Leslie Kelly - Here Comes Trouble

Uninterested. Gray. Dead. Three words that described Trouble and its residents very well. Except for the few bright, splashy colorful ones…like her landlord.

And one amazingly hot mechanic.

Nancy snorted. “Your choice, honey. You’re the one who wanted to catch the guy in the act.”

Wanted? No. Sabrina didn’t want to catch Max Taylor schmoozing his way through every woman within range of his overactive hormones and the laser-precision missile between his legs. She had to. So much depended on it.

“I’ll get him, Nancy. The next time that shark lawyer of his calls, we’ll be able to hit him with proof his client’s a reprobate and practically a gigolo and just dare him to try to sue for defamation.”

And then the book would go to print as written—complete with the titillating, attention-grabbing details of Grace’s shocking sexual affair with Max Taylor. Sabrina would get a lot of attention…and hopefully a promotion. Not to mention a raise, which she would need if she was going to be able to help her sister pay for the baby she was expecting.

No, it wasn’t her fault Allie had had unprotected sex and gotten pregnant. But it was Sabrina’s fault that an older, sophisticated man had intentionally targeted the innocent college student for seduction and heartbreak.

She was responsible for her sister’s situation. Even her mother believed it. And now that she and Sabrina’s grandparents had turned against Allie—cut them both out of their lives in shame—Sabrina was all she had. She owed her.

“Okay, kid, it’s your game. Let me know if you need anything else. I expect daily updates.”

“You bet. Remember, if Allie tries to reach me at the office, I’m at a book expo.” Her little sister had seemed suspicious about the sudden trip. Sabrina knew the twenty-year-old might call the office and try to find out exactly where Sabrina’s “business trip” had taken her. Considering how bored and lonely her unpredictable sibling had been lately—now that she could no longer work as a waitress due to her advanced pregnancy—Sabrina wouldn’t put it past Allie to try to follow her.

After finishing her phone conversation, Sabrina began to prepare herself for her visit to Max Taylor’s grandfather, Mortimer Potts. She needed to get in character—to get her mind around her mission—since she might very well be meeting her quarry in just a few hours.

And you’ll be seeing him.

She thrust that thought off. Sabrina couldn’t afford distractions like small-town mechanics right now. Not when there was so much at stake. She had to get to work, focus on the real reason she’d gone shopping on a Philadelphia street corner to buy knock-offs of expensive-looking clothes and had rented a car that probably cost as much as she’d make for the next two years. It had seemed silly, but Nancy had insisted that she look the part. Because her whole purpose for being in Trouble was to validate every word Grace Wellington had written about playboy pilot Max Taylor. The man addicted to rich, vulnerable women.

Which meant she had to look like one.

Hmm…small-town girl who’d never seen a real pair of Gucci shoes, much less worn them…social klutz who’d once fallen facefirst in a giant bowl of cocktail sauce at a writers’ conference—how tough could it be?

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered. Then she shook off the doubt because she had to make this work. And she would.

Once she’d caught Taylor in the act of being exactly the heartbreaking, sex-addicted loverboy Grace had made him out to be, she’d cut his legal legs out from under him. Nip his lawsuit to stop publication of Grace’s book in the bud. And laugh all the way to the bestseller lists.

Piece of cake.

She just had to remember one thing—this was only about the book. No matter how curious she was about Max Taylor, the world’s greatest lover, her clothes were staying on.

Because if they didn’t, all bets would be off.

IF MAX WERE A PSYCHO serial killer or a cannibal or something, the pretty blonde walking beside him through the woods would be in serious trouble. She’d shown up at the old, abandoned park this afternoon, and Max had no sooner said he was ready to take her to meet Mortimer than she’d started walking—away from the main road and possible witnesses. He’d fallen into step beside her, leading her toward the path going up the hill to hell. Er…home.

He wondered if she was a black belt. Or if she was armed. Or simply very, very trusting. Like a certain little girl with a red riding cape complete with hood.

“Why did you come with me?” he asked, unable to contain his curiosity. “Weren’t you the least bit concerned that I could be dangerous?”

Her curvy lips twitched. An invisible string in his chest tugged his heart until it twitched along with them. Either that or his empty stomach was reminding him he hadn’t eaten breakfast.

Had to be hunger. Max’s heart hadn’t been involved in any relationship with a woman in years.

“I’m prepared. I have something in my pocket….”

He shifted away a bit, giving her more room on the dirt path that led to his grandfather’s new white elephant. “Please don’t mace me, I was just asking a question.”

She pulled her hand out of her pocket, and he saw her cell phone.

“Were you going to ring-tone me to death if I turned out to be Freddy Krueger in disguise?”

“I’m pretty sure I’m awake—not dreaming—so you can’t be Freddy,” she murmured, tucking her phone back into the pocket of her white slacks.

Considering they were delightfully tight, he wondered how she had the room, but quickly figured it out. God bless spandex. Spandex is my friend.

“I had my finger ready to speed-dial my friend Butch.”

“Butch?”

Color rose in her cheeks and she cleared her throat before explaining. “The ex-Marine turned bouncer.”

It was all he could do not to tsk, knowing she was lying.

She might have made a flip comeback, but she had also stepped away from him on the path. He hadn’t intended to scare her. Honestly, he found her openness and trusting spirit incredibly attractive…if a bit naive. “There’s no Butch.”

“Says you.”

“If there’s a Butch, he’s a five-foot-six engineer trying to counter his geekiness and ninety-eight-pound physique by having a tough nickname.” Her audible sigh of defeat told him he’d hit home. “Sorry if I just offended your…boyfriend?”

Shaking her head, she reluctantly laughed, and little sparkles of delight seemed to spill out of her and bathe him in her good humor. “No, no boyfriend.”

Hallelujah. He’d already noticed there was no wedding ring.

“But there really is a Butch…”

“Oh, yeah?”

Instead of meeting his eye, she glanced down at her feet, kicking a small branch away with one sneaker-clad foot. “He’s my dog. A toy poodle.”

“Is his name really Butch?”

She tugged one corner of her lip between her teeth before slowly shaking her head. “It’s Giorgio.”

Max snorted. “Who named him?”

“Me.”

Shaking his head, he mourned for poor old Giorgio. “That should be against the law. Saddling a completely hideous name on another living creature.”

“I like Giorgio. It’s very…Mediterranean.”

“Bet he gets the snot beat out of him by the other pups at the doggie park.”

“He’s got a bit of a Napoleon complex,” she admitted. “So he does tend to get in trouble with some of the bigger dogs. That’s why my younger sister decided to start calling him Butch once she moved in with me.”

A sister who lived with her. He filed the information away for future use. Not that he knew for sure that he’d ever be invited in for coffee and an all-night sex-fest after one of their inevitable dates. But he was hoping. And a live-in sister could make things a little…crowded.