by Diana Palmer
Mike guided the bike to a stop in front of her building, then cut the engine. Silence dropped on them like a heavy, uncomfortable blanket. Denise scooted back on the seat. Mike stood up, allowing her to get off the motorcycle with one quick, clumsy move.
She took off the helmet and handed it to him. "Thanks," she said in what she hoped was a light, casual tone. "It was an interesting evening."
He shot her a long, thoughtful look before swinging his left leg over the bike.
"Interesting," he repeated as he pulled his helmet off and set it down on the bike's seat. "That's a good word for it, I guess." He reached down, unhooked a compartment at the back of the motorcycle and reached inside. Pulling out a grocery bag, he stuffed it under his arm, slammed the compartment closed again, then turned to face her. His expression was ferocious.
"Are those my things?" she asked, glancing at the bag. "Yeah." He took her elbow in a firm grip, turned her around and started for the front door.
"You know, you don't have to walk me to my porch." She glanced at the front of the condo. The light she had left burning sifted through the bougainvillea vines stretched across the trellis that shadowed her porch. "I'm perfectly safe." At least, she thought, she would be safe as soon as he left. "Humor me," he said, and kept walking. Short of digging in her heels and screaming for help, she really didn't have much choice.
On the porch, he turned and handed her the rolled-up grocery bag. She glanced down at it, then lifted her gaze to his. Green eyes glittered in the glow of the porch light. A muscle in his jaw twitched. Not exactly the picture of a happy man. Well, the evening hadn't been a picnic for her, either. But he didn't have to be so obvious about his displeasure. A little polite lying never hurt anybody. Refusing to be intimidated by his biker scowl, Denise forced a smile and said, "Thanks again." His jaw muscle twitched again and she deliberately looked away to fish in her purse for her key. When she had it, Mike took it from her, opened the door, then gave the key back to her.
Curling her fingers around it, Denise took a step toward safety. "It was a lovely evening," she lied in as convincing a manner as she could manage.
"Don't do that."
She stopped cold and looked up at him. "What?"
"Don't give me the standard good-night speech. It wasn't a lovely evening and you damn well know it."
He glared at her, daring her to contradict him.
"Fine. It wasn't lovely." She nodded abruptly. "Like I said before, it was interesting."
"Oh," he countered quickly, "it was more than that."
She looked at him. "What do you mean?"
"You know what I'm talking about, Denise." He placed one hand on the doorjamb and leaned in close to her.
Too close. She could hardly draw a breath. Yes, she knew what he was talking about, but she would be blasted if she was going to stand there and admit that every time he touched her, her body lit up like a nuclear power plant. "Look Mike, let's just call it a night, all right?"
"Not yet."
Her back flat against the wall, she looked up into eyes that seemed to devour her. A white-hot thread of awareness began to uncoil in the pit of her stomach. Her mouth dry, she muttered thickly, "This is crazy."
"Crazy?" He nodded slowly. "Maybe. But before I go, I intend to do something I've been thinking about all night."
Her heartbeat staggered, stopped, then started again. Slower. Harder. She held her breath as he bent his head toward hers. One kiss. How much trouble could one kiss cause?
The moment his lips met hers though, she knew. This wasn't just a kiss. This was an invasion.
His mouth came down on hers with a raw hunger she had never experienced before. Brilliant light exploded within her in a sunburst of color and sensation. He parted her lips with his tongue, sweeping into her warmth with a plundering confidence that stole her breath and urged her to surrender to the wildness building between them.
Pulling her to him, Mike's hands moved up and down her bare back. Not with the gentle, teasing caresses he had shown her at O'Doul's, but with urgent, desperate strokes.
Mike arched into her. Need shimmered through her. In one dark corner of her mind, she realized that she was spinning out of control, but she didn't care. She wanted to be closer to him. To feel his lean, muscular form pressed to her.
