Bride Quartet Collection

by Nora Roberts

  Pressing a hand on her jumpy belly, she thumbed a Tums out of the roll in her purse.

  Probably thirty minutes for the tow truck, if she was lucky, then she’d have to ask the driver to take her home, or call a cab. She wasn’t going to call home and ask one of her partners to come get her and let them see the car.

  Not before a consult.

  A cab, she decided. If she called a cab it would be on its way here along with the tow truck. More efficient that way. If she’d just stop shaking, she could get everything in order again. Deal with the situation.

  She heard the roar of an engine, and her gaze flew to the rear-view mirror. Already slowing down, she realized as she let air out again.A motorcycle, which certainly had more than enough room to get around her.

  Instead, it pulled up behind.

  Good Samaritan, she thought. Not everyone was a negligent ass like the other driver had been. She pushed her door open to tell the biker she’d already called for help, and stepped out.

  And saw Malcolm Kavanaugh pull off the black helmet.

  It just got better and better, she thought. Now she was being “rescued” by her brother’s friend, their current mechanic, a man who irritated her more often than not.

  She watched him survey the situation while the thinning rain dampened his black, unkempt hair. His jeans were ripped at the knee, stained with oil on the thighs. The black shirt and leather jacket added to the image of sexy bad boy with a build for sin.

  And eyes, she thought as they met hers, that challenged a woman to commit one. More than one.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No.”

  He gave her a long look as if deciding for himself.“Your airbag didn’t deploy.”

  “I wasn’t going that fast. I didn’t hit anything. I avoided getting hit by a moron who swerved to avoid a dog, then kept coming at me. I had to cut toward the shoulder and—”

  “Where is he? The other driver?”

  “He just kept going. Who does that? How can anyone do that?”

  Saying nothing, he reached by her, pulled her bottle of water out of the cup holder. “Sit down. Drink some water.”

  “I’m okay. I’m just angry. I’m really, really angry.”

  He gave her a little poke, and she sat sideways on the front seat. “How’s your spare?”

  “It’s never been used. It’s new. I got all new tires last winter. Damn it.”

  “You’re going to need a couple new ones now.” He crouched for a moment so those sharp green eyes were level with hers.

  It took her a moment to realize the movement, and the matter-of-fact tone of his voice, were probably designed to keep her calm. Since it seemed to be working, she had to appreciate it.

  “We’ll match them with what you’ve got,” he continued. “I want to check the car out while I’m at it.”

  “Yes, fine, okay.” She drank, realizing her throat was raw. “Thanks. I’m just—”

  “Really, really angry,” he finished as he straightened. “I don’t blame you.”

  “And I’m going to be late. I hate being late. I’ve got a consult at home in, oh hell, twenty minutes. I need to call a cab.”

  “No, you don’t.” He looked back down the road at the approaching tow truck.

  “That was fast, you were fast. I didn’t expect . . .” She paused as her brain started to function again. “Were you out this way, on your bike?”

  “I am out this way, on my bike,” he corrected. “Since you called in for service due to being run off the road.You didn’t call the cops?”

  “I didn’t get the plate, or even the kind of car.” And that galled her. Just galled. “It happened so fast, and it was raining, and—”

  “And it would be a waste of time. Still, Bill’s going to take pictures and report it for you.”

  She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. “Okay. Thanks. Really, thank you. I guess I’m a little rattled.”

  “First time I’ve seen you that way. Hold on.”

  He walked to the truck, and while he spoke with his driver she sipped the water and ordered herself to settle down. Everything was fine, just fine.The driver would give her a ride home, and she wouldn’t even be late.Ten minutes home, five minutes to freshen up. She’d give the simple flat tire story after the consult.

  Everything was just fine.

  She looked up as Malcolm walked back and handed her a fire-engine red helmet. “You’ll need this.”

  “Why?”

  “Safety first, Legs.” He put it on her head himself and his grin edged ever so slightly toward smirk. “Cute.”

