Baby by Design dl-1 Read online

  She shrugged, managing cute, coy, and sexy with one pouty-mouthed look. “Would you?”

  If he was sane and sensible, no, he wouldn’t. “Absolutely. What time should I pick you up?”

  “Thank you,” she breathed on a noisy exhale. “We should leave at three, but I’ll drive.”

  “You don’t trust my driving?”

  “It’s a wedding, Tony, and I’m wearing a dress. You should wear a suit, like the one you wore to Nonna’s party.” He liked the way she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth when she paused for a breath. “Dress clothes can’t be worn on the back of a motorcycle.”

  An image of her creamy leg stretching out from beneath a short skirt and hanging alongside the chrome of his bike made his skin itch. He grinned to cover the not-so-innocent thought. “No bike. Got it. I’ll pick you up at three.” And before she could protest, he turned around and walked away.

  He’d never been the kind of guy to let a woman down, and that was a blessing and curse. Now he needed a car worthy of escorting Trish DeVign to a family wedding, in addition to a grand gesture for Nonna’s wish list.

  Talk about pressure.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tony parked his bike in a spot marked Reserved for Joyce Richards. Of course he wasn’t Joyce Richards, but he knew his cousin’s executive assistant wouldn’t need the spot until she returned from vacation. Hitching his right leg behind him, he swung his boot over the seat and nodded at a well-dressed businessman who eyed him suspiciously. No doubt the stuffed suit thought Tony was associated with one of Vin’s criminal clients.

  Just for fun, Tony picked up his pace, riding the guy all the way to the elevators, and then, at the last possible second, Tony darted right and took the stairs. He was still chuckling when he pushed against the plaque that read Vincent Spada Law Offices, State and Federal Criminal Defense.

  One foot inside the cushy office and the receptionist’s blue eyes peered over a high-back desk. “Hiya, Tony.”

  He propped elbows on the shiny wood and smiled. “Hey, Mavis. You’re looking beautiful today.”

  She rolled back her chair and smoothed a palm over her giant ball of a belly. “I feel like a beached whale. Swear to God.”

  “It’ll be worth it.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Big family, remember? And that’s what all my aunts say.”

  She grimaced. “I hope so.” And then with a sigh, she pointed over her head to the hallway behind her. “Vinnie’s in the boardroom alone. Go ahead and go back, but be careful. He’s in a mood.”

  Which could only mean one thing. Vin lost a case, and Vin, a former marine, hated to lose.

  The boardroom door was opened a crack, so Tony nudged it wider to see Vin holding a flimsy-looking putter between two gorilla-like hands and aiming for a tipped-over plastic cup.

  “You lose one?” Tony asked as he entered the room and closed the door behind him.

  “Yep.” Vin dropped the putter and kicked the golf ball, which missed the cup and collided with the baseboard on the far side of the room. “I hate to lose.”

  “It happens to the best of us.”

  “Right. I suppose you understand what it feels like to watch a man be locked away for a crime he didn’t commit. It’s probably like screwing up the vinyl on a kitchen chair.” He slapped a palm to his forehead and groaned. “I’m sorry. That was lousy. Even for me.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You’re upset.” The words stung, but they gave Tony something to use as leverage.

  Vin grabbed his suit coat off the back of a chair before he sat, taking a few audible inhales and exhales, like he was trying to clear his mind. “So what’s up? Any changes with Nonna?”

  Tony sat, too. “Nope. Not that I know of. I saw Angie an hour ago and she didn’t say anything.”

  “Good.”

  “Yep.”

  Vin whipped out his phone and tapped his fingers on the screen. “I tracked down those Italian tenors she loves through a colleague, and I’m trying to book a private performance.”

  Damn. More wish list talk. The family was determined to send Nonna out in style. Tony nodded at Vin, despite the knot in his gut.

  “Have you figured out what you’re going to do?”

  “Working on it,” Tony said, avoiding eye contact so as not to see the telltale stare. Vin, more than anyone else in the family, wanted to see Tony get his act together. A marine wasn’t happy until the rest of the world towed the line.

  “Why don’t ya put some of that money to good use and buy her a newly discovered solar system. Name it Corcarelli? Ya know? Preserve the last name for posterity.”

  Tony glanced at Vin who leaned back in his chair, staring at the overhead florescent lights, resting huge hands across his belly. By the blank expression on his face, Tony knew he was serious.

  It wasn’t the first time someone rode him about his familial duty to have a son and preserve the Corcarelli name. Tony’s father had been the only Corcarelli male, and it seemed legendary that he fathered the only son. Every once in a while, someone reminded Tony that if he didn’t have a son too, he’d take the Corcarelli name to the grave. Nice thought, huh? But a star seemed corny, not to mention insulting. He couldn’t imagine Nonna calling it an even trade.

  “Thanks for the idea, but I have a few of my own,” Tony lied. “You’ll be the first to know when I decide which one to go with.”

  Vin sniffed loudly, calling bull on Tony’s diversion tactic.

  “Hey, can I borrow the Ferrari?” Tony knew the question would eradicate the topic of Nonna’s wish list.

  “What?” Vin straightened and propped an elbow on the table. His huge silver watch glistened. “Are you kidding me? It’s a classic. I don’t even let me drive the Ferrari…much.”

  “It’s one night, Vin. One night. I won’t drink a drop of alcohol. I’ll keep it to the side roads and under thirty. I’ll… Name it. Whatever you want me to do, I’ll do. I just need that car.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Trish DeVign.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, you’ve lost your mind,” Vin said, slapping a palm to the table. “She’s your bread and butter, man. Why would you mess it up by dating her?”

