Dirty Delilah
Authors: R. G. Alexander
Dirty Delilah
The DD4 Series, Book One
by
RG Alexander
Dirty Delilah
Copyright 2014 RG Alexander
Cover Design by
Scott Carpenter
Editing by D.S. Editing
Formatted by
IRONHORSE Formatting
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Asa Wilder was a sexy, tattooed god of a man.
And life was unfair.
When you were driving in the middle of nowhere and you most needed a signal, all the bars on the cell phone disappeared. When you were craving chocolate more than life itself, the only flavor left was vanilla strawberry swirl.
And hot, unattainable bad boys—six times out of ten—became hot, unavailable men.
Un-fucking-fair.
Delilah took a deep breath and rolled the window of her Mustang down for a much-needed blast of fresh Spring air. She’d seen Asa getting off his motorcycle and opening the repair shop when she drove by this morning on her way to breakfast. One look was all it had taken to send her speeding to the nearest diner for a comfort latte and a stack of blueberry waffles that were physically, if not emotionally fortifying. Her sisters hadn’t answered their phones to distract her, so she’d stayed in her corner booth fiddling with sugar packets until the waitress glared and started making passive-aggressive comments about getting ready for the lunch crowd.
She was going to have to face Asa eventually. She knew that. It wasn’t like she hadn’t expected to run into him today. Or to see how snugly his worn jeans cupped his backside or the way his biceps bulged when he’d lifted up a hand to push his hair out of his eyes as her car raced by….
Damn. Okay so she maybe she hadn’t expected her reaction to that backside.
But Asa “Wild Man” Wilder was the reason—one of two
business
reasons—she was back in San Rafael after an eleven-year absence.
Had it been
that
long? Eleven years? Time had barely changed him. It
definitely
hadn’t changed him in the way she’d hoped when she was being petty in the years since their last meeting—he still had all his hair and teeth and he didn’t walk with a limp after a run-in with some psychotic lover he’d wronged.
If anything he was better looking now. Sexier than she remembered. From what she could see, the reckless twenty-year-old with eternally mussed light brown hair and wicked blue eyes—the troublemaker who’d starred in all her naïve seventeen-year-old fantasies—had matured into a lean, rugged, heartbreakingly handsome man. And the grown up Delilah was finding it impossible not to create new and decidedly less PG-rated fantasies about him.
Her fingers tightened on the wheel as she automatically followed the curve of the 101 freeway that she used to know by heart. Her hometown.
No. San Rafael was Dirty Del’s hometown. She wasn’t that tomboy in greasy overalls intent on disguising her curves anymore—the one who’d hung out at her father’s motorcycle repair shop every day learning more about engines than most men twice her age, and knowing next to nothing about dances or getting along with the other girls at school.
She was Delilah Dean now, a woman with a closet full of dresses and heels…no overalls in sight. She was vice president of DD4, a successful business that dealt in specialized parts for classic bikes and gear that had—thanks to her older sister—gone from utilitarian to
the
popular fashion for the recreational rider.
She was also the one Asa Wilder would have to negotiate with to purchase Dean’s Garage after just over a decade of leasing—if the guy who owned the shop in the other half of the building couldn’t convince her to sell to
him
first.
She took the exit, making the familiar turn onto 3
rd
Street, passing buildings that weren’t so familiar anymore. There were new businesses, new facades on some of the older buildings…it looked like the town had changed too. The breathed a sigh of relief when she passed B Street and saw the little Italian Bistro her father had loved to take them to on special occasions was still there, letting her know she hadn’t come to the wrong place.
There had been no question that she would be the one to come here. The one to handle this particular business transaction in person. Her sisters, Drew and Darcy, never had any interest in the shop, and her father, well… Dallas Dean had left his heart in the old garage, in more ways than one.
“I’m not sure why they both chose to offer for the Garage, but I’m too close to it,” he’d told her. “You’re the only one I trust to make the right call, Del. The only one who came close to caring the way I did. Do. I can’t go back yet. You understand.”
She did. There were too many memories here for him. Too much pain.
But he wasn’t the only one with memories.
Now he was trusting Delilah to make the decision about the sale, and he hadn’t been talking about whose bid was the highest. If that was all it was about she wouldn’t have had to leave her West Hollywood apartment and drive nearly six hours to spend a few days “making the call”.
She pulled into the pockmarked driveway in front of the Dean’s Garage and took another calming breath. She could do this. This morning’s glimpse of her adolescent crush had made her temporarily forget the savvy, chic businesswoman she’d worked hard to become.