His belt buckle dug into her abdomen. He widened his stance. Pulled her tightly to him and tore his lips from her mouth to follow the line of her throat. One big hand cupped her behind, holding her hips to his. She felt the hard strength of him and an answering need spiraled to her center.
Tilting her head back, she stared blindly at the light overhead as Mike's mouth and hands tormented her. Her fingers curled into the black leather of his jacket and she felt his muscles tighten and bunch beneath her hands.
Insane. This whole situation was insane. A man she barely knew, causing such passion and desire to swirl through her bloodstream?
From somewhere down the street, the high-pitched yapping of Mrs. Olsen's Yorkie drifted to her.
Gasping for air, Denise realized that she was standing on her front porch, under the telling glow of a seventy-five-watt bulb, letting a man make violent love to her in full view of her neighbors. Any minute now, Mrs. Olsen would be walking past her condo and who knew how many others of her neighbors were glued to their front windows peering out from behind their draperies? She had to stop him, she knew. This couldn't happen. She couldn't allow either of them to take this one step further.
Then he slipped one hand beneath the fabric of her dress and smoothed his fingertips over the curve of her behind. A harsh moan erupted from the back of her throat and her thoughts dissolved under the onslaught of fiery emotions.
As if her sigh of surrender had been a bucket of cold water tossed at his head, Mike stopped suddenly and lifted his head. Trembling, she met his gaze and knew the confusion she saw there was mirrored in her own.
Viciously, he rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, took a step back from her and drew a long, shaky breath.
"Denise…"
She held one hand up for silence. Shaking her head like a sleepwalker finally waking up, she said, "Let it go, all right? I'm not up to a discussion right now."
"Yeah, me either."
Breathe in, breathe out. Simple really, once you got the hang of it. After practicing a few more times, Denise forced herself to move for the door. Once over the threshold, half hidden behind the safety of her solid oak door, she looked at him and said simply, "Good night, Mike."
He nodded, then turned, hurrying down the flower-lined walk toward the street. A moment later, the Harley roared into life and carried him away.
Usually, working on motorcycles brought him peace. With his hands and mind busy, he didn't have the time or energy to worry about anything else. Sometimes, it was enough just to walk into the service bay behind his shop. The rock music playing on the radio, the easy conversation between the mechanics, even the cool ocean breeze that blew through the two open ends of the workshop, all worked together to make Mike Ryan a happy man.
Until today.
For the third time in as many minutes, Mike tried to fit the wrench head around a stubborn nut. He swore disgustedly as the wrench slipped off target for the third time, this time skinning his knuckles.
"Damn!"
"Bad day, Mike?"
He didn't even bother to look at his chief mechanic, Bob Dolan. The nosy man had been hinting for information all day. "Butt out, Bob."
"Nothin' to me, of course," the other man said from the workbench on the far side of the service bay. "But if I was in a foul mood because of some woman, I'd just forget about her and move on."
Mike smiled to himself. "So speaks the man married for twenty-seven years."
Bob laughed. "True, but only because she hasn't made me mad, yet. For instance, you don't see me grumbling at everyone who comes near me, do ya?"
Mike set the wrench down, put both hands at the small of his back and stretched. Every
muscle in his body ached with fatigue. No sleep and a day of frustration was liable to do that to a man. He shouldn't even have bothered going in to work today, he told himself. It wasn't like anyone there needed his help. He had the best bike mechanics in the state working for him. And Bob's wife Tina handled the customers in the showroom better than he ever had.
But it had been a matter of principle. He didn't want to admit that thoughts of Denise Torrance would ruin his day as effectively as they had ruined his night.
His plan hadn't worked. Instead, he had spent the last eight hours grumbling, complaining and pushing his employees until it was a wonder they all hadn't quit in protest.
"So," Bob asked gently, "you feel like talking about it now?"
He glanced at the other man and shrugged. "Nothing to talk about."
Shaking his head, Bob set the carburetor he was rebuilding down on the bench, then walked across the room to stand beside his boss. He tossed a quick look over his shoulder at the two other mechanics working thirty feet away before saying, "Spit it out, Mike. Something's been eating at you all day."