  “It’s not a date. She needs an escort to a family wedding.”

  Vin raised one bold, black brow and zeroed in on Tony’s left arm tattoos. “And she asked you?”

  Tony smiled. “She likes how I look in a suit. And if she likes how I look in a suit, she’s going to love how I look in a suit in your car.”

  “Take my Lexus.”

  “That’s pathetic. That’s an old man’s fat ride, and I won’t subject my image to that.”

  Vin whipped a pencil in Tony’s direction.

  Tony ducked. “Hey, you owe me.”

  “For what?”

  “You said I screwed up a vinyl kitchen chair. I’ll have you know I don’t screw up, and I don’t use vinyl. Nasty, cheap stuff.”

  Vin roughed his face in his hands, releasing a low growl that had Tony on the edge of his seat. “Fine. You can borrow it, but only because I was an ass earlier, and I don’t want you to look like an ass at this wedding.”

  Tony jumped to his feet and kissed Vin on the back of the head. “I’ll do you proud, man.”

  “Just bring her home in one piece.”

  “Oh, eh, I have no intentions of bringing Trish DeVign home.” Because once he got her there, he didn’t trust himself to behave.

  Vin scowled. “The car. Bring the car home in one piece.”

  Now that Tony could do.

  * * *

  Trish stood in the Meyer’s laundry room doorway, looking out over the four-car garage turned Angie’s temporary workshop. She watched as Angie clamped a hinge jig to a door and reached for the wood router. The minute Angie flipped the switch, saw noise would drown out any words Trish wanted to say…and that was the problem. What words did Trish want to say? She warred with herself, hoping Angie wou
ld flip the switch and make it impossible to speak.

  Hunched over the door, router in hand, Angie glanced at Trish through clear safety goggles. “Do you need something?”

  Trish flinched. She’d been putting this off for hours now, and she wasn’t sure why. Taking Tony to her cousin’s wedding wasn’t a big deal. Was it? If it wasn’t, then why did her stomach feel as if she ordered fifty bolts of non-returnable fabric in the wrong color every time she thought about telling Angie?

  “How much longer for the doors?” Trish asked, stalling.

  Angie straightened. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t tell me nothing. You never question my work unless you’re stressing about something. What’s wrong?”

  Trish stepped into the sawdust-scented garage, skirting a pile of two-by-fours that stretched across sawhorses. She stopped on the other side of the six-panel door Angie had propped against her worktable. “Nothing’s wrong. The doors look great. The bedroom built-ins are beautiful. The window seat is breathtaking. Your guys are ahead of schedule with the deck. And…I asked Tony to escort me to my cousin’s wedding.”

  Angie adjusted her safety goggles and laughed, but as her laughter died, her eyes widened. She set the router aside. “Oh God, you’re serious. Why? Why would you want to do that?”

  “I don’t have a choice. I mean, I do. I could ask a stranger or an ex-boyfriend, neither of which is appealing, or I could go alone, but can you imagine my mother’s horror over her daughter doing something socially unacceptable like attending a wedding alone?”

  “Yes, but I can also imagine your mother’s horror over her daughter doing something socially unacceptable like having Tony Corcarelli as her date. I’d go with a stranger.”

  “It’s not a date. It’s a favor.”

  “It’s a disaster waiting to happen. And you know it, that’s why you didn’t want to tell me.”

  Trish stared at the white embroidered letters of Corcarelli Carpentry Co., which were stitched into the red fabric covering Angie’s heart. “I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you’d object. You never give Tony enough credit. He’s a good guy.”

  “You’re blinded by his beauty like all unrelated, underused vaginas.”

  The distinctive sound of a male clearing his voice punctuated Angie’s sentence. “I’m ready for another batch, Ange.”

  Angie gestured to three doors leaning against a far wall. “Take those. They’re done. And for cripes sake, don’t go banging up the woodwork.”

  Nino lowered his eyes, but nodded at his cousin as he lifted a door.

  Trish choked down embarrassment as she watched him leave the garage, and then when she was sure he’d ventured out of earshot, she turned on Angie. “My vagina…” she whispered, fearing another crewmember would overhear the conversation, “is not underused.”

  Angie ripped the safety goggles off her face and leveled Trish with shiny brown eyes. “I’m talking about man-made orgasms, not man-made devices.”

  “Hush,” Trish warned, but a giggle slipped out of her poorly pursed lips.

  “Just remember, Tony’s beauty comes with a price. This is a guy who drove a motorcycle six hours to Philly in the middle of the night because he was jonesing for cheesesteak. He slept on a park bench for two measly hours and then drove six hours home. You’re going to get sucked into that happy-go-lucky vortex, and then he’s going to let you down. As much as I love him, he sucks at being responsible and serious.”

  “He’s never missed a deadline for me.”

  “Because he knows I would throttle him.”

  Trish smiled, because she knew Angie would, too. Still, she didn’t think Angie’s iron fist was the sole thing keeping a free-spirited man like Tony in line. He might be reckless, but he wasn’t self-destructive like Angie made him out to be. “You’re too hard on men.”

  Angie pushed the goggles onto her face. “Because not one of them is as good of a man as my dad was. You find me one that is, and then we’ll talk.”

  That was a tall order. Trish hadn’t known the man, but she knew the legend. Pasquale Corcarelli was one 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. That was the wrong kind of fun, wasn’t it? After all, the idea of Trish and Tony indulging in anything more sinful than two servings of wedding cake was absurd. They were about as compatible as olive oil and mineral water.

  “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 mer
it 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.