by Diana Palmer
He placed the last of her things on the desk and took a long look at them. Everything from a hairbrush to a tube of toothpaste and a neatly capped toothbrush sat atop the mahogany surface. Shaking his head, he noted the foil-wrapped sandwich, a package of Ding Dongs, a screwdriver set and a package of bandages. But then his gaze fell on the jumbo-size bottles of aspirin and antacid tablets, two black eyebrows lifted high on his forehead.
Ms. Denise Torrance apparently led a very stressful life.
Even as he wondered why, he told himself that it was none of his business. He made it a point never to know too much about anyone. With knowledge, came caring. With caring, came pain.
A small, shiny object on the floor caught his eye and he leaned over to pick it up. His long fingers turned the key over and over as he studied it. A smile crept up his features and he glanced at the wall of file cabinets across the room from him.
The only way she was going to get back into this office was with a key. And she'd left hers with him.
Folding the key into his palm, he pocketed it, then walked back to the faulty air-conditioning unit in the corner.
Whistling softly, he told himself that just because he wasn't going to get involved, that didn't mean he had to avoid her completely. Besides, anyone so stressed out that they carried enough medication to dose a battalion was desperately in need of some relaxation.
As he pried the metal cover off the unit, he smiled. It would be his distinct pleasure to introduce Denise Torrance to a little fun.
In the soft morning light, Denise stood outside the brick-and-glass building and stared at the foot-high letters painted on the front window.
Ryan's Custom Cycles.
That unsettled feeling leapt back into life in the pit of her stomach and she sucked in a gulp of air, hoping to quiet it. It didn't work.
Her fingers clenched and unclenched on the soft, brown leather of her shoulder bag. It hadn't been hard to locate Mike. Patrick had once mentioned his twin's motorcycle shop, so a quick glance through the yellow pages had been all the help she had needed.
Denise's stomach lurched and she laid one palm against her abdomen in response. "Stop it," she muttered. "He's just a man." And, her mind quietly jabbed, the Statue of Liberty is a cute little knickknack.
"Oh, for heaven's sake!" she admonished herself as she started across the parking lot. She didn't have all day. Her first meeting of the morning started in less than forty minutes. Her father, as president of the firm, would be there and he wasn't the kind of man to accept excuses for tardiness.
Denise groaned. Just thinking about having to face her irate father this early in the morning was enough to churn up the acid in her stomach. Rummaging in her purse, she yanked out a small roll of colored tablets and popped two of them into her mouth.
As she chewed, she told herself that she didn't have much choice in this. She had to see Mike again. "Of course," she said under her breath, "if I hadn't let him bully me into running for cover last night, this wouldn't be happening."
But she had allowed it. Not until she was halfway home had she remembered that she'd left behind Patrick's spare key and the files she had needed. She had also forgotten about the things she'd thrown out of her purse in her wild search for pepper spray.
"Pepper spray, self-defense classes," she grumbled in disgust. "A fat lot of good they did me."
Too late to worry about that, though. She stopped in front of the sparkling-clean glass door and took a deep, calming breath. Then she pushed the door open and stepped into another world. A world where she obviously didn't belong.
The showroom was immense.
Her gaze flew about the room, trying to take it all in at once. Blond pine paneling covered the long wall behind the room-length counter. On the side wall, glass-fronted shelves displayed everything from helmets to gauntlet-style black gloves to black leather pants and boots. The opposite wall appeared to have been designated an art gallery. Against the soft, cream paint were bright splashes of colored signs, proclaiming the name, Harley-Davidson. Beneath those signs stood racks of clothing. T-shirts, jackets, chaps, even ladies' nightgowns, all with the same Harley-Davidson logo.
But the most impressive displays were the motorcycles themselves. Gleaming wood floors mirrored the chrome surfaces of the almost elegant-looking machines parked atop it. Sunshine filtered through the front and side windows, sparkling off the metal, glinting against the shining paint jobs.
Denise shook her head, dazzled in spite of herself. Somehow, she had expected to find a dirty, oil-encrusted garage where beer-swilling mechanics scratched their potbellies and traded dirty jokes.
A long, low whistle caught her attention and her head snapped around.
"How did you slip in here, honey? Are you lost?"
The big man in worn jeans and a flannel shirt scratched at his full beard and grinned at her.
She tugged at the front of her sea green blazer and tightened her grip on her purse. All right, so maybe she did look out of place. She glanced around the room again, noting the sprinkling of customers for the first time.
Only a handful of people were in the store and none of them were in a green silk business suit. Except of course, Denise. And, they were all staring at her as though she'd just been beamed down from the planet Stuffy.
Apparently, she thought, as the people went back to what they had been doing when she entered, jeans and black leather were the preferred costume of motorcycle enthusiasts. Even for the women, she told herself as she spotted the only other female in the room.
A pang of envy rattled around inside her as she noted the tall blond woman's long, straight hair and skintight jeans. Without benefit of a shirt, her black leather vest looked provocative. Dismally, Denise acknowledged that even were she to wear the same outfit, the results would be very different.
