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“Boy toy?” repeated Allison in surprise. “You mean, the type of young, sexy hunk you see on the arms of stars?”
“Sure, why not? You’re only twenty-six, young enough to get in the playpen with him if you want to. Why not find yourself that kind of brawn-over-brains stud—a man who can give you great sex with no strings attached? After all, isn’t the real issue here just what T.J. said, that you’re not prepared to settle down as yet?”
Suddenly Allison was fascinated by the possibilities. “Hmm, a boy toy. Such as—”
“Well, the pool man,” suggested Erin.
Allison chortled. “The pool man? Get out of here!”
“No, Erin’s right!” declared T.J. “When Don and I had our pool put in a year ago, the guys who did the construction were the most gorgeous men I’ve ever seen in my life. You know, like cover models—with long blond hair, fabulous tanned bodies, walking around shirtless in tight, frayed jeans.” She paused to groan in ecstasy.
“T.J.!” Allison taunted. “I never realized you were a voyeur.”
T.J. bristled. “Hey, they were outside my kitchen window for weeks as I cooked breakfast. You can’t blame a girl for looking.”
“And drooling,” finished Erin. “I definitely know the feeling. Last week I almost picked up my personal trainer at the gym. I’ve never seen such perfect abs on a man. Then I found out he’s married—big bummer. But hey, there’s plenty more where he came from.”
“You know, you girls may have a point,” Allison remarked in building excitement. “I’ve seen some pretty gorgeous traffic cops, firemen and construction workers. It’s a thought. Maybe something uncomplicated would be nice for a change.”
“And don’t forget the urban cowboy car mechanic or factory worker,” advised T.J. “That’s one nice thing about Texas—we still grow good old boys here.”
“Yeah, wouldn’t that be a hoot?” Allison replied drolly. “Dating some male bimbo who’s as simple and empty-headed as most men seem to think I am. Let him be the sex object for a change.” She scowled. “If I could put up with the country boy b.s.—which might be a stretch.”
Erin rolled her eyes at T.J. “Looks like we’re unleashing a monster here.”
“So what’s new?” quipped T.J. “Allison always was a mankiller.”
“Hey, talk about the pots calling the kettle black,” Allison scolded back. “You guys are absolutely wicked, coming up with this fantasy.”
“Giving you ideas, eh?” Erin rejoined.
“Are you ever.” Allison’s eyes danced at the possibilities. “And who knows? I have to drop off my car for warranty service this afternoon. Maybe I can make some inroads at the dealership.”
“You mean a quick lube job from a grease monkey?” taunted Erin.
Allison cast her friend a withering look. “A grease monkey, Erin? Even I have my standards, you know. But, as I recall the salesman who sold me my ‘dream car’ was pretty cute, a former college football star or something—even if he was a real jerk to foist off such a bomb on me.”
“Sounds like a brainless good old boy to me,” agreed Erin. “And you can’t really blame him if he was born a quarter short of a ball game.”
Allison had to smile at that image. “No, I suppose I can’t. But maybe I can shame him into buying me dinner, give him a good goosing for conning me into purchasing a forty-thousand-dollar lemon with an engine that pitches like a mechanical bull—when it doesn’t tick like a bomb.”
T.J. grimaced. “Yeah, that’s pretty unfunny these days.”
Mind made up, Allison once again lifted her glass of white wine and saluted the others. “Thanks for the challenge, ladies. I hereby accept the gauntlet. Who knows? Perhaps I won’t have to give up on men quite so quickly.”
As her friends cheered and toasted her in turn, Allison smiled to herself. How she loved lunches with the girls. She’d come here today feeling really bummed, drained by the breakup with Adam, and down on men in general. But now her world was filled with possibilities again, thanks to the scheming of her friends.
A boy toy. Something fun, simple, uncomplicated. A no-strings fling.
Perhaps Erin was right that she intellectualized her relationships with men too much—assessing them all with a critical eye and finding them lacking. Why not choose a lover on a lark for a change, put some real fantasy and adventure in her life? She couldn’t possibly do any worse. This could be just what she needed for dessert—and maybe the next few months.
And this time, she was determined to have a relationship in which she set the ground rules.
