part mythical beast, the other part saint. He once rebuilt a house that had been obliterated by fire in time for the owners to host the Feast of the Seven Fishes despite three feet of snow and a flu-ravaged crew.
“Fair enough,” Trish said, because one of these days, she was going to find that man for Angie. But first, she had to navigate her own wish list, something she intended to put on hold for one weekend. “You have nothing to worry about when it comes to me taking Tony to this wedding. I just want to have some fun.”
Angie narrowed her eyes. “I don’t want to think about you and my brother having fun. That’s plain wrong.”
“Because you’re thinking of the wrong kind of fun.” And now Trish was too. Sexy, sweaty, sticky fun that made her squirm.
“Remember you said all of this when he turns on the charm.”
Trish waved off Angie’s skeptical gaze. She’d been subjected to Tony Corcarelli’s good looks and crooked smiles for a couple years now. Surely she’d been exposed to the full extent of his harmless flirtations. For crying out loud, she’d seen him carry a sticky-fingered preschooler while he wore a designer suit. What could be more charming than that?
She pressed a palm to her stomach, staving off the psychosomatic cramps. “I’ll be fine, Ange. You have nothing to worry about.”
And Trish wasn’t going to worry, either. For the first time in a long time, she was going to shed serious, wiggle out of worry, and focus on fun.
It was one night. How much trouble could she possibly get into?
CHAPTER FOUR
Tony owned two suits, one for weddings and one for funerals. Once, he mixed the pants from one suit with the jacket of the other, because the occasion was both a reason to celebrate and a reason to mourn. Back then, Tony knew Vin’s marriage was destined for divorce before a single “I do.” Some guys weren’t meant to be married. Guys like Tony and Vin fit that bill.
Tucking the tails of his navy dress shirt into his black pants, Tony didn’t think twice about wearing the same suit he’d worn to Nonna’s party to the DeVign wedding. He looked damn good in the designer duds. Plus, he was getting his money’s worth, something bound to make his more responsible family members proud.
With a paisley tie around his neck and a matching square of cloth in his lapel pocket, he double-checked his appearance in the mirror on the back of his bedroom door.
“I’d do me,” he said with a smile, followed by a frown, because he didn’t need to be thinking about getting laid when his date was Trish DeVign.
Grabbing his wallet and Vin’s keys from the dresser, Tony headed out the door. The vintage Ferrari parked in the spot where his bike usually was startled him. For one, he loved his bike—missed her, even—and two, he couldn’t believe Vin agreed to let him borrow the car. That was a true sign of familial love and respect.
Tony slipped the key into the lock, releasing the door, and slid inside. Gripping the leather steering wheel, he inhaled and exhaled, reminding himself of all the ways Vin could cause him pain and suffering should Tony put one mark on this car. But the sobering moment passed when Tony glanced into the rearview mirror, catching sight of his sleek hair and dark eyes. In this suit, in this car, nobody would suspect he was the upholstery boy. No way. He was a regular man of mystery.
“Bond, James Bond.” He laughed as he fired up the engine.
Fifteen minutes later, he pulled alongside the curb of Trish’s Shadyside home. Looking up at the lighted window of the fat dormer at the top of the historic foursquare, he wondered why one woman would tie herself to so much house. Maybe it was work-related, like a living, breathing interior design showroom, an idea that would’ve had merit if he didn’t know Trish had an equally impressive office space around the corner on flashy Walnut Street. Being from a wealthy family was more than likely the culprit.
Out of the car, Tony locked the doors—like Vin demanded—even though he was only walking thirty feet to the porch. He knocked and then waited with his back to the door, his focus on the car’s metallic paint, sparkling in the afternoon sun.
“Hey.” The soft word sounded in unison with the click-clack of the opening door.
Tony turned and lost his breath, like the air around him created a vacuum, sucking every last drop from his chest. Trish wore a curve-hugging, grass-green dress that crisscrossed her breasts and showed off miles of creamy arm.
“Let me grab my purse,” she said, offering a weak smile before she turned away from the door.
Two steps were all it took for him to notice the seam up the back of her black-print pantyhose, which were capped off with white-and-black retro pumps.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he breathed, hooking his finger inside his too-tight collar. “You look hot.”
She glanced at him from her hunched over position in front of the foyer mirror, where she was pressing French-manicured fingertips to smooth a single strand of pearls. “Thank you.” She gave a wobbly grin and looked back to her reflection in the mirror. “You sound surprised. I must look like hell every other day.”
Had he really never complimented her before? If not, that was a travesty. In thirty-three years, he’d complimented hundreds of women for being a thousand times less attractive than Trish. It had to be the work thing. Maintaining professionalism under Angie’s watchful eye must’ve rendered him speechless.
Then again, Trish had never worn fishnet stockings to work.
“You always look great,” he said, hoping to make up for lost time. “It’s just this outfit is over and above your usual work attire.”
“Yeah, well it’s hard to hang a cornice box in three-inch heels.”
And that was a damn shame.
She dabbed at the corners of her glossy lips, and then turned to him. An inhale lifted her shoulders, and an exhale returned them to their regular place, a place that accentuated the shadowy, deep V between her breasts.
“Ready?” she asked.
No. Freaking. Way. He was dead. This was crazy.
She brushed by him without waiting for his answer, splashing his face with a gust of spicy air. Shit. Even her perfume smelled like a proposition.
“Wow.” She stopped on the top step. “Now that’s some car.”
“And that’s some dress,” he said, getting a good look at the way the rayon cradled her curvy ass.
She glanced over her shoulder, eyes wide. “Tony, I’m having second thoughts about this.”
At least now they were even.
Trish set a shaky hand on the railing and stared at the sex-on-wheels Tony called a car. It was safer than staring at him in that suit.
“I’m a good driver. I swear.”
Nice to know, but she wasn’t worried about his driving. She drew a shaky breath and held it until her lungs burned. “My family is very uptight,” she rattled on an exhale. “They have expectations of me and my dates.”
“And yet you wore those stockings.”
“Tony.” She spun around and leveled him with her most threatening look. “You have to behave.”
He stepped closer and lowered his eyelids. “This is me behaving.”
“I was afraid of that.”
And then he grinned, and she really didn’t care if he upheld one silly societal expectation. As long as he smiled like that, letting the dip in his cheek darken, he’d ease the minds of everyone in the room.
“Come on. We’ll have fun.” He bent his left arm in her direction.
She lifted her hand, but paused before she touched him, thinking about Angie’s fear of Tony and Trish having the wrong kind of fun. But that was Angie’s fear, not Trish’s. She was a grown woman, capable of
