Beauty & the Biker

by Beth Ciotta

  He snagged her elbow. “If this is about that poker game. About my debt—”

  “It’s about Rootin’ Tootin’ Funland, Dad.” The words came easily because they weren’t a lie. A half-truth, yes, but not a lie. “I’m hoping to convince Mr. Savage to revitalize the park. Imagine what it would mean for the local kids. Imagine what it would mean for Nowhere.”

  “Savage isn’t anything like Mike, Peaches.”

  “I don’t need him to be like Mike. I just need him to have a heart.”

  Archie rubbed the back of his neck, frowned. “That boy’s got demons, Bella.”

  She’d sensed the same thing. “That doesn’t make him a bad man.”

  “Can’t blame me for worrying.”

  “I love you for worrying, but don’t.”

  “Near as I can tell,” he said, while she looped her bag crisscross over her chest, “you worry about me every second of the day.”

  Her actions slowed along with her pulse. “Maybe we should both stop worrying,” she said while chancing his narrowed gaze. “And start embracing new adventures.”

  He poked his tongue in his cheek, nodded. “Maybe so.”

  It was as close to a heart-to-heart as they were going to have about the permanent absence of Laura Mooney. At least at this stage of their acceptance. Choked up, Bella smacked a kiss to her dad’s cheek, nabbed her bag, and zipped out the door.

  She envisioned her mom smiling which only put more pep in her stride. Energized, Bella snagged her bike from the garage and hit the pavement, pedaling hard and fast down Eagle Butte Road. Not a car in sight. Just a long stretch of asphalt and miles of rural beauty. She tipped her face to the sun, relishing the warmth and welcoming the exercise. Nothing like racing into the wind to alleviate stress and heighten the senses. Time blurred as she pedaled and mused on possible scenarios.

  Savage as a tortured artist. A recluse who toiled over impressionist oil paintings.

  Savage as a frustrated artist. A man who’d suffered paralyzing rejection because his sketches were too fantastical.

  Perhaps he’d lost or abandoned his creative muse. What if Bella could provide the inspiration that reignited his artistic passion?

  What if he could infuse Bella’s stories with bewitching zing via unique and powerful illustrations?

  Words from her original fairy tales floated through her brain. Castle. Unicorn. Wizard. Images materialized. Colorful. Whimsical.

  She was all smiles and high hopes as she veered off the main road onto the lane that led to the front gate of her potential dream partner’s home.

  But then the turn went wrong.

  The bike slid one way and Bella flew the other—airborne for the blink of an eye then hitting and skidding over gravel.

  She lay there, stunned and breathless, her palms stinging, knees throbbing.

  Get up. Buck up.

  “Jesus, Bella.”

  Tender voice. Gentle pressure. Someone—Savage—rolled her into his arms. The world tilted a second time as she blinked up into his dark eyes. Eyes swimming with concern. In that moment she tapped into the essence of Joe Savage. The man beneath the tough veneer. A good man. A caring man. She sensed it with every fiber of her aching body.

  “Where do you hurt?”

  “Everywhere.” She’d yet to catch her breath. First the heart-stopping crash. Now the heart-pounding embrace. Okay. Not technically an embrace, not the affectionate kind. But he was holding her and it felt…wonderful.

  Bliss and pain warred.

  Mortification stirred.

  “I can’t remember the last time I fell off my bike.”

  “You didn’t fall. You wiped out.”

  Her cheeks burned. “You saw?”

  “Where’s your helmet?” he asked while reaching into his pocket.

  “Who wears a helmet for a leisurely country ride?”

  “Anyone who wants to prevent serious head injury as a result of an accident.” Frowning, he pressed a folded bandana to her brow. “Your forehead’s bleeding.”

  “So are my hands.” Bella studied her scraped and purpling palms and suddenly the pain overrode the wonder of being cradled on Savage’s lap. Had she hindered her ability to type? As if being creatively blocked wasn’t bad enough. Tears welled as the throbbing intensified.

  Swearing under his breath, he gently nabbed her fingers. “Hold the compress,” he said while sweeping her up and away.

