An Impractical Match (Match #2)

by Barbara Dunlop

  “Hank Morettini,” Devlin opened, “this is Jillian Korrigan and Shari Sharp. Hank is the owner of the Desert Heat track.”

  “Good to meet you.” Shari was first off the mark, stepping forward to shake Hank’s meaty hand.

  “Welcome to Arizona,” said Hank, a friendly smile on his round face.

  “We’re very excited about the project,” Jillian added as she, too, shook Hank’s hand.

  It was time to set her misgivings aside. UpNext Events was about to plan a motocross event. And the sooner Jillian embraced that reality, the better off they’d all be.

  Shari was right. They’d been in business for only four years, and they should take this opportunity to branch out. Every segment of motorsports couldn’t possibly be this shabby. And maybe this experience would set them up for other sporting events. Tennis would be nice, or perhaps golf. Golfers had some of the best country clubs going.

  “Did you get a chance to look around the place?” asked Hank.

  “A little bit,” Jillian told him. “We were told there would be some upgrading in advance of the event. Obviously, it’ll be important to get started on that right away, since we only have a couple of months to play with. To start, we’ll need contact information for your security company, whoever you use for construction, and also first aid.”

  Hank blinked at her in obvious confusion. “I thought that’s why you were here?”

  Her thoughts stumbled for a moment. “We’re not a construction or security company.”

  “You were brought in by NMAC,” said Hank.

  Jillian slid her gaze to Devlin. “Are those contact names something you were planning to provide?”

  Devlin braced his butt against the long counter. “I don’t remember the last time Hank did any construction. And our first aid is done by two volunteers from the local Leaf Service Club.”

  Jillian was growing confused. “I thought you were our NMAC event contact.”

  “No, ma’am,” said Devlin. “I’m a racer and a minor track sponsor. I’ve never organized anything more complicated than poker night—beer, potato chips, maybe some brats on the barbecue.”

  Jillian glanced to Shari then back to Devlin. “So, who has all the expertise?”

  “That would be you,” said Devlin, suddenly looking amused.

  o o o o

  Freshly showered, in sweats and a worn T-shirt, Devlin retrieved a beer from the outdoor refrigerator on his patio. He couldn’t help but wonder why NMAC had chosen Jillian Korrigan as their planner. It was obvious she normally worked classier events than motocross.

  He lowered himself onto an Adirondack chair, popping the top of the beer can as he pondered. There was no moon tonight. He was facing away from the city, and the stars shone in layers through the black sky.

  He’d originally tried to walk away from helping to organize the event, but he’d been persuaded by Hank that the entire thing would fall apart if he didn’t agree to participate. He had no idea why, but an anonymous NMAC sponsor had been quite specific about Devlin’s involvement. The local teenage riders were beside themselves with excitement, and Hank was getting free improvements to the track. So, despite the fact that he had no interest in organizing either races or parties, Devlin had been left with little choice but to step up.

  And now Jillian had been tossed into the mix. Pristine and elegant, she seemed to think the grime would jump directly from his body to hers if he got too close. He couldn’t decide whether to be amused or alarmed at the thought of working with her.

  She was sexy as they came, slim, leggy, well put together and stunningly gorgeous. She was the kind of woman who only ever wandered into his classic car restoration showroom on the arm of a wealthy client, diamonds looped around her neck, dripping from her perfect ears and, if she was lucky, weighing down her ring finger. She was the kind of woman who stared down her nose at Devlin, particularly if he happened to be wearing his coveralls.

  To be fair, Jillian was here to do a job. She wasn’t strictly arm candy. Then again, she was working as a party planner. It struck him as the kind of job that even a pampered princess could undertake without breaking a sweat.

  Maybe he’d already answered his own question. She could be the girlfriend of a senior NMAC executive. Perhaps he was letting her dabble in the business because she was sleeping with him. Planning parties in Phoenix seemed like a harmless enough assignment. How bad could she screw that up? Of course, Devlin would have to take the lead on planning the actual race events. The woman clearly didn’t have a clue.