2
“PETE CHISHOLM, you lazy dog, get your ugly mug out to the service lane and start checking in customers.”
Distracted from the computer screen in his cubicle, Pete swung around in his chair to glower at the brassy, middle-aged office manager, Roxy McClure. “Ugly mug?” he repeated in a menacing rumble.
Roxy grinned in a wrinkling of rouged cheeks and a flash of dimples. “Okay, gorgeous, don’t get your tail feathers in a twist. Lord knows you’re easy on the eyes, but you got way too much of a swelled head as it is.”
“Me?” Pete protested with boyish innocence.
“My point is, customers are stacked six deep, and the boss is going to blow half a dozen gaskets.”
“Oh, yeah,” Pete said dryly. “We wouldn’t want to disappoint the boss man. Why isn’t Bud checking them in?”
“Still at lunch.”
“Damn it.” Pete surged to his feet. “Meaning he stopped off for another quickie with that cocktail waitress from ’Gators. We should fire his butt.”
Roxy rolled her eyes. “You’re one to talk. How many times has Bud covered for you, Romeo?”
Mischief danced in Pete’s pale blue eyes. “Roxy, you’re killin’ me—always believing the worst.”
She waved him off. “Yeah. That’s ’cause you are the worst—and pity all the females in this world who ain’t caught on to that yet.”
He flashed her a dazzling grin. “Now, Roxy, you know you have my undying devotion. Sure I can’t talk you into checking in a few vehicles yourself?”
“Meaning, this time of day, all that shows up is cranky old ladies that ain’t taken their iron tonic, eh?”
“You know you have much more patience than I do.”
Roxy picked up a clipboard and shoved it into his hands. “Save the charm, junior. I’ve been chewing up and spitting out better than you since before you were in diapers.”
Pete roared with laughter. “I get no respect around here.”
“So what else is new? Now, get your no-good carcass out the door—and no flirting with the women customers, either.”
Pete winked. “Roxy, you know I pride myself on my charm with the ladies. Haven’t a number of them, um, requested me?”
“Yeah, I know just what kind of service they have in mind. This ain’t a cathouse, buster. ’Sides, you’re only giving Bud and the others ideas that they can get away with dallying, too, when they ain’t got nearly your winsome ways.”
Pete literally beamed with that very winsomeness.
Roxy harrumphed, tapping Pete’s clipboard, ungently shoving it toward his lean middle. “Now scram, pip-squeak.”
In a whiff of her heavy perfume, Roxy turned and sashayed off. Pete shook his head. As office manager, Roxy was hardly a bigwig here, but she’d been an institution at Westview Motors for over twenty years. Every male who worked here had a healthy fear of her feisty nature—and Pete was certainly no exception.
He strode toward the exit to the service wing, grabbing a lightweight navy jacket that matched his grease-stained shirt and pants. Stepping outside, he welcomed the slight sting of wind on this bracing early spring day. A shade tree mechanic most of his life, Pete had suffered plenty in the heat and humidity of southeast Texas summers. Autumn and spring were his favorite seasons.
He scanned the three service lanes and found cars stacked no more than three deep. As usual, Roxy had exaggerated. But Rob and Dave did look harried; the two were scrambling about, trying to do the work of three.
Although he’d been assigned Bud’s lane, he quickly decided the far lane looked more promising. Dave was hunched at the window to a twelve-year-old sedan, scribbling orders from one of their crotchety old lady customers. But behind that car, in the late-model gunmetal gray sedan, sat a real looker. Even from here, Pete caught a glimpse of a perfect, heart-shaped face and a mane of thick, light brown hair. Expensive designer sunglasses. A proud, haughty tilt to the chin. One hundred percent babe and pure temptation. Hell, he could almost smell her perfume, and like a bloodhound, he was on her scent.
Pete hadn’t had a girlfriend in a while, not since Sally Jean, who’d been so pouty and clingy. In the end, he’d felt smothered. When he’d finally told her he needed a little space, the bad-tempered woman had thrown a shoe at him. In all honesty, Pete liked doing most of the pursuing himself in a relationship. And the beauty in the far car had that snooty, untouchable air about her that sparked his love of the chase.
