Isn't it Romantic?

by Ronda Thompson

  “You haven’t had a date in a long time,” Shelly reminded, much to her mother’s embarrassment. “Don’t forget to enter your code for the security system before you come inside and—”

  “Good night, Shelly,” Trey interrupted. “Your mom’s in good hands. Take the evening off.”

  “Bye, Honey,” Katrine said too loudly.

  Shelly kept her gaze leveled on Trey. “We have a date, remember?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” Trey messed her hair playfully and shoved her out the door. He sauntered toward Katrine and drew up short. His eyes began to water. “What did you do, take a bath in that stuff?”

  Katrine ruffled. “At least I took one,” she ground through her teeth. “What’s that fragrance you’re wearing called? Oily Sweat?”

  “I thought you might find it rugged. You know, manly?” He tossed her the cape.

  Soft wool slapped her face before she brought the bulky cape under control. “Are you trying to impress me?” she asked sarcastically. “If so, you’re off to a great start. Considering what I’ve got to work with, I’ll be hard pressed to find anything remotely interesting about spending an evening with you.”

  A dark brow lifted. “I guess you can always steal subject matter from our first meeting.” His gaze settled on Katrine’s lips, and he smiled slightly. “You seemed eager to work with what I had in the back seat of the cab … hard pressed as you were and all.”

  Heat crept up Katrine’s neck and exploded in her cheeks. She hoped they might forget what transpired between them before they arrived at the awards ceremony. All right, she mentally amended, she wished he’d suffer severe amnesia.

  For over a week, she hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything other than the feel of his lips against hers, his touch. Lust ruled her senses for one brief night and the arrogant grease monkey standing before her obviously wasn’t going to let the episode die anything but a slow death. Katrine searched her mind for a way to wipe the smug smile off his mouth.

  “I was curious,” she answered in bored fashion. “About how a gigolo made his move. I wanted to hear your pitch. You were research, and that’s all you were. Now, could we get this first assignment over with as quickly as possible?”

  She felt satisfaction when the smile he wore slid from his face. In answer, Trey walked to the door, opened it and in a gallant gesture, bowed to her.

  “Madame, your carriage awaits.”

  ———

  “I’m not getting on that.” Katrine stared at the motorcycle. “I thought you said you were working on the Jag.”

  Trey removed two helmets from the sissy bar. “I didn’t say we got it fixed. Sal, my mechanic, was kind enough to loan me his wheels. Put this on.”

  Mistrustfully viewing the helmet he thrust toward her, Katrine refused. “I’m not riding on a motorcycle.”

  The thin set of her lips worried Trey. He might be pushing her too far, too fast with the motorcycle. Katrine looked like she was about to bail out. She couldn’t. He wasn’t finished with her yet.

  “Okay, we’ll take your car.”

  “I don’t have one,” she informed him. “I don’t drive.”

  Despite the seriousness to her voice, Trey found it hard to believe a successful woman didn’t own a car. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No. Once again, I’m not kidding. It’s not that odd, you know? We have buses, cabs, trains, planes—”

  “But why go through the hassle? And what do you mean ‘I don’t drive’?”

  “I used to,” Katrine admitted. “I haven’t been behind the wheel since I was eighteen.”

  Although Trey found the oddity curious, he used it to his advantage. “The bike will have to do then. Climb on.”

  Katrine held her ground. “I’ll call us a cab.”

  Annoyance on her part had been anticipated. It was, after all, the point of paying Sal for letting him use his Harley. Trey didn’t expect a flat out refusal with ultimatums.

  “Fine.” He slipped the helmet on his head. “Call yourself a cab and go on this date alone. You’ve got a feature due next week. My half will be easy. Kat Summers doesn’t have the spirit of adventure her heroines do.”

  Throwing a long leg over the Harley, Trey gave the starter a kick. He purposely revved the gas, creating enough noise to insure her neighbors rushed to their windows or dialed 911.

  If the rocks in her yard were larger, Katrine might have crawled beneath one. The subdivision she lived in was a quiet, orderly neighborhood where even the children were well behaved and seldom seen outside.

