. He’d known his grandfather would appreciate hanging on to them a while longer and, as Mac crossed the parking lot, he realized his reluctance to give his ex-fiancée those rings should have been his first clue that all hadn’t been right in their relationship.
On some level he’d known his ex hadn’t been his special woman. Fortunately for them both, he’d finally figured out what the problem was before getting himself and a very nice woman involved in a marriage destined to suffer from the same nagging discontent that he’d felt in so many other areas of his life.
He’d spent his whole life maintaining the status quo—thirty-three years of living up to the standards of old-moneyed New Orleans families. He had the education, the portfolio, the toys, the power and the social status to prove it…and a restlessness that had refused to go away.
Until Mac had decided he’d had enough.
Part of his decision to point his life in a new direction was a need to be challenged—by his work and by his pleasures—a part of life he’d ignored for way too long. He’d left his job with the District Attorney’s office and washed his hands of the premeditated mating game he’d been playing since becoming marriage-marketable by society’s standards. He wanted the thrill of the chase and long, hot nights with women who weren’t focused on social standing, prenuptial agreements and gene pools.
What he’d gotten was a hard-on for Harley Price.
Yes, she was beautiful, intelligent and so accomplished as an investigator that his own inexperience had been hammering at his ego. But she was also cynical, impatient and so far removed from her emotions that she had to be the worst possible candidate as a companion to exploring life’s pleasures.
Get over it, she’d told him.
He’d been trying. And while Harley might be willing to live in this state of edgy limbo, he wasn’t. He needed to help his grandfather, not obsess about this woman. He wanted her out of his system, and all he had to do was convince Harley she wanted the same thing.
THE WEEKEND FROM HELL was barely over, and from where Harley sat—the driver’s seat of a friend’s car—the week was shaping up to be just as hellish. Not that there was anything wrong with the antique Firebird. It was a sweet ride—all showy red paint and polished chrome—despite the so-called power steering that was developing her biceps every time she turned the wheel.
The real problem with the Firebird was that she’d rather not have been driving it at all. Her own car had started acting up on her way home from the wedding, the transmission slipping while still on the plantation’s oak-lined driveway. She’d pulled into a gas station to refill her fluids and—hopefully—resolve the problem. No such luck. This morning she hadn’t been able to back out of her driveway.
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.