First, to stake his claim. He sauntered over to Dave’s lane, tapped him on the shoulder and took his clipboard. “Hey, pal, go take over for Bud. He’s still not back from lunch. I’ll sign in these ladies here.”
Dave gave a groan. “Sure, Pete, whatever you say.” He sprinted off.
Pete flashed his smile at the little old lady, who sat with screwed-up features glowering at him. “Afternoon, ma’am.”
“Don’t afternoon me, sonny,” she snapped back. “Why did you send away that nice young man? Now I have to explain everything to you again.”
Pete glanced at Dave’s notes. “No, ma’am. Looks like you need an oil change and a new thermostat.”
“So you can read,” she mocked. “You don’t look all that smart to me.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Stealing a look at the gorgeous woman in the sedan behind them, he opened the customer’s door. “The work should take under two hours if you’d like to wait. Or our courtesy van can take you home.”
“No thanks,” she muttered. “That driver of yours is a fresh rascal if I’ve ever seen one.”
Pete struggled not to laugh. Wally, their courtesy driver, was almost seventy, a jovial, retired Pentecostal minister who’d been married to the same woman for nearly fifty years, and wouldn’t flirt with a flea. “Sure, ma’am, whatever you say.” He touched her arm to help her out of the car.
“Unhand me!” she protested, slapping away his fingers. “I’ll swear you’re a worse lecher than that reprobate in the courtesy van.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Grinning, he watched her clamber out of the car and stamp away toward the reception area. Damn, the female of the species was giving him a hard time this afternoon. Would the knockout in the next car cut him any slack?
A porter rushed up to move the old lady’s car. Pete handed him the top copy of the service order, then strode toward his next customer. Now came the good part. Even if she too was of a mind to roast his bacon, hell, she was pure eye candy.
He sauntered up to her window, leaned over, and offered her his usual cocky grin. That’s when she whipped off her sunglasses. Her gaze flicked up to him, and he froze, riveted. Electricity seemed to dance in the air.
Well, scorch my spurs, he thought. This woman wasn’t just a looker. She was the most gorgeous female he’d ever seen, more striking than a sunrise and hotter than a wet dream. Perfect heart-shaped face with a stubborn little chin, huge bright blue eyes that frankly probed his. Dusky long brown lashes and perfectly arched female brows. Not to mention that shock of shiny brown hair shot through with gold, a silky mass that fell to her shoulders and made him itch to sink his fingers into it. She was a tall woman, too—even folded in the seat he could tell she was at least five-ten, her shoulders straight, bust curvaceous, waist trim. He was tempted to snatch away that little hint of white blouse that kept him from fully appreciating her cleavage. And those legs—dressed as she was in her gray pinstripe suit with skirt riding high on her shapely thighs—damn, those legs went on forever!
Usually Pete knew better than to just gawk at a woman, much less a customer. He’d ease in gently, win ’em over with his charm. Especially when faced with one like her, who already had a clear spark of annoyance in her eyes from his frank perusal. Normally all that was needed was a friendly grin and an “Afternoon, ma’am.”
But in this instance all his good judgment evaporated in the heat of the look sizzling between them. Chemistry, that’s what it was. Pure, simple, sweet. Hot and volatile.
He’d likely get his butt fired over this, he thought ruefully, but suddenly he didn’t care. Leaning closer to her, he whistled, low and sexy.
“Howdy, sweetheart,” he drawled. “You know, I love how they grow ’em in Texas.”
NORMALLY ALLISON’S FIRST instinct would have been to deck the randy jackass leering at her through her open car window. His brazenness was unbelievable! All her life she’d suffered through crude come-ons from cocky cowboys—and this was a particular sore spot with her. She should knock the yokel on his spurs—but for the moment she was just too fascinated, too stunned.
For the service writer who had just strutted up to her car was no ordinary laborer. This man gave the term “drop-dead gorgeous” an entirely new meaning. The grease-stained mechanic’s uniform seemed to melt away, revealing the godlike creature standing before her in all his tawny splendor.