  “Hey, Dev,” came Luke Norris’s voice as he entered through the back gate to the yard.

  “Evening,” Devlin returned.

  “Nice,” Luke noted, gazing at the brightly lit desert sky.

  “Grab yourself a beer,” Devlin invited.

  “How’d the kids do today?”

  “Spike blew it on curve seven. Bruised the crap out of his arm.”

  Luke took a beer and sat down. “He okay?”

  “He’s hurt, not injured. He was pretty pissed off, but that’s what happens when you’re a hotshot.”

  “Takes one to know one,” said Luke.

  “I don’t think I was ever like that.”

  “I’d bet money that you were exactly like that.”

  Devlin shrugged good-naturedly. Spike was hell on wheels. Devlin didn’t recall taking quite that many chances as a teenage rider. But there was no way to prove it one way or the other.

  “Griffin was in it,” he continued. “I tell you as soon as he hits a growth spurt, he’ll be giving them a run for their money.”

  “Katie?”

  “Middle of the pack. She was happy about that.”

  Katie was the latest teenager to join the little riding group that Devlin and Luke mentored, and the only girl. But she was tough and determined, and Devlin liked that she gave the boys a reason to moderate their language and behavior.

  “Anyone in her family come to watch her?”

  Devlin shook his head.

  “That sucks,” said Luke.

  Both men knew that Katie’s family would rather she took up ballet than motocross. But the independent sixteen-year-old had washed cars at one of Luke’s car dealerships after school every day while she’d saved up for a bike. She didn’t know it, but Luke had given her the deal of the century on the one she was riding so that she could afford to join the sport.

  Devlin kept it running, throwing in parts at a fraction of their wholesale price. If the boys knew what was going on, they pretended they didn’t. Each of them had at least some support from their families.

  “Riley took third,” said Devlin. “By mere seconds.”

  Luke shook his head. “He just can’t get that wheel out front.”

  “There’s no reason he can’t. The kid’s got more talent than I’ve ever seen. All he needs is to want it bad enough.”

  “Someday,” Luke put in philosophically. “Did you have the meeting with NMAC?”

  “As far as it goes, yeah. But get this, the woman, two women actually, they sent aren’t from NMAC.”

  “Where are they from?”

  “Some event-planning agency in DC. Don’t know a thing about motocross. Don’t seem to like it, either.”

  “That’s bizarre. Why them?”

  Devlin gave a shrug. “I figure she’s sleeping with someone at the top.”

  “You said there were two.”

  “Yeah, two. But if I was at the top, I’d be sleeping with the one named Jillian.”

  “That sounds promising,” said Luke.

  “Maybe for the NMAC executive who’s gettin’ some. But I’m a little worried about how the races are going to turn out.”

  “I didn’t think you gave a damn about the races.”

  “I don’t. I mean, I didn’t. But the kids are really excited. And it’s good for Hank.”

  “It is good for Hank.”

  Devlin took a swig of his beer and stretched out his legs, staring into t
he sky. “So, I’ve decided I’ll play along.”

  “Let me know if you need any help.”

  “I’m taking them around to potential venues tomorrow. Apparently, we’re having a garden reception, an NMAC executive meeting, and a ball.”

  “I thought this was a race.”

  “That’s what I said. In some ways, the race seems to be an afterthought.”

  Luke was silent for a moment. “Seriously, we’re having a ball?”

  “Jillian insists the wind-up banquet needs to have class.”

  “Does she think we own tuxes?”

  “We do own tuxes,” Devlin pointed out.

  “We’re not exactly your average racers.”

  Devlin smiled. “She’s not exactly your average motocross planner.”

  There was another moment of silence.

  “Do you think she’ll like me?” asked Luke.

  “No.”

  Luke squared his shoulders. “Why not?”

