Playing Dirty Read online

  His guiltiest pleasure

  She’s wild, wicked...and pure, sexy trouble

  It takes a nanosecond for Lizzie Marchande to see that Ford Lassiter worships rules and order. Yet behind his leonine eyes this gorgeous but tightly wound man is hiding something much deeper than lust. He’s hiding a deliciously raw, hungry need to take control while Lizzie relinquishes hers. But for this wild, fierce woman there’ll be no holding back his heart...no matter the cost.

  “DARE is Harlequin’s hottest line yet. Every book should come with a free fan. I dare you to try them!”

  —Tiffany Reisz, international bestselling author

  New York Times bestselling author Lauren Hawkeye never imagined that she’d wind up telling stories for a living...though she’s the only one who’s surprised. She lives in the Rocky Mountains of Alberta, Canada, with her husband, two young sons, a pit bull and two idiot cats. In her non-existent spare time Lauren partakes in far too many hobbies! She loves to hear from her readers through e-mail, Facebook and Instagram! Sign up for Lauren’s newsletter here: eepurl.com/OeF7r.

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  If you liked Playing Dirty, why not try

  One Night Only by JC Harroway

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  Discover more at Harlequin.com

  PLAYING DIRTY

  Lauren Hawkeye

  For the incomparable Suzanne Rock and Julia Kent, for not judging me when I said “Little Women” and “erotic” in the same sentence.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Excerpt from One Night Only by JC Harroway

  CHAPTER ONE

  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.”

  His tone was the one he used on the battlefield of the boardroom—the one that always, always got him the desired results. Instead?

  The feet, which had been tapping in time to the music, stilled. A breath of honeyed vanilla hit his nose seconds before the woman rolled out from beneath the Contour.

  He had a brief impression of dark hair and incredibly blue eyes, and then the navy jumpsuit–clad creature was on her feet, not just glaring at him, but actually poking her finger into his chest.

  He knew that he wasn’t going to win any feminist awards, but he was a bit taken aback that the mechanic was a woman—he’d assumed that the voice belonged to a receptionist or assistant of some sort. Not that he thought women couldn’t do any job they wanted—he just hadn’t expected it.

  “Now just a minute—” He wasn’t going to tolerate this kind of treatment from a service provider, not even if she was a woman. No way, no how.

  He didn’t get a chance to say so.

  “As soon as possible will be as soon as I finish this car, and the one after that.” Those eyes shot out licks of cerulean flames that threatened to incinerate him. “Around here we do what’s fair, and what’s fair is for you to wait your turn.”

  “I’m not sure you understand how much money I’m willing to pay—” Ford tried to speak, and the damn woman poked him in the chest again.

  “What kind of person bends the rules for money?” She sniffed, tossed back a long dark braid, and Ford again caught that intriguing whiff of vanilla. The scent was so out of place, layered over the engine grease, it made Ford think of cupcakes.

  An odd thought for him overall, since he rarely indulged in dessert.

  “So you’re saying there’s nothing I can do to speed this process along?” Ford shook aside thoughts of sweet baked goods and grasped his irritation. He found it especially annoying that he couldn’t really see her, this strange creature who had the gall to yell at him—couldn’t see the person in the shapeless coveralls or the skin beneath the thick layer of engine grease. She looked like she’d been grubbing around in a coal mine.

  The woman gave him a sweet smile, but Ford noted that her eyes—the only part of her that was clearly visible—were still glittering as she did.

  “Like I said.” She pointed at the desk. “You’ve already put me behind. So for the love of God, if you want your damn car fixed, go put your keys over on that bench and fill out the form.”

  “I can’t believe I’m stuck here,” Ford muttered as he turned to do as the woman said, and he heard a snort of laughter that made him turn back to her.

  “Actually, you’ll be stuck at the café down the street.” Now her expression was mocking. She clearly didn’t think much more of him than he did of her. “I don’t have a waiting room.”

  With the smooth movement of someone who had much practice, the strange person lowered herself back down to the rolling thing—what was it called?—and again disappeared beneath the Contour.

  Ford’s mind quickly sorted through words and phrases, searching for a witty comeback that would put this impudent woman in her place.

  He had nothing. Nothing that would convey the deference he was used to receiving to this grease-covered imp who clearly didn’t care.

  Scowling, he stalked over to the workbench and all but threw his keys down on the unfinished wooden surface. He took up the stubby-nosed pencil and the order form, then shook his head and instead pulled out a business card, which had all of his relevant information. He clipped it to the form.

  Marchande Motors

  Proprietor, Beth Marchande

  So she was not just the mechanic—she owned the whole garage. Ford didn’t quite know what to do with that information—the woman didn’t fit into any of the preconceived slots he had to classify the female of the species. And he needed to classify—to classify everything.

  What was life without order?

  It seemed that this strange, vanilla-scented woman would force him to take a taste and find out.

  CHAPTER TWO

  BETH DIDN’T HURRY the work that needed to be done on the Contour, or on the massive old truck that came after it. When she hurried she made mistakes, and mistakes hurt the reputation of her business.

  One customer lost meant money lost, and she and her sisters and Mamesie didn’t have a penny to spare. They all hustled to keep them in their family home, and sometimes that meant servicing the cars of assholes when she’d rather tell them to take a hike.

  It was late afternoon when she finally scrubbed the grease off her face and arms, then grabbed the keys that the fancy man had tossed onto her workbench—tossed with more than a bit of temper, which made her lips curl up into a grin.

  She was laid-back by nature, so her sisters always said, but when someon
e threatened her notions of right and wrong, she did tend to lose her grip on control. And even the fact that the offender was jaw-droppingly gorgeous didn’t ease the weight of his offenses, at least not in her eyes.

  “Of course.” Lizzie huffed out a breath when she noted the Porsche logo on the key chain. The breath turned to a whistle when she trotted around the corner and saw the sleek silver Turbo parked on the side of the quiet, tree-lined road.

  The fancy man was not only sexy...he was loaded. She’d just known it—everything about him had screamed north side. What the hell was he doing out here in the South End?

  Actually, what was he doing with a ten-year-old Porsche? She was pretty sure he could afford a new one. Still, a Turbo was a Turbo, and she couldn’t quite suppress the thrill when she opened the car door. She was halfway in when she realized that while she’d cleaned off her skin, her coveralls were still soaked with grease. And she’d just bet that Mr. Tight Ass would have something to say if she dirtied up his buttery leather seats.

  Shucking her dirty coveralls, she rolled them into a ball and tossed them onto the passenger’s seat. Clad in the ribbed white tank top and bright pink yoga shorts that she wore beneath, she finally slid behind the wheel.

  She couldn’t quite hold back the moan as she ran her hands over the steering wheel. Her joy at being behind the wheel of something like this was almost sexual, it felt so damn good.

  She grinned as she briefly considered giving herself a handsy little ride on the seat, picturing the man’s face if she told him about it after.

  Tempting, but not professional. So instead she eased the vehicle forward, wincing as she heard the death rattle.

  “Transmission.” She didn’t have to look—she was a damn good mechanic, and she’d heard that sound before. But she wanted to give the Turbo a full diagnosis, so after pulling it into the garage, she popped the hood, sighing only a little at the whisper-soft swish of the automated lift.

  Without bothering to put her coveralls back on, she started to poke at the guts of the beautiful machine.