“About?”

“Don’t play me, Mal. Flat tire, my ass. If Parker’d had a flat, you’d have changed it—or she would have—and she wouldn’t have ridden home on your bike.”

“She had a flat.” Malcolm took another pull on his beer. “In fact, she had two.They’re toast.” He shrugged. He wouldn’t lie to a friend.“From what she said, and how it looked when I got there, some ass**le swerved to avoid a dog. Parker had to cut it hard to the shoulder to avoid getting creamed. Wet road, maybe a little overcompensating, she had herself a little spin, shot out the two left tires. Looked to me from the skid marks, the other driver was booking—she wasn’t. And he kept right on going.”

“He left her there?” Outrage colored Del’s voice, blew across his face in a storm.“Son of a bitch. Did she get the plate, the make?”

“She got nothing, and I can’t blame her. It must’ve happened at the peak of that quick squall, and she was busy trying to get control of her car. I’d say she did pretty well. Didn’t hit anything, didn’t even pop the airbag. She was shaken up, and she was pissed. And she was extra pissed thinking she’d be late for her meeting.”

“But not hurt,” Del said, mostly to himself. “Okay.Where?”

“About six miles out.”

“Were you out this way, on your bike?”

“No.” Damn third degree. “Look, Ma got the call, and she came out to tell me somebody ran Parker off the road, and she was stuck, so I rode out to check on her while Ma dispatched Bill.”

“I appreciate that, Mal.” He glanced over as Mrs. Grady walked out, then set a bowl of pub mix and a plate of olives on the table. “Sop up some of that beer. Here come your boyfriends,” she added, nodding across the lawn as the dusk light flickered on.

“You.” She poked Malcolm in the shoulder.“You can have one more beer, as we won’t be sitting down to dinner for another hour or more, then that’s it until you park that monster machine back at your own place.”

“You and me could go out dancing first.”

“Careful.” She twinkled at him. “I’ve got plenty of moves left in me.”

She strolled back into the house, leaving Malcolm grinning. “Bet she does.” He tipped his beer toward Jack and Carter in greeting.

“Here’s what the doctor ordered.” Jack Cooke, the golden-boy architect and Del’s college pal, opened a beer. The sturdy boots and jeans told Mal Jack had focused on site work rather than office work that day.

He made a contrast with Carter’s oxford shirt and khakis. Carter’s reading glasses poked out of his shirt pocket and had Malcolm imagining him sitting up in his new study grading papers with his Professor Maguire tweed jacket neatly hung in the closet.

He figured they made a motley crew—if he had the meaning right—with Del in his slick Italian suit, Jack and his work boots, Carter in his teacher’s khakis, and himself . . .

Well, hell, if he’d known he’d get invited to dinner, he’d have changed his pants.

Probably.

Jack grabbed a handful of pub mix. “What’s up?”

“Somebody ran Parker off the road. Mal came to the rescue.”

“Is she okay?” Carter set his beer down quickly without drinking. “Is she hurt?”

“She’s fine,” Malcolm said.“Couple shredded tires. No big.And I get a couple of beers and dinner out of it. Pretty good deal.”

“He talked Parker onto the bike.”

Jack snorted, glanced from Del to Mal. “You’re not kidding?”

“Lesser of two evils.” Amused now, Malcolm popped an olive.

“My bike or being late for her meeting. Anyway . . .” He popped another olive. “I think she liked it. I’ll have to take her on a real ride.”

“Right.” Del let out a half laugh. “Good luck with that.”

“You don’t think I can get her back on the bike?”

“Parker’s not what you’d call your Motorcycle Mama.”

“Careful what you say about my ma.” Mal considered as he sipped his beer.“I’ve got a hundred that says I can get her back on within two weeks for a solid hour.”

“If you throw away your money like that, I’ll have to keep buying your beer.”

“I’ll take your money,” Jack said, and dug into the pub mix. “I have no scruples about taking your money.”

“Bet.” Malcolm shook on it with Jack. “Still open to you,” he told Del.

“Fine.”As they shook, Del glanced at Carter.“Do you want in?”

“No, I don’t think . . . Well, actually, I guess I’ll put mine on Malcolm.”

Malcolm gave Carter a considering stare. “Maybe you are as smart as you look.”

CHAPTER THREE

IN MALCOLM’S EXPERIENCE, MOST PEOPLE DIDN’T SIT DOWN TO A meal of honey-glazed ham, roasted potatoes and baby carrots, and delicately grilled asparagus on your typical Tuesday. And they probably didn’t chow down with candlelight, flowers, and wine sparkling in crystal glasses.

Then again, the Brown household wasn’t most people.

He’d have skipped the fancy French wine even without Mrs. Grady’s baleful eye. He’d long ago grown out of the stage where he’d knock them back before climbing on his bike.

He’d had vague plans to go home, sweat off the long day with a workout, grab a shower, slap something between a couple slices of bread, pop a brew, and zone awhile in front of the tube.

He’d’ve been fine with that.

But he had to admit this was better.

Not just the food—though, Jesus, Mrs. Grady could cook— but the place, the whole ball of wax. Pretty women, men he liked, the amazing Mrs. Grady.

And, particularly, the always intriguing Parker Brown.

She had a face for candlelight, he supposed. Elegant but not cold, unless she wanted it to be. Sexy, but subtle, like a hint of lace under a starched shirt.

Then there was that voice—low register, a wisp of smoke, but changeable as the weather from brisk to prim from warm to ice. She got things done with those tones. Knew, he decided, just how to use them.

She’d had to relate the full story of her near miss, and used the casual notes with hints of temper. If he hadn’t seen her himself directly after the incident, he might have bought her pretense that she’d never been in any real danger, and was only annoyed with her own overreaction and the other driver’s carelessness.