  “Because she looked at me like I was something stuck to the bottom of her shoe.”

  “Yeah, but that’s you. We’re talking about me.”

  Devlin gave the question some consideration. “Maybe if you washed up and wore your tux.”

  “That seems like a lot of work.”

  “Especially if she’s already sleeping with the NMAC guy.”

  “You think that’s what’s going on?”

  “I can’t think of any other explanation.” Devlin couldn’t. “She’s a ridiculous choice for the job.”

  “In many ways, Desert Heat is a ridiculous choice for a location.”

  Devlin didn’t have any sort of a comeback for that. It was entirely true.

  “But the kids will have fun,” said Luke. “And Hank gets free stuff. And you and I will just have to find another way to get laid.”

  “The boys just finished tricking out a Mustang Fastback in gold and black. We could cruise the clubs.”

  Luke grinned. “Wearing our tuxes?”

  “Any old suit should to it. It’s a pretty nice car.”

  “You should take it tomorrow night when you meet the DC women.”

  “Nah.” Devlin shook his head, even as he pictured Jillian cruising in the front seat. “It’s more fun when my scruffy look makes her jumpy.”

  o o o o

  Jillian couldn’t help noting that at least Devlin was clean this time. She and Shari waited at the top of the clubhouse steps as he parked his motorcycle in the lot at Venus Mountain Golf Club. It was a bigger bike than the ones at the motocross track. Cleaner, too. Not that she had any interest in motorcycles.

  He left his helmet behind on the seat and strode across the asphalt in a pair of sleek amber sunglasses, his short hair dark against the setting sun. A gray T-shirt was tight across his broad chest and wide shoulders, while a pair of faded blue jeans clung to his slim hips. The sight sent a ridiculous buzz of awareness passing through her body.

  It could only be sexual interest, and the knowledge annoyed her. She had absolutely no right to find him attractive. His chin was square but unshaven. The dark glasses made him look rakish and slightly dangerous, while the coiled energy in his fit, rangy body should have given her serious pause. He was edgy, opinionated and, by all accounts, tough as nails.

  She liked her men polite and urbane, refined at all times. Edmund could be counted on to behave appropriately in any and all circumstances. He’d had a great upbringing, and he had always been reasonable and predictable. Well, except for the last thing. She sure hadn’t seen that one coming.

  Devlin came to the bottom of the stairs and glanced at the front of the clubhouse. “Do they know we’re from Desert Heat?” Skepticism was clear in his tone.

  “NMAC were the ones who arranged the tour,” Shari replied.

  “You really want to let teenagers loose in this place?”

  “We’re looking at the courtyard for the opening reception,” said Jillian. “It’ll be mostly sponsors and VIPs.”

  Devlin started up the stairs. Unfortunately, the closer he got, the sexier he looked. She’d never given it any thought before, but there was something virile about an unshaven jaw. He removed his glasses, and his slate eyes were penetrating His bare arms were all sinew and muscle. And she had an unconscionable urge to run her palm across his chest and feel the hardness of his pecs.

  “Will the competitors be invited to the reception?” he asked.

  It took a moment for her distracted brain to make sense of the question.

  “Yes, they are,” Shari answered before Jillian could form an answer.

  “The liquor is free?”

  “Of course,” said Jillian, recovering.

  He stepped onto the porch, taller than she remembered. “Then I’m not sure this is the best place to hold the party.”

  “They’ll check IDs,” she assured him. “We will have security.”

  He simply shook his head.

  “Well, what would you recommend?” Her tone came out more demanding than she’d intended.

  “A big tent, somewhere out in the middle of the desert where we can’t bother anyone.”

  “NMAC sent us their standards, and a big tent somewhere out in the middle of the desert isn’t going to cut it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s a ball. Everyone will be dressed to the nines. Restroom facilities will be vital. As will electricity. They didn’t specifically demand road access, but I think it’s implied.”

  “We don’t have flush toilets at the track.”