She would do what she did best—talk business and bikes. Asa Wilder wouldn’t get under her skin and Sebastian Kosta, the wealthy owner of the relatively new Kosta Ironworks and Custom Designs in the shop next door, would be so dazzled that—successful negotiations or not—she might end up convincing him to invest in Darcy’s crazy scheme to open a DD4 nightclub in San Francisco.
Delilah turned off the engine, grabbed her case and slid out of the car, straightening the slim red halter dress that stopped above her knees and adjusting her favorite black leather bolero jacket Drew had purchased for her from some fashion show she’d attended a few months ago. It made her feel tough and incredibly feminine at the same time. It also threw men off.
Exactly as it was meant to.
At first glance, they always assumed Delilah Dean knew more about Gucci than Harley. The last thing they expected was that a woman who dressed like Jessica Rabbit could talk valve adjustments and precision camshaft tolerance while still managing to balance on her killer stilettos.
Her father could talk shop with the best of them—he was the customer’s friend. Delilah didn’t have that luxury, and she wasn’t above using a little distraction to give her an advantage in this male dominated industry.
She also wasn’t above giving a “Look at me now—aren’t you sorry?” show to the mechanic who could always make her knees buckle with nothing more than a lazy smile.
Her heels efficiently evaded the loose gravel and oil stains that dotted her path to the clean, brightly lit office connecting Asa’s space to the refurbished Ironworks building.
It was jarring. Where the office and Kosta Ironworks began, the parking lot was perfectly paved, the cars were all new and expensive and the building was practically shimmering in the sun.
Dean’s Garage seemed sad and broken down by comparison. Even the sign above the door was so faded one
e
and the
r
had all but disappeared. She was glad her father had decided not to come, and a little ticked that Asa hadn’t let them know anything needed repair. She started thumbing through her mental fix-it Rolodex before stopping herself. There was no point. By the end of the month this wouldn’t be a Dean family problem anymore. The shop would be sold.
She pulled open the glass door and walked into the middle of a heated discussion that was taking place next to what looked like a top-dollar cappuccino machine.
“You do not.”
“Not to belabor the point, but I do.”
“Major, I’ve known you for thirteen years. If you’d had work like
that
done I would know. Could you pass the chocolate shavings shaker?”
Delilah’s eyebrows rose and she bit her lip hard to keep from laughing, resisting the urge to run up to the two older bikers who didn’t look like they’d aged a day since she left. The retired Major and the reformed felon, Angel had met at her dad’s garage and instantly bonded over their love of tinkering with bikes and arguing over nothing.
She’d had no idea they also shared a fondness for expensive coffee.
Angel spotted her standing by the door and his eyes narrowed as he stroked his long, salt and pepper beard. “I think we should finish this discussion another time. Look whose here. Our little Del.”
The broad shouldered man with a severe crew cut and a perfectly curled and waxed handlebar mustache squinted in her direction. Clearing his throat, he lowered his voice and said, “No, Ronald. That must be another one of the Greek’s lady friends. I doubt that girl’s been dirty a day in her life.”
Angel rolled his eyes. “First of all, she can hear you, you old twit. Secondly, never call me that again. My name is Angel. It will always be Angel.”
Delilah’s shoulders shook with suppressed laughter as the Major lifted one eyebrow and sniffed. “That’s not what your mother said,” he murmured just loudly enough to be heard. Then he took a step closer to Delilah. “Is he right, young lady? Are you little Del Dean? I could have sworn you had brown hair.”
Delilah sent him a pleased grin and lifted her hand to her long blonde waves. “Only after a day in the garage with you two.”
Angel let out a whoop, set down the petite cup that seemed so out of place in his stony hand and strode over to her, his arms wide. “Welcome home, girl!”
The Major put out one strong arm and held him back with apparent ease. “Take a breath, Ronald. Look at yourself. Now look at her. You’d need two showers and a set of fresh clothes before I’d let you anywhere near her.” The Major bowed his head gallantly. “Ms. Dean, we are honored you’ve graced our humble establishment.”
“Technically, you’re in
her
humble establishment,” a new voice pointed out, filled with what could only be resignation and the distinct trace of a truly delicious accent. “Unless you are on my side of the office. At my cappuccino machine. Again.”
Delilah’s eyes widened at the sight of the man standing in the doorway that led the other half of the building.
This
was the owner of Kosta Ironworks?
She clutched her leather case closer, as if to contain the new swarm of butterflies that had awoken in her stomach. Was the universe trying to give her a heart attack from hormone overload before lunch?
She had a file that had given her all the pertinent details on the man offering to buy Dean’s Garage. Sebastian Kosta was a thirty-five-year old millionaire from old money, an engineer who had turned his personal love of racing into a fledgling company that sought to reinvent the wheel—or the motorcycle—and bring it into the future. According to Kosta, the future was beautiful and fast. Very fast.