  “I can walk.”

  “Humor me.”

  As much as she wanted to wilt against his strong body, Bella held herself rigid. She didn’t want him thinking she was fragile. She also didn’t want to get blood on his shirt. A shirt that hugged his torso in all the right places. Not that she noticed. Okay. Maybe a little. And, boy, did he smell good. Like he’d just showered. Had he freshened up just for her?

  Get a grip, Bella.

  She didn’t think she had a concussion, but it was possible. She was having some pretty wacky thoughts. Like taking advantage of her proximity to Savage’s mouth.

  Cannot verify magical kisser

  Bella would be able to.

  “I have a first aid kit in my studio.”

  Studio? As in art studio?

  Her pulse raced as he veered away from the house and into the pole barn. Mike had used the facility as a massive storage shed. Savage had cleared away most of the junk and clutter. She noted neatly stocked shelves and a workbench. Cans and tools, not canvases and brushes. Regardless, she caught a whiff of toxic paint.

  Hope and excitement flared as he carried her across the cavernous space.

  His motorcycle was parked in the corner. A car was parked in the middle. An older car. A collectable. She spied a box lined with a fleece blanket. A couple of ceramic bowls—one filled with water, the other with dried pet food. Comforts for his cat? More evidence that the hard man had a soft heart. She looked to the west wall and—bam—her heart slammed against her ribs. Sketches. Various sized sketches pinned to a mobile bulletin board. She couldn’t make out details, but even from this distance she could tell they were intricate.

  Savage set her on her feet alongside a wash basin. “You good?”

  “Great,” she said, even though her knees wobbled. She didn’t know if it was from the fall or because she was on the threshold of something magical.

  He turned the spigot, guided her hands beneath the rush of cold water. “Cleanse the road rash,” he said while relieving her of the kerchief. “I’ll take care of your head.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “Not bad. But head wounds bleed like a mother.”

  “Have a lot of experience with cuts and bruises?”

  “And worse.”

  “Are you a soldier?”

  “No.”

  “A medic?”

  “No.”

  “Member of a motorcycle gang? They get into a lot of tussles. Knives and guns and fists. There was this brawl in the Coyote Club last year—”

  “This would go faster if you’d be still.”

  She was fidgeting and rambling. His evasiveness didn’t help. She’d never known someone so secretive. She’d never understood the lone wolf mentality. Had he always been this way or had something pushed him toward this solitary existence? She’d never been the nosey sort, certainly not a meddler, but Bella couldn’t curb the need to pry. “So what do you do? For money? For fun?”

  “Let me see your hands.”

  He’d already medicated and dressed her head wound. Wow. He was fast. “They’re not so bad either,” she said, her skin tingling as he held her wrists and inspected the damage. She stared at his bowed head, breathing in the scent of soap and shampoo. Scents that inspired racy, heady images.

  Pounding water.

  Glistening muscles.

  Shower.

  Steam.

  Savage.

  Naked.

  She’d never fantasized about Carson like this. Ever.

  “It could have been worse. By the way,” Savage said. �
��That’s twice that you’ve fallen on my property.”

  She blinked, blushed. “Oh. Right. I slipped while climbing your fence. Ow.” Peroxide sizzled and bubbled as he poured a generous amount over her broken skin.

  “Don’t be a baby.”

  Don’t be a jerk, she wanted to say, but didn’t. Nope. She’d battle his rudeness with kindness. Break through his walls with patience. If Bella could withstand the tantrums of the occasional unruly child, she could best this grown man’s perpetual surliness. Instead she said, “It stings.”

  “Good. Next time take the turn slower and wear a damned helmet.”

  “You’re annoyed because I hurt myself. That’s sweet.”

  He glanced up from his work, his expression anything but sweet.

  Smiling, Bella pressed on. “Those sketches over there,” she ventured as he applied antibiotic cream. “Are they yours? Are you an artist or something?”

  “Or something.”

  Her heart stopped then raced then, good Lord, bounced. According to Impossible Dream, Joe Savage—this veritable stranger, this intensely gorgeous and mystifying man—was not only her dream partner, but her ideal lover. Was it really, truly possible?