  “Wanna see me pop a wheely?” Trey shouted over the noise. “Bet I can keep the front wheels up for at least half this block, maybe all the way to the end.”

  Frustrated, Katrine jerked on the helmet. She fumbled with the strap until the roaring ceased and his fingers grazed her throat. Despite the chilly wind, his hands were warm. She shivered. Trey obviously felt her response, he pulled the cape closer around her neck.

  “Get on and wrap your arms around me,” he instructed. “When I lean, lean with me. Put your pretty, red shoes on the inside of my feet.”

  Heart hammering, Katrine did as instructed and came up flush against his broad back. She would have positioned herself differently, were there anywhere to move. The situation seemed entirely too intimate.

  “Place your arms around me.” Trey zipped his jacket, then removed gloves from his pocket. He paused, turning his head slightly. “Do you have gloves with you?”

  “No, I couldn’t find a pair that matched.”

  “Put your hands under my jacket.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  After they eased from the drive, Katrine glanced up at Melissa’s window. Shelly grinned broadly and waved. Katrine didn’t dare remove her hands to wave back. What was she doing? Cars scared her as it was, a motorcycle surely held greater odds for death.

  As the bike wound through quiet suburban streets at a leisurely pace, Katrine admitted she found the ride somewhat enjoyable. In fact, she felt a certain sense of freedom with the sinking sun in her eyes and the breeze tugging at long strands hanging past her helmet. Trey’s back blocked most of the wind. He seemed confident and in control.

  “Do you like it?” His shout flew to her.

  “Actually, it’s rather soothing! I never imagined riding a motorcycle would be relaxing.”

  He nodded in answer, proceeding down a side road beside the freeway. When he took the on ramp, Katrine stiffened. Surely he didn’t plan to take the freeway! Trey gave the bike more gas and it lurched forward. Katrine’s arms, draped loosely around his waist, tightened in panic. He weaved into the flow of traffic at a speed that pulled the skin on her cheekbones tight.

  “Bastard,” she growled.

  “What? Faster?” He twisted his wrist, giving the machine more gas.

  “Noooeekk!” Katrine fumbled with his jacket, shoving her shaking hands beneath to secure a tighter grip. After the maniac rode straight between two speeding cars, within hearing distance of the occupants’ conversations, she squeezed her lids shut and rested her forehead against his back. Forcing herself to breathe slowly, Katrine tried to concentrate on something other than impending death.

  The heat rolling off the flat planes of Trey’s stomach became the illogical choice. He had the body of an athlete, all muscle and bone. Did he have hair on his chest? Where had that thought come from? It stood to reason that he would. Most men with such an abundance of dark hair on their heads surely had hairy bodies to match.

  She preferred smooth skin on the chest. Or so Katrine supposed, considering her limited experience. Carl had been extremely hairy, which repulsed her slightly. John was blonde like herself with little hair on his chest, but then, he’d only been eighteen when he left this world, left her.

  Trey’s strong, steady heartbeat penetrated her musings. For some reason, her hands roamed up his sides to splay themselves across his chest. She couldn’t feel any pad
ding to indicate the muscled contours of his pectorals were clumped with hair. Curiously, his heart lurched. Not so curious, she corrected, then quickly moved her hands back to his middle. Thank heavens her thoughts had strayed upward instead of downward.

  Her face grew hot when the visual entered her mind. In one of her historical novels, she’d written a scene where the heroine sat before the hero on a horse. The rake took advantage while the heroine, too terrified of falling off, for a time failed to notice his fondling. Katrine was the terrified one, but the concept of reversing the situation intrigued her.

  Mental notes were made for future reference. She imagined the hero speeding through the streets on a motorcycle, the heroine’s hand roaming at will as he tried to control both powerful machines between his legs. Once the heroine ventured bravely to the waistband of his jeans, the hero would find a place to pull off the road and…

  Reality shook her from the pages of fantasy. The roaring in her ears had ceased. Katrine lifted her head and opened her eyes. Affordable Rooms flashed brightly in the approaching dark. A seedy motel sat to her right, the parking lot crowded with rigs.

  “Here we are,” Trey said hoarsely.

  “Here we are … where?”

  “The restaurant.”

