What's He Gotten Himself Into?

Harley

Jim smirked. “Damn. All right. Now I’m worried. Are you in the FBI or something?”

I laughed and shook my head. “No. Definitely not.”

“Why definitely?”

“I’m a thorn in the side of law enforcement.”

His brows drew together. “You’re a pimp, aren’t you?”

I burst out laughing.

He collapsed into his chair. “I should have known a chick so hot wouldn’t have a traditional nine to five.”

“Who says a pimp can’t schedule themselves to work nine to five?”

He studied me, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Okay. In all seriousness, what do you do, Harriet?”

I considered toying with him. It would be so easy. He was looking at me the way I looked at ice cream, and I knew without a doubt that he would believe whatever words came out of my mouth next.

But that seemed like a foolish game to play.

“I organize and host the underground street racing scene here in New York.”

He blinked. “Whoa. Wait, what?”

That was the reaction I was used to getting from non-race-car-driving men. “Yep. Have you heard of