LITMIR.BIZ

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      The blonde carefully stepped over the toolbox, which lay open on the ground, a smattering of hand tools jumbled inside.

      Not Max’s—it was from his grandfather’s house. Max’s toolbox was immaculate. Some things a man just couldn’t mess around with. Like his tools.

      And this woman.

      “I guess the clang of metal I heard from the road was you doing some, uh, coaxing with your hammer?”

      “Is that all you heard?”

      “That and some music.”

      “Whew. Glad you didn’t hear me yelling, so you won’t be reaching for the soap to wash my mouth out.”

      Her gaze shifted to his mouth. Which made his blood grow one degree hotter and his jeans grow one size tighter.

      “Don’t tell me you were cursing at your sweetheart.”

      “Guilty. Patience isn’t my strongest attribute.”

      He’d like to tell her what his strongest attribute was, but that seemed like a dangerous idea. Besides, if she liked danger, she’d know exactly what he was talking about and would continue the subtle innuendo of their conversation.

      She stepped closer to the carousel, focusing only on it, obviously not a danger-seeker. That was probably just as well.

      “It is a ruin,” she murmured, running a hand over the flank of a shabby horse whose braided tail was now merely a stump. “But somehow, it’s…it’s almost pretty in spite of that.”

      She did see. And just like that, Max realized he liked her. Didn’t know her name or a thing about her, but the woman had vision. He liked a person with vision.

      Especially when she also had incredibly long legs nicely hugged by sinfully tight jeans, and a mouthwatering hint of cleavage peeking from the scooped neck of her sleeveless top.

      Stop.

      “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “It tells a story.”

      “A wistful one.”

      “I was thinking more along the lines of pathetic, but I guess ‘wistful’ works.”

      “She’s not pathetic. She’s majestic…but worn. Weary.”

      “Very weary. I can’t even get a moan out of her, much less a ride.”

      Bad choice of words. The blonde’s lips parted as she breathed over them.

      He tugged his attention off her mouth. Off her face. Off anything that could make him think things he should not be thinking. Which pretty much left the ground.

      Nope. Flat, open surfaces suitable for rolling around on didn’t work either.

      “Not going to make it easy on you, is she?”

      He lifted his eyes from the soft grass circling the perimeter of the park. “No way. She’s stubborn. Keeps herself tight as a drum—dry—no matter how much I try to lube her.” He almost groaned. This was going from bad to worse. Mentally kicking himself, he gave it another shot. “I can’t loosen her up and get her going.”

      God, he was out of control. Blathering suggestive comments without any mental volition whatever. Like his mouth was on flirtation autopilot. It was just…second nature.

      The woman kept watching, silently. Something that looked like amusement might have been dancing in those blue eyes of hers, but he couldn’t be certain. Because her expression remained merely curious—friendly—not the least bit sexual or inviting.

      “I mean,” he said forcefully, almost dragging appropriately inane words from the un-sexed corner of his brain, “this thing might be too much for me to handle.”

      Not great. But acceptable.

      He hoped.

      “You keep insulting her and she’s definitely going to scratch you,” the blonde murmured as she stepped around him to examine the junction box. She bent over, her jeans pulling tight against the finest hips and backside he’d seen in months, and Max had to send up a prayer for strength.

      “You actually think you can get it working?” she asked. She crouched down, shoving a long strand of fine, blond hair back and tucking it behind her ear.

      No, he really didn’t. But damned if he wasn’t going to try. “What can I say? I like to tinker and I don’t like having to give up on anything.”

      Merry-go-rounds. Sex. Marriages.

      “Are you a mechanic?”

      In the early days of his business, he’d been a jack-of-all-trades. Mechanic, pilot, reservations clerk. Flight attendant. Anything to keep Taylor Made in the air and in the black. “On occasion. I definitely know my way around a toolbox.”

      “I don’t think even Mr. Goodwrench could get this old beauty going again.”

      “I don’t think he works on merry-go-rounds. And I’m pretty sure he doesn’t make house calls.” Crossing his arms, he leaned against a striped carousel pole, which was a muddy brown and gray color, rather than red and white. “So I guess I’m all you’ve got, baby.”

      The woman tilted her head back to look at him from beneath her wispy bangs, as if she thought he’d been talking to her.

      He hadn’t. Well, maybe he had, just a bit. He couldn’t help it. Flirting with women had come naturally to Max since childhood, when he’d realized his older brother Morgan was always going to be known as the smart, determined one and his younger brother Mike was a fearless daredevil who also had the whole baby thing working in his favor.

      Max had his charm. He’d been using it since third grade, when he sweet-talked his teacher out of calling his parents after he’d been caught on the playground organizing an enthusiastic game of Han Solo Kisses Princess Leia.

      He’d been Han Solo. Little girls had been standing in line waiting for their turn to play Princess Leia.

      Even at age eight the middle Taylor son had understood the appeal of the bad-boy. Let Luke Skywalker get the glory—the Han Solos of the world were the ones who got the girl.

      But not this one.

      No. He couldn’t afford those kinds of games right now. Not until he got some good news from his lawyer that his threats to sue Liberty Books had succeeded in halting—or altering—Grace Wellington’s book. Until then, he had to be on his best behavior.

      “Well, I guess I’d better get back to work,” he said.

      Perfect. His voice had held a combination of down-home friendliness and sincere work ethic while also silently telling her to move along.

      Having to play Mr. Squeaky Clean was ridiculous at this point in his life. It seemed impossible that a tiny publisher he’d never even heard of might be so desperate to keep their book project going that they’d go after him personally. Would any legitimate publishing company really try to get some tabloid to do an expose on Max, showing him as the Don Juan he was made out to be in Grace’s book?

      Outrageous.

      Though he came from a wealthy family—and his grandfather was pretty well known—there was absolutely nothing about Max’s life that would garner the interest of a national magazine. His marriage had been pretty crazy, but not headline worthy. And he’d done some stupid shit following the breakup—but again, nothing to write about in the papers.

      Grace, however, was another story. The woman had been the Paris Hilton of her decade before she’d married an up-and-coming congressman. When he’d become a down-and-out congressman and had committed suicide after getting his hand caught in a publicly funded cookie jar, she’d gotten even more attention.

      So, yes, it could happen. There were a lot of jaded people out there who got off on reading about the rich and scandalous, so Grace’s book might grab

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