A quick glance down at her own, less than impressive bustline confirmed the thought.
"Looking for a bike, lady?"
She turned toward the first man again. "No." She cleared her throat and told herself to remember why she was there. It didn't matter if she would look terrible in a leather vest, since she had no plans to acquire one. "Actually, I'm looking for Mike Ryan." He nodded, then said wistfully, "Too bad." Jerking his head toward the door behind the counter, he added, "Mike's in the service bay. He'll be back in a minute."
"Thank you."
A moment later, that door opened and Mike stepped into the room. Denise's stomach jumped. She ignored it and walked toward him.
"Nice wheels," the bearded man said. She stopped and looked at him. "What?"
"Your legs, Denise," Mike spoke up and shot a telling look at the other man. "He said you have nice legs."
"Oh." Flustered a bit, she nodded and said, "Thank you very much."
Hell, Mike thought, what did he care if Tom Jenkins looked at her legs or not? He ignored the skitter in his gut, slapped both hands down on the countertop and leaned forward as Denise came closer.
Dammit, he'd been hoping that he had imagined most of the instant attraction he had felt for her the night before. His gaze raked over her quickly, thoroughly, as she marched determinedly across his shop.
Just his luck, he thought. Even in a boxy, green suit jacket and too long skirt, she did things to him he would have thought impossible at this time yesterday. From the sound system overhead came the muted strains of the Eagles. But over that familiar music, came the sharp click of her high heels against the floorboards. They seemed to be tapping out a rhythm that screamed silently in his head, "Take her, she's yours. Take her, she's yours."
His body tightened and he gritted his teeth in an effort to ignore the voices and concentrate on the woman. Even though he'd been expecting to see her again, he hadn't expected to feel such a rush of pleasure.
It's nothing, he told himself. At least nothing more than a very healthy response to a pretty woman. It had been a long time since he'd confused hormones with something deeper.
"Morning," h
e said as she came to a stop opposite him.
"Good morning."
He watched her nervous fingers playing with the strap of her bag. Good. That gave him the upper hand in whatever was going to be between them. And he knew already that there would definitely be something.
"What can I do for you, Denise?" he asked, despite the fact that he knew damned well why she was there.
She inhaled sharply, glanced to either side of her to make sure no one was near, then said, "When I left Patrick's office last night, I forgot to take the spare key with me."
"And the files you needed," he added.
"Yes…"
"Oh, and all that junk from your purse."
She frowned. "That, too."
"I know." He smiled at her and saw temper flare in her eyes before she battled it down again.
"You're not going to make this easy," she said quietly. "Are you?"
"Nope."
Her lips thinned a bit, the only sign of her agitation. "Why not?"
"What would be the fun in that?" he asked.
"Does everything have to be fun?"
He gave her a long, slow smile. "If we're lucky."
She sucked in a gulp of air and laid her palms flat on the counter, just an inch or so from his. He thought about touching her, but decided to wait.
"Look, Mike. I just want to retrieve that key, get back into Patrick's office and pick up my things." She looked him dead in the eye, hoping, no doubt, to convince him with her calm appeal to his better nature.
Too bad he didn't have one.
He should do what she wanted, he told himself. Just give her back her stuff and let her disappear from his life. He didn't want any entanglements. He wasn't interested in love or long-term relationships. Mike had learned the hard way that love was an invitation to pain and he wanted no part of it. Besides, Lord knew, he had no business getting any closer to a woman who practically had conventional stamped on her forehead.
Still, something inside him just couldn't seem to let go. To let it…whatever it was between them…end just yet.
"I'll make you a deal," he said instead. "What kind of deal?" Her head cocked to one side and she looked at him through the corners of very cautious eyes.
"Here's the key for Patrick's office and the files, but to get the rest of your stuff you have to go to dinner with me tonight." Even as he said it though, he knew dinner wouldn't be enough. He wanted to be alone with her again. Somewhere quiet and dark, where he could kiss her, touch her. And discover if the sensations that had tormented him long after she had stormed away from him the night before were real…or just a product of the unusual situation they had found themselves in.
"Dinner?"
"Yeah."
"Where?"
"My choice."
Her toe tapped against the floor. He watched her as she mentally went over the possibilities. She threw him a worried glance and he knew she was thinking the same thing he was. That here was their chance to prove that absolutely nothing had happened between them the night before.
Then she surprised him.
"You know," she said thoughtfully, "Patrick never mentioned this ruthless streak of yours."
He widened his stance and folded both arms across his chest. "I'm not ruthless, honey. I just live my life on my terms."
"Which are?"
She wouldn't understand his terms, he told himself. To understand, she would have had to have been sitting in the desert sun, listening to gunfire. She would have had to watch friends die. She would have had to experience the one inescapable fact that life is short. Too damned short.
Since it was pointless to try to explain all of that, he said only, "The terms vary from day to day."
"Now, why doesn't that surprise me?"
He gave her points. Irritated and frustrated, she still gave as good as she got.
"So," Mike said. "What about dinner?"
"Can't you just give me my stuff?"
"I could…but I won't."