  “What?” Her eyes popped wide. “If you think I’m getting on that motorcycle—”

  “You want to make your meeting? Keep your rep as Ms. Prompt and Efficient? Rain’s stopped.You won’t even get wet.” Again he reached past her, but this time their bodies bumped. He pulled out again holding her purse. “You’ll want this. Let’s go.”

  “Can’t the driver—can’t he just drop me off ?”

  Mal strapped her purse to the bike, swung a leg over. “You’re not afraid to ride a bike, are you? And for what, about six miles?”

  “Of course I’m not afraid.”

  He put on his helmet, turned on the bike, gave the engine a couple of muscular revs. “Clock’s ticking.”

  “Oh for God’s—” She bit off the words, clipped her way to the bike in her heels, and, keeping her teeth gritted, managed to get a leg over the bike behind him. Her skirt hiked up high on her thighs.

  “Nice.”

  “Just shut up.”

  She felt rather than heard his laugh. “You ever ride a Harley, Legs?”

  “No.Why would I?”

  “Then you’re in for a treat.You’re going to want to hold on. To me,” he added after a beat.

  She put her hands lightly on either side of his waist.

  But when he revved the engine again—she knew damn well he did it on purpose—she swallowed pride and wrapped her arms around him.

  Why, she wondered, anyone would want to drive something so noisy, so dangerous, so—

  Then they were flying down the road, and the wind blew cool and balmy and gorgeous over every inch of her.

  Okay, a thrill, she admitted, and her heart skipped as he leaned into a turn. A terrifying sort of thrill. Like a roller coaster, which was another thing she could admit was exciting without being a necessary experience in a well-rounded life.

  The landscape whizzed by. She smelled the rain, the grass, the leather of his jacket, felt the throb of the bike between her legs.

  Sexual, she admitted. Add arousing to that terrifying thrill. Which was surely the reason people rode bikes.

  When he swung onto her drive, she had to resist flinging her arms up in the air to feel the wind give her palms a slapping high five.

  As he stopped in front of the house, Del came out.

  “Mal.”

  “Del.”

  “Parker, where’s your car?”

  “Oh, I had a flat just down the road. Mal came by. His tow truck driver’s fixing it. I have a consult.”

  Her brother cocked his head, and she saw the corner of his mouth twitch. “Parker.You rode on a motorcycle.”

  “So what?” She tried to ease off gracefully, but the heels and skirt added challenge.

  Mal simply swung off, then plucked her off like a package for delivery.

  “Thank you.Very much. I have to run or—”

  “You’ll be late.” He unstrapped her purse.“You probably don’t want to wear this.”

  He unclipped the helmet, took it off for her.

  “Thank you.”

  “You said that already. A few times.”

  “Well . . .” Uncharacteristically blank, she turned and hurried toward the house.

  She heard Del say, “Come on in and have a beer.”

  And tried not to wince when Mal drawled out a “Don’t mind if I do.”

  Mal followed Del inside, and caught a glimp
se of Parker charging up the stairs.The woman had legs, what he thought of as Hollywood legs.

  The rest of her partners—the cool blonde, the raven-haired beauty, the willowy redhead—stood in the doorway of what he supposed they called a parlor, all talking at once.

  They made a hell of a picture.

  “Flat tire,” Del said and kept walking.

  The Brown mansion had style, Mal thought, had class, had weight, and still managed to feel like a home instead of a museum. He figured that clicked on credit for those who lived there, and had lived there.

  Warm colors, art that drew the eye rather than baffled it, comfortable chairs, glossy tables, and flowers, flowers, and more flowers mixed together with that style, that class and weight.

  But he never felt as if he should keep his hands in his pockets for fear of getting a fingerprint on something.

  He’d been through most of the place—excluding Parker’s private wing (and wouldn’t it be interesting to change that?), and always felt comfortable. Still, the easiest and most welcoming area of the house remained Mrs. Grady’s kitchen.

  The woman herself turned from the stove where she stirred something that turned the air to heaven.

  “So, it’s Malcolm.”

  “How’re you doing, Mrs. Grady?”