This man was vintage, young Paul Newman, with a shock of thick, longish blond hair and the sexiest ice-blue eyes she’d ever seen. Straight, high-bridged nose, firm jaw. Fullish mouth with one hell of a sexy quirk.
About her age, mid-twenties, she judged. Tall, lean, hard, lanky.
And raking her with a steamy gaze that lingered on her bare thighs and all but pried them apart. Heavens, he was making her damp with a mere look! Defensively she yanked on her skirt, which refused to budge lower. She watched a slow grin spread across his face and could have died.
Finally remembering to be insulted at his gaze and his words she shot back, “Tell me, is acting like a jerk a requirement for grease monkeys these days, or are you just not very bright?”
Unabashed, the man chuckled. “Just trying to be sociable, ma’am. You doing all right this afternoon?”
“I was.”
“Dropping your car off for service?”
“How did you guess? And it would help a lot if we could get this written up before dark.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He whipped open her door and dipped into a mock bow. “I’ll just jot down your mileage and license plate.”
If Allison had hoped to improve matters, she was sorely disappointed. For he leaned toward her across the steering wheel, scribbling numbers from her instrument panel, inundating her with his musky scent. She floundered in the wake of his dizzying proximity and heat. She could see the sexy shadow of whiskers along his jaw, and her fingers were tempted to touch the raw silkiness of his slightly windblown hair. Damn, he was shameless, and way too close to her. But what could she do? Have him arrested for taking her mileage?
Just as she was certain she couldn’t bear any more, he straightened, strode away and wrote down her license number. Returning to the car, he held open her door and gestured toward a nearby small office flanking the driveway. “Won’t you come into my parlor?”
Said the spider to the fly. Ignoring the hand he offered, Allison grabbed her bag, popped out and drew herself up to face him. She fought a wince. She was tall, but he had her beat—although in her high-heeled pumps she made a good showing.
Unlike most men, he didn’t appear to be the least bit intimidated by her stature. In fact, the arrogant twit again raked his gaze over her, lingering once more on her long legs. She almost had to smile at his unbelievable gall.
Audacious as hell, he turned and preceded her toward the office. Damn, what a cute butt he had, and those long, lean legs… Allison didn’t know whether she wanted to strangle him or jump his bones.
A boy toy. Muscle over mind stud puppy. Uncomplicated sex. Suddenly remembering her conversation with the girls at lunch, Allison felt herself going hotter—and even wetter.
Then guilt called her up short. She was wanton, more wicked than he was, even! How could she be salivating so much over some conceited, low-class car mechanic? Besides which, she just didn’t “do” cowboy.
But, watching the hard muscles of his butt and thighs ripple as he moved, she found her shame was soon replaced by an even more powerful sexual curiosity. She realized she was trembling, actually quivering.
Good grief! When was the last time the mere sight of a man had done this to her?
He opened the door and bid her enter with an exaggerated gesture. Preceding him inside, she again caught a whiff of mechanic’s grease and man. His office was small, too small. As she settled in a chair her skirt again hiked high on her thighs, and the bad boy took his fill as he sat down, his knees almost touching hers. She struggled with her recalcitrant skirt—to his apparent delight. She tossed him a glare.
Mercifully, he swiveled to his computer screen, consulted his clipboard, and pecked at the keys. “Let’s see…oil change, new thermostat.”
“What?” Allison interrupted. “Like hell I need a new thermostat. I have no problems with overheating.”
He gazed at her frankly, obviously quite amused, and a telltale color shot up her face, totally negating her last statement. “Yeah, I can tell,” he drawled. He gestured toward the computer. “Sorry, ma’am, I was just entering the service order for the customer before you. You know how it is, everything electronic these days. Even we grease monkeys have to be computer literate.”
“Sure, whatever,” Allison rejoined with a long-suffering air.
He hovered over the keyboard for a few more moments, then removed the previous order from his clipboard and whipped out a pen from behind his ear. “Name?”
The shock of those gorgeous pale blue eyes probing her own hit Allison with a new and unexpected jolt. Flustered, she shot back, “What business of that is yours?”
He laughed. “Can’t remember the last time I serviced a vehicle for ‘Ms. Anonymous.’ Would you like us simply to auction off your car when we’re done today?”