  One way to know for sure.

  “Are you married, Savage?”

  “No.”

  “Committed?”

  “No.”

  “Are you attracted to me even a little? This isn’t a come on, by the way, but if you’re not attracted, I won’t bother asking my favor, because it would be doomed to failure, so why bother?”

  “What’s the favor?”

  “It’s going to sound weird. It is weird. But it’s important. To me.”

  He met her gaze while doctoring her second hand.

  Admitting she’d applied to ID.com for a Dream Partner-slash-Prince Charming and that the site had suggested him as her perfect match, might scare him off. How had they targeted him as a suitable prospect? Didn’t matchmaking services typically introduce potential partners through email or at least by mutual consent? Then again, she reminded herself, this wasn’t a dating service. Still.

  Not to mention there was the matter of her overall dream. Looking to connect professionally was one thing, but the happily-ever-after thing… Savage was not a hearts and flowers, “we-were-fated-to-be” kind of man. Instead, Bella appealed to his alpha-mentality, citing a seed of worry that had recently grown.

  “There’s this guy,” she blurted. “My ex. He’s persistent and persuasive and…never mind.”

  “What’s the favor, Bella?”

  “Would you kiss me?”

  His actions stilled. “Why?”

  “When someone asks you a favor it’s impolite to ask why.”

  “Get your kicks out of kissing heartless monsters?”

  “What? Oh. No.” Her conscience kicked. “I was angry when I called you that. Plus, I didn’t know you then.”

  “You don’t know me now.”

  “I know there’s kindness under all that gruff. Look how you tended my injuries.” This bold pursuit was so unlike her. Regardless, she pressed. “So will you kiss me?”

  He studied her hard as if assessing her mental stability. To be expected she supposed. He’d probably pegged her as the stereotypical buttoned-up librarian and here she was asking—practically begging—to be kissed. But then she saw it. A flicker of curiosity. She told herself to breathe.

  “If you’re using me to make this guy jealous.”

  “God, no.”

  “Or angry—”

  “Here’s the deal,” she said, bursting with anticipation. Is he or is he not a magical kisser? Because if he was, that was her sign. “Carson—that’s my ex, except he hasn’t accepted that fact—thinks he’s perfect for me.”

  “What do you think?”

  She didn’t want to detail her history with Carson. Admitting the reasons behind her poor judgment and bemoaning his manipulative pursuit were too personal. She’d glossed over the emotional aspects with her closest friends. Why in God’s name would she share them with a stranger?

  Oddly enough, she didn’t feel the same when it came to citing their less than magical physical relations. Which only affirmed how impersonal those relations were. Her cheeks burned, but the words flowed.

  “Carson doesn’t inspire earthquakes and fireworks, if you catch my drift. Then again no one ever has. Not that there’ve been that many,” she added. “I need to know it’s not me. That I’m not, I don’t know, broken somehow. That I’m not expecting too much. That there’s…hope. Don’t get a swelled head or any kinky thoughts, but I think you’re gorgeous—in a menacing kind of way—and fascinating. Like a tortured hero in a gothic novel. You make my insides squishy. That’s a first. In real life anyway—as opposed to going all soft for a fictional guy in film or literature. If you can’t shake my world then, well…maybe I should settle for Carson.”

  “Are you done?”

  Blushing profusely, Bella shied away. So much for derring-do.

  Savage caught her elbow and pulled her close. “Don’t get a swelled head or any kinky ideas, but I think you’re beautiful—in an irritating angelic way.” He stroked her cheek then threaded his hands through her hair. “How old are you anyway?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “You seem younger.”

  “How old are you?” she asked.

  “Thirty-five.”

  “You seem older.”

  His mouth crooked, implying a sense of humor. Ideal quality #1. “Do you want the earth to tilt?” he asked. “Or spin?”

  It was the kind of arrogance Carson flaunted every day. Only Bella suspected Savage would make good on his offer. “You can do that?”

  He held her gaze, weaving a seductive spell with spine-tingling silence.