  “Well enough.” She cocked a brow as Del took a couple beers from the refrigerator. “Take those outside. I don’t want you underfoot.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” both men said together.

  “I suppose you’ll be staying for dinner,” she said to Malcolm.

  “Are you asking?”

  “I will if Delaney’s forgotten his manners.”

  “He just got here,” Del muttered.

  “As the other boys have wheedled a meal after the consult, I can stretch things to one more. If he’s not picky.”

  “If you’re cooking it, Mrs. Grady, I’ll be grateful for even a single bite.”

  “You’ve a clever tongue, don’t you, boy?”

  “All the girls say so.”

  She let out a quick bark of a laugh, and tapped her spoon on the edge of a pot. “Outside, the pair of you.”

  Del opened the fridge, grabbed two more beers. He shoved three of the four on Mal, then flipped out his phone as they walked outside. “Jack. Mal’s here. Got beer. Get Carter.” He snapped the phone closed again.

  He still wore his suit, Mal noted, and though he’d taken off his tie, loosened his collar, he looked every inch the Yale-educated lawyer. He shared his sister’s coloring—thick, dense brown hair, misty blue eyes. Her features were smoother, softer, but anyone with working eyes would make them as siblings.

  Del sat, stretched out his legs. His manner tended to be more casual and a hell of a lot less prickly than his sister’s, which might have been why they’d become poker buddies, then friends.

  They popped the bottles, and as Malcolm took the first cold sip, his body relaxed for the first time since he’d picked up his tools twelve hours earlier.

  “What happened?” Del asked.

  “About?”

  “Don’t play me, Mal. Flat tire, my ass. If Parker’d had a flat, you’d have changed it—or she would have—and she wouldn’t have ridden home on your bike.”

  “She had a flat.” Malcolm took another pull on his beer. “In fact, she had two.They’re toast.” He shrugged. He wouldn’t lie to a friend.“From what she said, and how it looked when I got there, some asshole swerved to avoid a dog. Parker had to cut it hard to the shoulder to avoid getting creamed. Wet road, maybe a little overcompensating, she had herself a little spin, shot out the two left tires. Looked to me from the skid marks, the other driver was booking—she wasn’t. And he kept right on going.”

  “He left her there?” Outrage colored Del’s voice, blew across his face in a storm.“Son of a bitch. Did she get the plate, the make?”

  “She got nothing, and I can’t blame her. It must’ve happened at the peak of that quick squall, and she was busy trying to get control of her car. I’d say she did pretty well. Didn’t hit anything, didn’t even pop the airbag. She was shaken up, and she was pissed. And she was extra pissed thinking she’d be late for her meeting.”

  “But not hurt,” Del said, mostly to himself. “Okay.Where?”

  “About six miles out.”

  “Were you out this way, on your bike?”

  “No.” Damn third degree. “Look, Ma got the call, and she came out to tell me somebody ran Parker off the road, and she was stuck, so I rode out to check on her while Ma dispatched Bill.”

  “I appreciate that, Mal.” He glanced over as Mrs. Grady walked out, then set a bowl of pub mix and a plate of olives on the table. “Sop up some of that beer. Here come your boyfriends,” she added, nodding across the lawn as the dusk light flickered on.

  “You.” She poked Malcolm in the shoulder.“You can have one more beer, as we won’t be sitting down to dinner for another hour or more, then that’s it until you park that monster machine back at your own place.”

  “You and me could go out dancing first.”

  “Careful.” She twinkled at him. “I’ve got plenty of moves left in me.”

  She strolled back into the house, leaving Malcolm grinning. “Bet she does.” He tipped his beer toward Jack and Carter in greeting.

  “Here’s what the doctor ordered.” Jack Cooke, the golden-boy architect and Del’s college pal, opened a beer. The sturdy boots and jeans told Mal Jack had focused on site work rather than office work that day.

  He made a contrast with Carter’s oxford shirt and khakis. Carter’s reading glasses poked out of his shirt pocket and had Malcolm imagining him sitting up in his new study grading papers with his Professor Maguire tweed jacket neatly hung in the closet.