  “Restaurant?” Her confused gaze strayed to the left. An equally bright flash read Snotty’s Truck Stop and Grill.

  “Snotty’s?” she asked in disbelief.

  “It’s supposed to be Shotty’s,” he explained. “See, the light’s broken on the ‘h’.”

  “Oh, well that’s different,” she replied sarcastically. “Suppose you tell me what we’re doing here?”

  “Suppose you take your hands out of my pants so I can speak in a normal tone of voice?”

  A tracer was dispatched from Katrine’s brain to find her hands. They weren’t really shoved down his pants, but rather, her thumbs were hooked on either side of the top fastening of his jeans. She snatched her fingers away. “I didn’t realize, I mean, the ride, I was terrified and I guess…” her voice trailed away.

  Removing his helmet, Trey turned sideways, allowing her a view of his strong jawline. “I thought you might be doing a little more research. If you’re finished, I suggest we go into Snotty’s, ah, I mean, Shotty’s, and chow down. I’m starved.”

  “In there?” Katrine squawked. “It’s a truck stop! You said you were going to clean up. You said you wouldn’t embarrass me!”

  A dimple appeared in his cheek. Although he wasn’t smiling, Katrine had the distinct impression it took a great deal of discipline on his part not to.

  “I said I’d fix it where you wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen with me. Most of the guys in this joint are dressed about the same as I am. You, on the other hand, might look somewhat conspicuous. You’re definitely overdressed.”

  Anger began to thaw her frozen blood. He planned this. The greasy clothes. The motorcycle. The whole charade had been carefully plotted to humiliate her. “Here’s a monkey wrench thrown into your clever scheme. I’m not going in there. Take me home.”

  Trey seemed to consider her request before he nodded thoughtfully. He didn’t replace his helmet, but leaned to the side and slid off the bike. “I’d be happy to take you home. After I’ve eaten. Care to join me?”

  “I do not,” she growled.

  “Fine.”

  In disbelief, she watched him walk away. “Fine,” Katrine muttered. “He thinks I won’t sit here and wait for him, he’s wrong. I’ll show him.”

  “Oh.” He paused to turn around. “It’s only fair to warn you that come dark in this neighborhood, any woman wearing sequined shoes is considered fair game by the truckers. Some of these boys have been on the road a long time…” his voice trailed suggestively.

  Katrine’s gaze moved from side to side. Another scheme, she assured herself. Trey wanted to frighten her. She refused to give him the satisfaction. Defiantly, she lifted her chin. Trey shook his head and continued onward. Without his body heat, the evening chill crept into her bones. She shivered as sirens blared an eerie song along the freeway. Her breath turned into steam and she shoved her freezing hands inside her cape pockets. This is certainly romantic, she thought with annoyance.

  “Hey, Biker Mama!” a gruff voice shouted across the parking lot. “What ya doing out here all by your lonesome?”

  Squinting through the gloom, Katrine made out the figure of a man standing beside a rig. She quickly averted her gaze, thinking if she ignored the trucker, he’d go away.

  “Hey, Red-Riding-Hood. I’m talking to you.”

  Chapter 5

  The smell of unclean bodies assaulted her as Katrine entered the over-warm confines of Shotty’s Truck Stop and Grill. Wolf whistles heralded the clicking of her red-sequined heels against the dull floor: She recognized a dark head bent over a menu in a booth by the front window. Her ‘date’ didn’t glance up as she banged the helmet noisily on the tabletop and slid across crumb-covered vinyl to sit. A menu occupied the space before her, a cup of coffee and water-spotted silverware. Obviously, he anticipated her arrival.

  A gum-popping waitress acknowledged Katrine’s presence sooner than did the menu-enthralled man across from her. “I was hoping you were a no show, Babe,” the waitress said between smacks. “Thought I might console him after my shift ends.”

  “After my shift ends, he’s all yours … Babe,” she added irritably. “I’ll need a moment to glance over the menu.”

  “Mountain Oysters are tonight’s special.” The waitress winked. “They’re fresh.”

  Katrine winced, then watched the waitress take herself off, the deliberate swish of her hips wasted on Trey. “Thanks for sitting by the window in case I needed a witness to rape,” she said with polite sarcasm.