  “Spin, please,” she managed before the universe shimmied and glittered.

  His embrace was tender yet possessive. His mouth soft and teasing then hard and demanding. This kiss… This. Kiss. Was overwhelming. All consuming. It buzzed through her body, head to toe, heart to soul.

  Lost.

  In a magical kiss.

  Bewitched.

  Forever and always.

  She curled her fingers into his shoulders, his hair. Holding tight as the world spun off its axis.

  She responded to his touch, his heat, his need.

  She pressed against his body. Wanting more. Needing more.

  His desire was evident and pushed Bella over the edge. She imploded, trembling with an aftermath of erotic sensations.

  Orgasmic nirvana.

  Compliments of a kiss.

  Savage’s kiss.

  “You’re not broken.”

  His words cut through her sensual haze. Bella grappled for reality and balance. Heat suffused her cheeks as she bolstered her noodly limbs and met his intoxicating gaze. Assaulted by physical yearning and a riot of emotions, she could scarcely breathe. “Good. Great. Thank you.”

  She backed out of his lethal embrace, willed dignity, and channeled the Inseparables. Any one of her friends was worldlier than her. Try as she might Bella couldn’t manage casual. Not when her heart and head pounded with a united thought.

  He’s the one.

  After months of sadness and unrest, in the midst of multiple personal trials, something good was happening. Unexpected and magical and charmingly improbable.

  Savage dragged his hands over his face, through his hair. He looked sinfully handsome, dark and dangerous, and absolutely miserable.

  Probably because her heart was in her eyes.

  “I’ll taint your world,” he said.

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  Chapter Nine

  Joe could pinpoint the moment of no return. The moment he’d succumbed to Bella Mooney’s spell. It wasn’t the kiss—although that had sealed the deal. No, it was the sight of her pedaling toward Funland on a banana yellow bicycle. The bike looked vintage—nothing fancy—and Bella had also harkened to days gone by, wearing faded
overalls and those screaming red gym shoes, her golden curls blowing wild in the wind. He’d felt the sun on her face and the joy in her heart as she raced along the open road.

  Warmth had spread through his ice cold being but then she’d made that fateful turn, taken that ugly spill. Time stilled, along with his pulse. Once he’d determined she wasn’t dead or seriously injured he wanted to shake her for being so reckless. Relief turned to anger then to frustration then to an overwhelming desire to kiss away her pain. To hold her close. To protect and cherish. That’s when he’d acknowledged the fall. His fall.

  The fiery possessiveness that surged and raged while they’d kissed only verified the depth of his irrational all-consuming attraction. Dangerous for Bella, a lamb in a lion’s den who didn’t have the sense to run.

  He’d warned her and she’d egged him on.

  I’ll take my chances.

  One kiss. She was ready to explore their chemistry after one freaking kiss. The hell of it was, so was Joe. He didn’t bother lying to himself. The attraction wasn’t based purely on sex. Complicated for him. Risky for her. He was scarred, cynical, and volatile. He was wrong for her, bad for her, but he wouldn’t refuse what he’d tasted in that kiss, what he’d seen in her eyes.

  A chance to vanquish the darkness that had seeped into his soul.

  A slice of his impossible dream.

  Not that he believed the bull that company shoveled, but he was desperate enough to embrace the notion of old-fashioned good luck.

  Now that they’d acknowledged the attraction, Bella turned skittish. “This is awkward,” she said.

  “I would have pegged you for the type who believes in love at first sight.”

  “Not that. Not us. I mean…” She flushed a charming shade of pink. “You think this is love?”

  “I think it’s lust. With variables. So what’s awkward?”

  “What? Oh.” She tore her gaze from his mouth.

  Joe muted his roaring urges.

  “The circumstances,” she said. “Our deal. I came here tonight to help with renovations.” She studied her bandaged hands. “I’m not sure I can manage a hammer or sander.”

  “It’s not an issue.”

  “But I owe you—”

  “You don’t owe me anything. Archie mowed my yard, trimmed hedges, tended flowerbeds. We’re square.” Joe folded his arms, angled his head. “Don’t you two talk?”