Mike wiped his greasy hands on an even greasier rag. He never should have hired a man who knew him as well as Bob Dolan did. Ever since they were in the service together, Bob had had the unnerving ability to read Mike's mind.
"It'd be different if you were the kind to suffer in silence," the man continued. "But whatever it is that's bothering you keeps spilling over onto the rest of us."
Pointless to argue. Giving him a rueful smile Mike said, "Sorry. I guess I have been taking it out on you guys."
Two bushy eyebrows arched high on the other man's forehead. Bob scratched his salt-and-pepper beard, then folded massive arms across a barrel chest. "So, Ryan, what's her name?"
Mike shot him a look. "Who says it's a woman?"
The mechanic snorted a laugh. "What else could it be?"
Disgusted with himself, Mike nodded. "True." He looked at his oldest friend, silently debating whether or not to ask for advice. It wasn't as if he were going to be seeing Denise again. So technically, he didn't really need advice. On the other hand, it might be good to talk about this woman and the effect she had had on him.
Besides, he and Bob had served in the marines together. They'd been in and out of more rough spots than most people dream about. And Bob Dolan was the one friend Mike had allowed himself to keep when he finally decided to leave the corps.
Knowing it was inevitable anyway, he said, "Her name's Denise."
"Ah…" Bob grinned, wiggled his eyebrows and waited.
"There is no 'Ah' here, Dolan," Mike warned him.
"Hell, it's high time you found an Ah, Ryan."
"I'm not interested in an Ah, Dolan. Besides, I didn't find her," Mike argued. "I kind of…stumbled onto her."
"Even better."
Mike scowled at his best friend. Not many people would guess that behind Bob's hard, dangerous-looking biker exterior beat the heart of a true romantic. For years, Dolan had been trying to convince Mike to find a woman and settle down. "I knew it was a mistake to talk to you about her."
"All right, all right," Bob said, wiping any trace of interest from his features. "I won't say another word about how you need someone. Not even about how you're not getting any younger—despite the ponytail."
Mike's teeth ground together.
"Go ahead, tell me," his friend urged, not even bothering to disguise his curiosity.
"There's not much to tell." Mike squinted at the late afternoon sunshine filling the far end of the service bay. Actually, there was plenty to tell. But he had never been the locker-room storyteller kind of guy.
"She's an accountant," he finally said.
"Oh." Bob sounded disappointed.
Mike laughed and the two other mechanics turned to look at him before going back to their work.
"I know what you're thinking," he told his friend. "But she doesn't look like any accountant you've ever seen."
"Oh?" Interested again.
"She's smart, she's funny. Independent as hell." He shot his friend a quick look. "She punched me on the chin."
"She is smart."
"Funny." Mike shook his head slowly. "I don't know what it is about her, but something…"
"Good, good," Bob grinned. "A woman you don't have figured out from the first minute you meet her."
"Maybe that's it," he muttered, more to himself than his friend. "Well, that and a good old-fashioned case of lust."
"You think so, huh?" Bob asked. "Sounds to me like something more."
"Well, it isn't." Mike turned his back on the other man and picked up the wrench again. All right, he was willing to admit that kissing her had been like nothing he had ever felt before. He was even willing to admit that he admired her. She had climbed on board his motorcycle despite her reluctance. And she played a surprisingly good game of pool. For a novice. Immediately, the memory of leaning over her, his body pressed to hers while he helped her line up a shot came to him. He smothered a groan and closed his eyes. Her image remained in the front of his mind and his body tightened uncomfortably.
No good, he told himself. She was no one-night stand and he wasn't interested in anything else. Abruptly, Mike slammed the wrench down onto the workbench and turned for the rear of the service bay where he kept his bike parked.
Only one way to handle this, he told himself. He and Denise had to talk. He had to let her know that whatever it was between them wasn't going to get the chance to grow. He wouldn't allow it.
