Happy Ever After
Page 8

“You want to make your meeting? Keep your rep as Ms. Prompt and Efficient? Rain’s stopped.You won’t even get wet.” Again he reached past her, but this time their bodies bumped. He pulled out again holding her purse. “You’ll want this. Let’s go.”
“Can’t the driver—can’t he just drop me off ?”
Mal strapped her purse to the bike, swung a leg over. “You’re not afraid to ride a bike, are you? And for what, about six miles?”
“Of course I’m not afraid.”
He put on his helmet, turned on the bike, gave the engine a couple of muscular revs. “Clock’s ticking.”
“Oh for God’s—” She bit off the words, clipped her way to the bike in her heels, and, keeping her teeth gritted, managed to get a leg over the bike behind him. Her skirt hiked up high on her thighs.
“Nice.”
“Just shut up.”
She felt rather than heard his laugh. “You ever ride a Harley, Legs?”
“No.Why would I?”
“Then you’re in for a treat.You’re going to want to hold on. To me,” he added after a beat.
She put her hands lightly on either side of his waist.
But when he revved the engine again—she knew damn well he did it on purpose—she swallowed pride and wrapped her arms around him.
Why, she wondered, anyone would want to drive something so noisy, so dangerous, so—
Then they were flying down the road, and the wind blew cool and balmy and gorgeous over every inch of her.
Okay, a thrill, she admitted, and her heart skipped as he leaned into a turn. A terrifying sort of thrill. Like a roller coaster, which was another thing she could admit was exciting without being a necessary experience in a well-rounded life.
The landscape whizzed by. She smelled the rain, the grass, the leather of his jacket, felt the throb of the bike between her legs.
Sexual, she admitted. Add arousing to that terrifying thrill. Which was surely the reason people rode bikes.
When he swung onto her drive, she had to resist flinging her arms up in the air to feel the wind give her palms a slapping high five.
As he stopped in front of the house, Del came out.
“Mal.”
“Del.”
“Parker, where’s your car?”
“Oh, I had a flat just down the road. Mal came by. His tow truck driver’s fixing it. I have a consult.”
Her brother cocked his head, and she saw the corner of his mouth twitch. “Parker.You rode on a motorcycle.”
“So what?” She tried to ease off gracefully, but the heels and skirt added challenge.
Mal simply swung off, then plucked her off like a package for delivery.
“Thank you.Very much. I have to run or—”
“You’ll be late.” He unstrapped her purse.“You probably don’t want to wear this.”
He unclipped the helmet, took it off for her.
“Thank you.”
“You said that already. A few times.”
“Well . . .” Uncharacteristically blank, she turned and hurried toward the house.
She heard Del say, “Come on in and have a beer.”
And tried not to wince when Mal drawled out a “Don’t mind if I do.”
Mal followed Del inside, and caught a glimpse of Parker charging up the stairs.The woman had legs, what he thought of as Hollywood legs.
The rest of her partners—the cool blonde, the raven-haired beauty, the willowy redhead—stood in the doorway of what he supposed they called a parlor, all talking at once.
They made a hell of a picture.
“Flat tire,” Del said and kept walking.
The Brown mansion had style, Mal thought, had class, had weight, and still managed to feel like a home instead of a museum. He figured that clicked on credit for those who lived there, and had lived there.
Warm colors, art that drew the eye rather than baffled it, comfortable chairs, glossy tables, and flowers, flowers, and more flowers mixed together with that style, that class and weight.
But he never felt as if he should keep his hands in his pockets for fear of getting a fingerprint on something.
He’d been through most of the place—excluding Parker’s private wing (and wouldn’t it be interesting to change that?), and always felt comfortable. Still, the easiest and most welcoming area of the house remained Mrs. Grady’s kitchen.
The woman herself turned from the stove where she stirred something that turned the air to heaven.
“So, it’s Malcolm.”
“How’re you doing, Mrs. Grady?”
“Well enough.” She cocked a brow as Del took a couple beers from the refrigerator. “Take those outside. I don’t want you underfoot.”
“Yes, ma’am,” both men said together.
“I suppose you’ll be staying for dinner,” she said to Malcolm.
“Are you asking?”
“I will if Delaney’s forgotten his manners.”
“He just got here,” Del muttered.
“As the other boys have wheedled a meal after the consult, I can stretch things to one more. If he’s not picky.”
“If you’re cooking it, Mrs. Grady, I’ll be grateful for even a single bite.”
“You’ve a clever tongue, don’t you, boy?”
“All the girls say so.”
She let out a quick bark of a laugh, and tapped her spoon on the edge of a pot. “Outside, the pair of you.”
Del opened the fridge, grabbed two more beers. He shoved three of the four on Mal, then flipped out his phone as they walked outside. “Jack. Mal’s here. Got beer. Get Carter.” He snapped the phone closed again.
He still wore his suit, Mal noted, and though he’d taken off his tie, loosened his collar, he looked every inch the Yale-educated lawyer. He shared his sister’s coloring—thick, dense brown hair, misty blue eyes. Her features were smoother, softer, but anyone with working eyes would make them as siblings.
Del sat, stretched out his legs. His manner tended to be more casual and a hell of a lot less prickly than his sister’s, which might have been why they’d become poker buddies, then friends.
They popped the bottles, and as Malcolm took the first cold sip, his body relaxed for the first time since he’d picked up his tools twelve hours earlier.
“What happened?” Del asked.