With This Fling. Jeanie London
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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