Playing Dirty

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#ua9bdc36d-b843-5838-8e5f-eff5d1fa8dea)

Then

THIS COULDN’T BE RIGHT.

Ford Lassiter tore his gaze away from the blocky brown house that sat on a large lot shaded by leafy green trees. Looking down at the GPS on his phone, he squinted at the blinking icon that told him he had reached his destination.

“That’s just great.” He had paid a lot of money for the best that technology had to offer, and now when he really needed his GPS to work? It took him to some run-down estate on the South End instead of the garage he desperately needed to fix his car, which was making a rather ominous rattle.

He was going to miss his meeting outside the city. Nothing to be done about that. Still, he was not accustomed to things not running according to his plan, and it was like an itch that he had no way to scratch.

“Damn it!” Slamming a hand into the center of the steering wheel, he jolted when he accidentally set off his horn. It sent a surge of adrenaline through his system, a shot of caffeine to his blood, and he couldn’t help but roll his eyes at himself.

“You can run a small empire without help.” Scrubbing his hands over his eyes, Ford took a moment to lean back in his leather seat. “But you can’t get your car fixed without an assistant.”

The very notion hurt his pride. He had an MBA, for heaven’s sake. He was a very intelligent, very rich man.

He could get his own damn car fixed without a babysitter.

Scowling, he once again punched in the name of the garage that the old man at the gas station had recommended—Marchande Motors.

Arrived at destination.

“Okay, then.” Either he was going to kill the designer of Google Maps or there was something he wasn’t seeing.

He pushed his way out of the low-slung silver Porsche Turbo and took a moment to stretch and look around. He was parked on a quiet street in an old neighborhood, one that looked like it might have been fancy once upon a time but now had clearly seen better days. Unlike the neat grid of downtown Boston, where he spent most of his time, this area was...confusing.

Well-worn family homes were interspersed with the occasional newer model, probably things that had been built after tearing down older ones that just couldn’t weather the elements another day. Then there were residences that were little more than shacks. The one that was supposed to house the garage and the one next door to it were stately old estates, though the neighboring house was in far better repair than the one he was currently standing in front of.

Cars were parked on lawns on some of the nicer houses, and pretty flower boxes lined the sills of the poorer places. None of it made sense to Ford. He supposed that it might hold some charm for someone more whimsical than himself, but all he saw was chaos.

He’d had a meeting in a suburb south of the city, and his car had started to make that ominous sound once he’d entered the South End. He’d never actually spent any time here, and, looking around, he could see why.

Pressing his lips together, he rounded the sidewalk of the place he’d been directed to.

“There we go.” The old, twisted trees had hidden the fact that the building was on a corner lot. Once he rounded the corner, he could see a driveway and cars lined up in a more or less neat row.

More than seeing that there was more to the house, he could hear it—music was blaring, loudly enough that he wondered how it hadn’t reached his ears before. He got his answer when he pushed through the verdant greenery and the volume only increased—it had acted as a barrier.

Now that he was through? He winced as the thunderous bass notes threatened to make his eardrums explode.

He recognized the din, just barely, as Metallica, and though he’d so far resisted the urge to look down his nose, this choice pushed him past the point of no return. Who listened to “Enter Sandman” when there were so many more civilized options? Like Coldplay.

The plastic sign with crooked letters that identified the garage as the place he’d been looking for did nothing to improve his opinion. It was stuck into the lawn with a wooden stake, and while he thought the words might once have been red, they were now the peachy pink of salmon.

“No way am I leaving my car here.” Ford knew he was a bit of a snob, and he was okay with that. He worked hard to live up to the family name—more than his own father had ever done. So what if he enjoyed the perks that came with wealth?

“You dropping off keys or are you going to stand there all day?” a female voice shouted out from the shadowed depths of the garage, jolting him—he hadn’t seen anyone inside. Ford squinted into the bright midday sunlight, but he couldn’t see the speaker.

He wasn’t used to being put on the spot, and he didn’t appreciate it.

“It seems I’ve come to the wrong place.” A garage attached to a ramshackle house, music loud enough to deafen him, a woman yelling at him instead of smiling, like he usually encountered—no. Just no.

Spine straight, Ford turned on the heel of his hand-tooled Italian leather shoe and started to walk away.

“If you’re looking for another garage, I know for a fact that Jimmy’s place is overbooked.” Ov-ah booked. The speaker’s voice had more than a little hint of the Massachusetts accent that he’d tried hard to eradicate from his speech. It should have only served to further annoy him, but he couldn’t focus on her voice, not with what she’d just said. “He sent me the job I’m working on right now because he was full up.”

Shit. The rattle in his Turbo sounded pretty bad, especially when compared to its usual near-silent purr. Still, he might have risked it...if he could have remembered when he’d last had it serviced.

Turning on his heel, he pulled out his phone and tapped out a text to his assistant, never mind that he’d wanted to prove that he could do this himself. Jeremy replied within a minute, efficient as always.

You’re not going to like this, but don’t shoot the messenger. It’s going to be at least twelve hours until you can get a tow. There’s been a huge pileup by the harbor and every truck is there, cleaning up the mess.

Ford ground his teeth together.

What garage are you at? Could you leave the Porsche there and I’ll send a car to pick you up?

Down the street a rough engine growled, roaring to life. Ford jolted, nearly dropping his phone.

The engine was followed by coarse language and shouts that had south Boston dripping from their every word.

The Turbo was his baby, the first big purchase he’d made when the money started to roll in. No, he wouldn’t be leaving it here overnight.

“Where do I leave my keys?” His voice was tight as he turned yet again and stalked forward. He entered the open door of the garage, scanning the appallingly disorganized shelves and inhaling the heavy scents of motor oil and gasoline.

He still couldn’t find the person who’d spoken. Infuriating.

“Leave them on the counter there.” The voice was coming from below him. Taken aback, he looked down to find a pair of absolutely filthy work boots sticking out from beneath a rusty old Contour—his mystery voice.

“Could you please come out of there so I can speak with you for a moment?” Ford wasn’t accustomed to having to ask for things like this, either. When he entered the high-rise in downtown Boston that served as the headquarters for his hotel conglomerate, people snapped to attention. The security guard would smile and wave him through. People held the elevator. On his floor, one assistant would hand him a cup of perfectly brewed black coffee and the other his tablet, the day’s schedule already open for him to peruse.

A very unfeminine snort issued from the area of his feet.

“If I come out to talk to you, I’ll have to stop working on this car. And that will just put the next car behind, and consequently yours.” The voice, otherwise sweet in tone, dripped with sarcasm. “And I’m guessing you’re the type who’s in an all-fired hurry to get out of here, so no, I won’t be coming out until I’m done. Leave your keys on the bench, fill out a form, and come back in three hours, or have your car towed back to the north side.”

Jeremy had said that towing wasn’t an option. This was unacceptable.

“Three hours?” Ford was indignant. “That won’t work at all. I’ll pay extra to have it bumped up the line, but I expect this car to be finished as soon as possible.”