  He figured they made a motley crew—if he had the meaning right—with Del in his slick Italian suit, Jack and his work boots, Carter in his teacher’s khakis, and himself . . .

  Well, hell, if he’d known he’d get invited to dinner, he’d have changed his pants.

  Probably.

  Jack grabbed a handful of pub mix. “What’s up?”

  “Somebody ran Parker off the road. Mal came to the rescue.”

  “Is she okay?” Carter set his beer down quickly without drinking. “Is she hurt?”

  “She’s fine,” Malcolm said.“Couple shredded tires. No big.And I get a couple of beers and dinner out of it. Pretty good deal.”

  “He talked Parker onto the bike.”

  Jack snorted, glanced from Del to Mal. “You’re not kidding?”

  “Lesser of two evils.” Amused now, Malcolm popped an olive.

  “My bike or being late for her meeting. Anyway . . .” He popped another olive. “I think she liked it. I’ll have to take her on a real ride.”

  “Right.” Del let out a half laugh. “Good luck with that.”

  “You don’t think I can get her back on the bike?”

  “Parker’s not what you’d call your Motorcycle Mama.”

  “Careful what you say about my ma.” Mal considered as he sipped his beer.“I’ve got a hundred that says I can get her back on within two weeks for a solid hour.”

  “If you throw away your money like that, I’ll have to keep buying your beer.”

  “I’ll take your money,” Jack said, and dug into the pub mix. “I have no scruples about taking your money.”

  “Bet.” Malcolm shook on it with Jack. “Still open to you,” he told Del.

  “Fine.”As they shook, Del glanced at Carter.“Do you want in?”

  “No, I don’t think . . . Well, actually, I guess I’ll put mine on Malcolm.”

  Malcolm gave Carter a considering stare. “Maybe you are as smart as you look.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  IN MALCOLM’S EXPERIENCE, MOST PEOPLE DIDN’T SIT DOWN TO A meal of honey-glazed ham, roasted potatoes and baby carrots, and delicately grilled asparagus on your typical Tuesday. And they probably didn’t chow down with candlelight, flowers, and wine sparklin
g in crystal glasses.

  Then again, the Brown household wasn’t most people.

  He’d have skipped the fancy French wine even without Mrs. Grady’s baleful eye. He’d long ago grown out of the stage where he’d knock them back before climbing on his bike.

  He’d had vague plans to go home, sweat off the long day with a workout, grab a shower, slap something between a couple slices of bread, pop a brew, and zone awhile in front of the tube.

  He’d’ve been fine with that.

  But he had to admit this was better.

  Not just the food—though, Jesus, Mrs. Grady could cook— but the place, the whole ball of wax. Pretty women, men he liked, the amazing Mrs. Grady.

  And, particularly, the always intriguing Parker Brown.

  She had a face for candlelight, he supposed. Elegant but not cold, unless she wanted it to be. Sexy, but subtle, like a hint of lace under a starched shirt.

  Then there was that voice—low register, a wisp of smoke, but changeable as the weather from brisk to prim from warm to ice. She got things done with those tones. Knew, he decided, just how to use them.

  She’d had to relate the full story of her near miss, and used the casual notes with hints of temper. If he hadn’t seen her himself directly after the incident, he might have bought her pretense that she’d never been in any real danger, and was only annoyed with her own overreaction and the other driver’s carelessness.

  Even with the act, the others smothered her with concern, peppered her with more questions, slung outrage at the other driver. And dumped gratitude on him until he felt buried in it.

  He figured he and Parker hit about the same level of relief when the topic shifted.

  He liked listening to them, all of them. Group—or he supposed more like family—dinner ran long, ran loud, and involved a whole hell of a lot of cross talk.That was fine with Mal. It meant he didn’t have to say much himself, and to his way of thinking you learned more about people when you let them take the wheel.

  “What are you going to do with your pool table?” Jack asked Del.

  “I haven’t decided.”