  “Sal would slit my throat if anything happened to his bike.”

  In a gesture depicting her annoyance, Katrine began drumming her fingernails against the formica tabletop. “I’m surprised you didn’t take the liberty of ordering the special for us.”

  “It’s the cheapest,” he agreed, never glancing up from his menu. “But I haven’t got a clue as to what a Mountain Oyster is.”

  The drumming of her nails ceased. Could it be? Philly reared him, but he’d been in Dallas for at least six years to her knowledge. “Surely you’ve eaten Mountain Oysters?” She gave a half-laugh. “If not, you’ve missed out on a true Texas culinary delight.”

  “Really?” He lowered the menu and his gaze settled on the top of Katrine’s head.

  Her hand went automatically to her hair, but she couldn’t get her fingers through the tangled mess. So what, she mentally scolded herself. It wasn’t as if he didn’t look every bit as wind beaten. Only … he still managed to exude a persona of masculine virility.

  Dressed in a tux, Trey Westmoreland presented the perfect image of suave, sophisticated ladies’ man. This greasy, grimier version, provoked an image of danger. He had a wild, untamed look about him with his tousled hair and the dark smudge of grease on his cheek. Sexy, she grudgingly admitted. Jerk, she added in defense of traitorous thoughts.

  “What exactly is a Mountain Oyster and how could they be fresh?” Trey questioned. “Unless it’s a well-kept secret, there aren’t any mountains in Texas.”

  Katrine owed him a return on what he’d been dishing out all evening. She shrugged. “They bring them in from New Mexico. You have a smudge of grease on your cheek.” The subject was artfully changed. “Why don’t you clean up while I order.”

  Trey knew exactly where the smudge lay, he’d put it there himself. This date had been carefully planned to insure Kat Summers sweated blood over every word in her attempts to describe a romantic evening with him. A trucker on his way out when Trey entered, proved more than willing to come on to her for ten bucks. Trey didn’t know a woman wearing high heels could run that fast.

  “All right.” He formulated his next romantic move. While she smiled in obvious relief, her gaze roaming the crowded room in search of the
waitress, Trey proceeded to clean up.

  Water being squeezed from a soggy napkin into her glass recaptured Katrine’s wandering stare. The anticipation she’d felt building ebbed when Trey took the napkin to his cheek and scrubbed frantically. The greasy wad found its way into the ashtray as he reached to retrieve another napkin.

  It was a small comfort, Katrine soothed herself, to know her eyes couldn’t widen and her mouth couldn’t gape like her heroines in her books. She was, after all, in her own point of view. Glancing toward her reflection in the window, she quickly closed her gaping mouth and narrowed her gaze. Trey Westmoreland had the manners of a wart hog!

  “Well, what’s it gonna be?” Smacking accompanied the question.

  “Two specials,” Trey ordered, then took the slim end of a spoon to the dirt beneath his fingernails.

  “I—”

  “Two specials!” the waitress bellowed, drowning out Katrine’s protest.

  “You said you’d allow me to place the order.” Katrine fought a sudden queasiness in her stomach. She’d never partaken of Mountain Oysters and wondered who thought of eating them in the first place.

  “Sorry.” He glanced up from his digging to smile. “I assumed by the expectation mirrored on your face earlier, you had your mouth set for Mountain Mushrooms.”

  “Oysters,” Katrine snarled. “They’re Mountain Oysters.”

  Her sarcasm brought a pause to his manicure. Katrine quickly schooled her features into a mask of innocence. He studied her a moment, his gaze lingering over her lips before he casually wiped his spoon with a clean napkin and took a sip of coffee.

  The cup Katrine lifted trembled slightly. She wished he wouldn’t look at her like that. Did he remember? The way their mouths merged so perfectly together?

  “Jerry gave me a line about your editor pressuring you into doing the feature. What’s the real reason?”

  Business, she reminded herself. Trey Westmoreland represented an unpleasant writing assignment and nothing more. “Craig didn’t pressure me, but he strongly suggested I cooperate,” Katrine admitted. “He thinks I’ve kept too much to myself. More publicity, more money. You know how it works?”