Читать книгу The Boy Toy - Eugenia Riley - Страница 8

“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?”

Again she felt her cheeks heat up, making her feel ridiculous. “You may as well, it’s such a lemon.”

He appeared taken aback. “Well, ma’am, we’ll see if we can’t make some lemonade for you. Name?”

“Allison Tracy.”

“Ms. Tracy. You been here before?”

“Yes. Why do you think I’m so ticked off?”

He fought a grin. “I wouldn’t dare to guess what makes you tick, ma’am. Phone number?” Before she could protest, he explained, “It’s how we look up your records.”

She rattled off her home phone number.

He pecked at the keys. “Ah, here you are. Let’s verify that all your info is correct.” He read off her work phone number, her addresses for there and home.

She nodded wearily.

“So you have a 2003 sedan, purchased from us last October.”

“A 2003 lemon,” she reiterated. “I’ve been in here repeatedly complaining about how poorly this car runs and all I get are runarounds and assurances it will be fixed and it never is. And by the way, while I’m here, I’d like to have a few words with that salesman who sold me the bucket of bolts.”

He squinted at the screen. “Dub Dexter? Afraid he’s off today.”

“Did you say Dud?” she taunted sweetly, strangely not feeling the least bit disappointed that the salesman was absent. “More likely he’s hiding under another one of your clunkers.”

He swung toward her, his mouth quirking in a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “What exactly is your problem, Ms. Tracy?”

“It’s not my problem, it’s your problem.”

“Okay, then. What exactly is our problem?” He frowned at the screen. “Other than, I can tell it’s time for your next oil change and lube.”

Allison went warm again. Why did the word “lube” sound so sexy coming off those sensual lips of his? She’d never before been turned on by mechanic’s lingo. But never before had she met a mechanic quite like him.

She realized he was waiting for her reply, one brow quizzically cocked. She cleared her throat and began. “The problem is, you people sold me a forty-thousand-dollar piece of junk. I make my living in sales—”

“Oh, do you?” he interjected dryly.

She clenched her jaw. “My car has serious engine problems—problems which you morons have failed to repair.”

“Is that so?” he asked mildly.

She waved a hand. The problems with her car cooled her libido. “Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to take a client out to lunch, then have your engine pitch like a bucking bronco when you try to drive him back to his office?”

“You serve a male clientele, do you?” He smiled. “You see, even a moron like me is smart enough to catch that one.”

That did it. Allison shot to her feet. “Look, I came here to get my car serviced, not to be insulted by some smart-ass shop jock with wandering eyes and a swelled head. Why do they let creeps like you work here, anyway?”

“Beats me, ma’am,” he drawled back. “Maybe creeps like me make good grease monkeys.”

She clamped her arms over her chest. “I want to deal with someone else.”

He tapped his pen on the desktop. “Are you sure, ma’am? It could mean a wait—maybe a long one.”

“Damn it. I don’t have time for this. I have a couple of important meetings scheduled.” Feeling equally frustrated and defeated, Allison slid back into her chair. It galled her that this buckaroo with a grease gun seemed to be besting her—yet a small measure of respect rose up for him, too.

With a maddening look of smug satisfaction, he inquired, “Any other problems?”

“Yes. The engine ticks like a damn bomb. You mor—that is, you people—have failed to fix that, as well.”

He scribbled at his clipboard. “Okay, then.”

“Okay? Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

He glanced at his notes. “Engine ticks like a bomb, bucks like a bronco. That about cover it, ma’am?”

Allison was becoming exasperated. “Well, you don’t have to act so glib about it all. Don’t you have any idea why I’m having these problems, or how to fix them?”

He scratched his jaw. “I know these females tend to be temperamental.”

“Now you’re comparing me to my car?”

He leaned back in his chair and winked at her lazily. “Well, ma’am, a car is just like a lady. Sometimes all they need is just a little TLC.”

“Brilliant. I can tell my car is in excellent hands with you. Did you even pass fourth grade?”

“Well, ma’am, I—”

“Let me know when you’ve TLC’d the problem.”

For a moment the two just stared at each other, tension crackling in the air between them. Allison had to admit to herself that she was intrigued by the way this shop stud held his own with her.

Then he leaned toward her and continued in a more intimate, yet still slightly mocking, tone. “Actually, Ms. Tracy, what I was about to say was, even though I am a moron, and even though an intermittent engine problem can be very difficult to diagnose, I’m guessing your pitching and bucking problem could be due to a defective ignition module. But we’ll have to, er, scope the engine to be sure. As for the ticking, that could be a sticking valve lifter.” His voice dropped a notch. “That’s where the right lubrication is critical. You see, we hesitate to tear into an engine this early in the game. Less than 6,000 miles on your little baby there. So, after we change your oil and gas her up, we’ll see if some of our super snake oil won’t, um, smooth up your ride.”

There he was again, talking about lubrication, sexual innuendo ripe in his tone. Allison didn’t rattle easily, but this cowboy mechanic was unnerving the hell out of her. Enticed much more than she cared to admit, she muttered, “Fine. Scope and snake oil away.” She stood, tugging her jacket and skirt into place. “How long will this take?”

He was also on his feet. “With luck, we’ll get it done by closing time.”

“Uh, the man I spoke to on the phone said I might get a loaner.”

“Sorry, ma’am, but we’re all out this late in the day. However, our courtesy van will take you back to work.”

“Great, I’m without wheels. And I have some important appointments this afternoon.”

“So you’ve told me.”

She shot him a look of thinly veiled hostility. “Don’t I get a claim ticket or something?”

He shook his head. “Don’t use ’em anymore. Basically, these days, if you’re not in our computer, you don’t exist.”

“That’s tremendous reassurance.”

He handed her a business card. “If you have any questions, just call this number. And if it’s any consolation, I’ll personally do your repairs.”

Allison glanced at the card, at the name Dave Blodgett followed by Service Advisor, Westview Motors. Hmm… Why did she suddenly feel like a kid who’d been handed a new toy?

Deliberately sounding blasé, she replied, “Don’t bother. I’m sure they have you writing up service orders because you flunked Mechanics 101.”

Totally unflappable, he took her arm and escorted her out of the cubicle. “How did you guess? But you know, ma’am, sometimes even we morons can come up with a few surprises.”

Heat streaked through her at his barbed words, his sexy touch. She found herself treacherously longing to continue their verbal jousting. Stepping off the curb with him, she almost lost her balance.

But by now, that particular reaction didn’t surprise her at all….