  “You will in September. At least, temporarily.”

  The big oak door opened, and a doorman appeared. “May I help you, sir?” he greeted Devlin in an even tone as he discreetly but clearly took in the casual attire. The action reminded Jillian of why she always dressed professionally.

  Tonight, she’d gone with a simple, snug, pearl-gray linen dress topped with a darker three-quarter-sleeve blazer. She’d worn black open-toed pumps with a medium heel. They were a high-end brand, and it showed.

  “We’re here from NMAC,” said Devlin.

  The man’s brow went up. “NMAC?”

  “National Motocross Association Council.”

  “I see.” There was no understanding on the man’s face.

  Jillian stepped into the conversation. “We have an appointment to see the courtyard.”

  The man discreetly took in her outfit, his expression telling her he was able to differentiate designer brands from department store. “Of course, ma’am. If you’d care to wait inside, I’ll get a manager.” He turned and pulled open the big door, gesturing for them to enter.

  Shari went first, and Devlin came up close behind Jillian.

  “He likes you better than me.” His breath on her neck was disconcerting, but she forced herself to stay focused on business.

  “It’s the shoes,” she muttered in return.

  “Something wrong with my shoes?”

  “They didn’t cost enough. That’s how these people tell the serious clients from the riffraff.”

  “Did you just call me riffraff?” There was amusement in his tone.

  She couldn’t resist. “If the shoe fits.”

  “You did not just say that.”

  “Please,” the doorman interrupted. “Feel free to sit down in the lounge while you wait.”

  He motioned to a small seating area with cream and burgundy armchairs and low glass tables. The floor was covered in a patterned rug, leafy plants decorated box windows, and there was a small bar in one corner staffed by a man in a white shirt and black vest.

  Devlin waited while Jillian and Shari sat down at the closest table. He joined them, and the bartender immediately brought three glasses of ice water on a silver tray.

  “Jillian thinks I have cheap shoes,” Devlin said to Shari.

  The bartender’s glance dropped reflexively to the floor beneath Devlin’s chair as he set down the glasses.

  “Do you?” asked Shari.

  “I ca
n’t remember,” said Devlin as the bartender retreated to the bar.

  “The point I was making,” said Jillian, “is that people will judge you based on your appearance. Professionalism is always a plus.”

  “Do you think that’s fair?” Devlin asked her.

  “That professionalism is a plus?”

  “That people judge you based on preconceived notions of who you are, your appearance, your profession or anything else.”

  “I’m not arguing that it’s fair. I’m arguing that it’s true.”

  “Do you think we should encourage it?”

  “Who’s encouraging it? I’m simply understanding and accepting it.”

  “You’re buying into it.”

  “Well, it’s not like I can change it.”

  Devlin sat back in his seat. “Do you do it?”

  Jillian hesitated, hoping Shari would jump in. No such luck.

  “Everyone does it,” she answered. “Anyone who says they don’t is lying.”

  Devlin picked up his glass of ice water. “To a degree, I’ll grant you that. But some people are more appearance-conscious than others.”

  “Some people have more of a reason.”

  “Do tell.”

  “If they’re hiring you for a job, for example. If you are, as we are, consultants and they’re offering you a contract.”

  Her answer seemed to somehow amuse him. “You think you got this contract because you dress professionally?”

  “Sure, why else would—”

  “If they’re going to marry you,” Shari blurted out.

  Jillian shot her a warning glare. This was not, not the time to spout her opinion of the Staffords.

  Devlin turned to Shari. “You think only well-dressed people deserve to get married?”

  The question seemed to fluster Shari for a moment. “I think some people believe appearance counts for far too much in a relationship.”

  “Would you date a man in cheap shoes?”

  Shari’s eyes took on a playful sparkle, and Jillian felt a spurt of jealousy.

  “That would depend entirely on the man,” Shari answered.

  “That’s the right answer,” Devlin approved.