Unfinished Business by Karyn Langhorne Page B

company of a man who irritated her as much as Mark Newman could, just by breathing.
    â€œOh, come on,” he urged. “I won’t bite, if you won’t.”
    Erica sighed, tossed her books into the backseat and slid into the driver’s seat, firing up the tiny engine with a quick turn of her key. “You’re buying,” she grumbled without looking at him, but she knew that smile had widened to cover his whole face.
    â€œA gentleman always does,” he purred at her, and Erica had to grip the steering wheel hard to keep from calling him everything but a gentleman, and to remind herself that she was, indeed, a lady.
    He was quiet in the car, except for when he barked out directions like a general on the battlefield. Ericaexpected they were headed to some upscale Italian eatery, with a charming brick oven and booth seats, where they made pizzas with exotic ingredients most normal folk wouldn’t eat. But instead, he directed her into a neighborhood she knew well, where little mom-and-pop takeouts dotted a busy street in the shadow of Union Station.
    â€œHere,” he said, pointing to a small storefront in the middle of the block on the other side of the street. “Mama Tia’s.”
    Erica flipped a quick U-turn and whipped the little car into a curbside parking space without a word. As she set the parking brake, she felt the man’s eyes on her.
    â€œThat was some pretty good driving, for a woman.”
    â€œWhat kind of chauvinistic B.S. is that?” Erica rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Newman, what planet are you from?”
    â€œI meant it as a compliment!” he said, smiling slyly, like he knew he’d pressed every one of her buttons and had done so deliberately. “Of course, it helps when you drive one of these itty-bitty clown cars. Back home I got a dual-cab pickup that’s probably three times the size of this thing.”
    â€œAnd drinks six times more gas,” Erica retorted angrily. “Increasing the demand for limited resources and depleting our environment.”
    The smirk widened on his face. “Exactly,” he said joyfully. “But it’s a helluva a lot more comfortable, I guarantee it.”
    Erica slung her purse over her shoulder and opened the car door. “Let’s get this straight, Senator. I agreed to go home with you to East Bumfuck, or wherever it is that you’re from. But if you think I’m participating in some big primary-election publicity stunt, you can forget about it. I’m not going to let you humiliate me,or belittle my point of view. And most of all, I can absolutely assure you that I am not riding around in any gas-guzzling, dual-cab, pickup truck with a gun rack and the Confederate flag on the rear windshield!”
    â€œSo the answer is no?”
    â€œAbsolutely no,” Erica asserted, shaking her head until the loose curls brushed her cheeks. “Unequivocally no. No. No. NO.”
    He grinned, looking deliciously boyishly handsome in a buzz-cut John Travolta-ish sort of way.
    â€œThat’s what you said about dinner,” he said and limped his way ahead of her into the restaurant.
    Â 
    Mama Tia was behind the bulletproof glass at the order window—a precaution Erica hated but knew the area required. But when the older woman saw them, she hopped off her stool and opened the steel door separating them from herself and the cash drawer. A moment later, her plump form, squeezed into too-tight blue jeans and a large cook’s apron, appeared in the restaurant’s lobby.
    â€œWell, aren’t you both a sight for sore eyes!” she cried, in a voice without the slightest hint of Italian heritage in it. That was no surprise: The woman was just as clearly African American as Erica herself. She opened her arms and just as Erica was about to move forward to receive her hug, Mark Newman stepped into them. “Mark!” Mama Tia was saying, joy carved into the smile