"Where you goin'?" Bob called out.
"To set a few things straight," Mike answered.
As the Harley roared off into the late afternoon, Bob Dolan rubbed his palms together gleefully. Then he walked to the showroom to tell his wife about the woman who was going to bring down Mike Ryan.
Chapter 5
Denise stepped into her father's office and waited while he finished his phone conversation. He glanced at her briefly, waved her inside, then turned his gaze to the sheaf of papers on his desk.
Through the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows behind him, she watched the afternoon sun dipping toward the ocean. Streaks of clouds along the horizon gleamed with pale, rich color.
Color that was lacking in the large office's decor. Soft, cream walls surrounded what looked like an acre of sand-colored carpeting. Richard Torrance's mammoth mahogany desk sat squarely in the center of the room, facing the door. He kept his back to a spectacular view in favor of keeping his mind on the sheets of facts and figures that were always in front of him.
Four guest chairs sat clustered on the visitor's side of the desk and on one wall was a small, tasteful bar and two maroon leather sofas. No filing cabinets, adding machines or computers could be found in the roomy office. Those were relegated to an anteroom behind a narrow door to one side of the bar.
No clutter. In his office or his life. Richard Torrance preferred order. Indeed, insisted on it.
When he hung up the receiver, he didn't look up, but went on making notations in the file before him.
"I'm going home now," Denise said softly, not really expecting a response, but waiting for it anyway.
He finished scribbling notes to himself as she watched him. A tall man, even seated he was—an imposing figure. Light brown hair dusted with gray at the temples, he had a narrow, thoughtful face and sharp, pale blue eyes that rarely missed a thing.
"Hmmm?" Richard Torrance looked up from the file he was scanning. He glanced at the clock mounted on the wall opposite his desk, then frowned at his daughter. "Early, isn't it?"
"Only fifteen minutes or so," she said. Digging into her purse, she rummaged in its depths for her antacid bottle. When she had it, she pulled it out, took two of the tablets and popped them into her mouth. Slowly, she chewed and the familiar, chalky fruit flavor filled her mouth. Dropping the bottle back into her purse, she waited.
"Is there a problem?" her father asked.
A problem? she thought. Yes, but nothing he would c
are to hear about. She could just imagine her father's reaction to the knowledge that she had actually gone to O'Doul's—with a biker, no less.
Visions of Mike Ryan leapt to mind as they had all last night. She had tossed and turned restlessly, her body still humming with the sexual fire he had stoked and then abandoned. And while her body burned, her mind had raged at her. How could she have let herself be swept away by something as unpredictable as hormones?
She looked at her father and not for the first time, wished that she could talk to him. Really talk to him.
"Well?" Richard prompted. "Something here at work? Something I should know about?" She didn't answer right away, so he went on. "Did you finish the Smithson file? He'll be here at eight o'clock sharp tomorrow morning."
She wasn't even surprised that her father assumed whatever was bothering her concerned work. To Richard Torrance, his accounting firm was the most important thing in the world. In dedicating himself to its success, he had neglected his wife and overlooked his daughter—until that daughter was of an age to take her rightful place in the firm.
"Denise?" he repeated. "The Smithson file?"
"It's finished."
He gave her one of his rare smiles. "If your work is up to date, what could be the problem?"
What indeed? She couldn't tell him the truth. He would never understand her fascination with Mike. Even she didn't understand it.
As she mentally groped for something to say, the telephone on his desk rang and saved her.
Her father lifted the receiver. "Hello? Hello, Thomas," he said, dismissing Denise with an absent nod. He swiveled his chair around so that he could stare out the window behind his desk at the ocean beyond while he talked.
Denise waited another moment or two before quietly slipping out. She wasn't sure if she should be relieved or hurt that he had already forgotten about her.
Mike felt it again. The sense that worried eyes were watching him as he steered the motorcycle up to Denise's condo. Nudging the kickstand into place, he stood up, swung his leg over the bike and pulled off his helmet.