Her lips thinned and that toe of hers started tapping even faster. Finally, after she checked her narrow-banded gold watch, she spoke.
"All right, dinner. Here's my address." She dug into that saddle bag she called a purse and came up with a business card. She set it down and took a step back from the counter. "Of course, it's not like I have a choice, is it?" she asked. "To get my things back, I have to go."
"True," he agreed and ignored the small stab of conscience.
"Do you always use extortion to get a woman to have dinner with you?"
"Only when I have to. Like I said, the terms vary. Seven-thirty."
"Seven-thirty."
"You don't have to go, Denise," he heard himself say. "You could call Patrick and whine until he agrees to rescue you from me."
One pale blond brow lifted. "First, I don't whine. Second, I don't need anyone to rescue me from you, Mike Ryan. I can take care of myself."
She really was something else. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and grinned at her. "I remember."
"Good," she said as she turned for the door. "It'll be better for both of us if you keep on remembering."
What do you wear to have dinner with a man who dresses like a B movie from the fifties and has far more self-confidence than any three people deserve?
Denise stood in the foyer of her condo and checked her appearance in the full-length mirror one more time. Her navy blue dress looked perfect, she thought and swayed to watch the full skirt swirl around her legs.
Nodding to herself, she said aloud, "You wear something that gives you confidence, naturally."
She smoothed her fingertips along the modestly cut neckline. Revealing just a glimpse of her collarbone, the long-sleeved dress looked demure, almost prudish, until one saw the back. Smiling to herself, Denise half turned and looked into the mirror over her shoulder. The deeply scooped back dipped sensuously low, coming to a stop just below her waist. The smooth expanse of flesh it displayed was evenly tanned a warm, golden brown.
Denise fluffed her hair one last time, checked the hooks of her sapphire drop earrings, then reached into her tiny evening bag for her lipstick. Though the small, black leather envelope on a slim gold shoulder chain looked lovely, she did miss having her day purse.
Leaning toward the mirror, she carefully lined her lips in a dark rose color, then dropped the tube back into the bag.
"Well, I'm ready," she told herself. "Where is he?"
A quick glance at the clock behind her and she smiled ruefully. Only 7:20. Whatever was wrong with her? She hadn't wanted to go on this… She refused to call it a date, even to herself. "So why am I ready and waiting ten minutes early?"
She caught her own eye in the mirror and looked away again quickly. Denise wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer to that question.
A rumble of thunder sounded outside and she winced. Looking heavenward, she muttered, "Give me a break, okay? No rain tonight?"
But the thunder continued grumbling until it rolled up in front of her house and stopped. Frowning, she opened the door. "Good God."
Chapter 3
Denise stepped onto the porch, pulling the front door closed behind her. She twisted the knob, making sure the lock had set, then started down the pansy-lined walk to the street.
In the hazy, yellowish glow of a streetlight, Mike sat, straddling the biggest motorcycle she had ever seen. Painted bloodred and black, it would have looked intimidating had it been parked and silent. As it was, its engine rumbled like a growl coming from the chest of some jungle beast waiting to pounce.
The word intimidating didn't even come close to describing it.
Mike pulled his shining black helmet off and set it on the seat in front of him and Denise took a moment to study him. Dressed entirely in black, he looked even more like a pirate than he had the night before. And was, if possible, even more dangerously attractive.
His hair was pulled back into a ponytail at the base of his neck and, she noted nervously, he had shaved for the
occasion. When he turned to look at her, his pale green eyes widened in appreciation, then narrowed thoughtfully.
"It looks great," he admitted. "But it's not what you usually wear on a bike."
"I didn't expect to be riding a bike," she said, although why she hadn't considered it, she didn't know. "We could take my car," she suggested.
"No, thanks. I don't do cars." He reached behind him to the tall bar rising up at the end of the narrow seat. Quickly, he undid the elastic ropes, freeing a silver-and-black helmet, then turned around to hand it to her. "Here. You have to wear this."
"Mike, I…" Sighing, she pushed the helmet back at him. So much for her spectacular dress. "I'll go change."
"No time," he said. "We're going to be late as it is."
"I can't ride that—" she waved one hand at the motorcycle, then at her dress "—in this."
His lips twitched in what might have been a smile if given half a chance. But it was gone in the blink of an eye.
"It'll be all right," he said. "Just stuff the skirt between your legs and mine. Keep it out of the spokes."
This was a first. She had never had a man tell her to stuff her skirt between her legs before. Lovely.
"Can't you just give me three minutes to change?" she asked. He snorted a muffled laugh. "There isn't a female alive who can change clothes in three minutes, honey. And like I said, we're already late."
His expression told her there was no sense debating the issue a minute longer.
"For heaven's sake," she muttered and threw one last, longing glance at her condo, behind her.
"Come on, honey," he told her and pulled his own helmet on. "Just swing one of those gorgeous legs over the saddle and plop down."
Gorgeous?
He released the kickstand and stood up, balancing the bike between his thighs. His hands twisted the grips on the handlebars and the powerful engine grumbled in response.