"Hey, you're lookin' kinda green, Mel Gibson. What's up?"
With as much dignity as she could muster, Melanie walked over to him. So she'd lied. So what? Lying wasn't a crime. Well, in certain cases it was, but since this wasn’t a grand jury/Congressional hearing situation, she was going with it wasn’t a crime. She halted next to the motorcycle. Holy smokes. He looked totally sexy sitting astride all that steel and chrome. She almost swallowed her tongue.
"I'm not green," she reported in her haughtiest, queen of England voice. "I simply don't want to ride on that… thing."
He raised his brows. "Why not?"
"I'll, uh, get helmet hair. Bugs in my teeth. A sore butt. Besides, I try to avoid things with a negative fun/risk ratio. You know, three minutes on a motorcycle, eight months in the hospital."
His smile grew broader. "Chicken."
Melanie drew herself up. "I am not chicken."
He leaned forward until they were nose-to-nose. "Then prove it, Miss I-don't-want-a-boring-accountant-I-want-a-motorcycle-kind-of-guy. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe your exact words were 'My motto is: it's either motorcycle guys or no guys.' "
She shot him a dirty look. "Hasn't anybody ever told you it's impolite to throw people's words back at them? You might piss someone off."
"Hasn't anybody ever told you to be careful what you wish for because you might just get it?"
Yeah, she'd heard it. Blah, blah, blah. She'd always hoped it would apply to winning the lottery. She made one last desperate attempt to save herself. "Nana would be worried sick if she knew I was on that… thing."
“Bull. Ten bucks says Nana would love to go for ride on this 'thing.' "
Darn it, he was right. A lump of real fear lodged in Melanie's throat. She'd never even been close to a motorcycle before. No doors, no seat belts, no nothin'. It gave her the willies.
"Look," she said, giving up all pretenses at bravery. "I lied. I don't want a motorcycle guy. Wind in my hair gives me split ends and I'm allergic to asphalt." She swallowed the rest of her pride. "I just can't get on that thing. I'm not ready to die. There are too many things I still want to do."
He leaned his forearms on the handlebars and regarded her with interest. "Such as?"
"Such as… go canoeing. Play in a tennis tournament. Teach a cooking class. Try a martini. Bake the chocolate cake I found the recipe for in yesterday's newspaper. Skinny-dip. Lots of stuff."
"Great. I'll help you with five out of six. Let's go."
"Five out of six?"
"I'll take you canoeing, be your partner in a tennis match, and you can teach me how to cook something. I make a great martini and," his grin turned wolfish, "I'll arrange for the skinny-dipping any time you say. You're on your own with the cake."
Melanie couldn't smother her laughter. She shook her finger at him. "If Nana knew how you were talking to me, she'd take a rolling pin to you."
"Good. We'll use it to make your cake. Now I'm six for six." He held out his hand. "C'mon, Melanie. Climb on. Take a chance. Do something wild."
"Hey, I do plenty of wild things. Lots of 'em. Wild is my middle name."
He crossed his arms over his chest and regarded her with amusement. "Oh, really? What's the last wild thing you did?"
She shuffled her feet. "Uh, well, yesterday I handwashed a rayon shirt that said dry clean only."
He hooted out a laugh. "Oh, yeah, you’re a real daredevil."
"Ha, ha, ha. I once put bubble bath in the Jacuzzi-- "
"Now that's more like it."
She sent him a withering look. "I was twelve."
He made a tsking sound and shook his head. "That's pathetic. Absolutely pitiful. Boy, are you lucky I came along to save your sorry butt."
"It's my sorry butt I'm attempting to save by not getting on that thing."
A warm, teasing, utterly sexy expression entered his eyes. Melanie felt the pull of that look and groaned. "Don't look at me like that," she protested, knowing she was going down for the third time with no lifeboat in sight. "Time out. No fair."
"C'mon, Mel. Ride with me." He leaned forward and brushed his mouth over hers. Their helmets bumped. "I promise you'll like it."
Riding on a Harley with the sexiest guy east of the Rockies, arms wrapped around him, pressed into his body? She'd probably like it no end. That was exactly what she was afraid of. And if the motorcycle didn't kill her, the overdose of potent male sexuality no doubt would. She took a deep breath.
Oh, well. What the heck. Everybody's gotta go sometime.
CHAPTER NINE
Fifteen minutes later the sun was just slipping beneath the horizon, bathing the sky with a palette of pinks and oranges. Chris cruised the Harley down the road, feeling the tension of the past several hectic weeks ease from his body and mind. There was nothing like a motorcycle ride on gorgeous summer evening to relax him.
And there was nothing like a curvy female body pressed against his back, hugging his waist, to remind him that not every part of his body was relaxed.
"You okay back there?" he shouted.
He felt her helmet unjam itself from between his shoulder blades and knew she'd finally lifted her head.
"Prop your chin on my shoulder," he urged. "I promise you'll love it."
It took her a minute, but she finally settled her chin on his shoulder.
"I don't have to open my eyes, do I?" she yelled.
"If you don't, you'll miss the most beautiful sunset you've ever seen," he yelled back.
They drove on in silence, along a tree-lined, winding road that ran parallel to the Chattahoochee River. Chris smiled when he felt her rigid body slowly relax, loosening the death grip she had around his waist. By the time he parked in front of his condo, he suspected she'd changed her mind about motorcycles.
After turning off the ignition he looked behind him. "Well?"
She pulled off her helmet and shook her head, spreading a flurry of curls that settled like a halo around her face. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed pink.
"That was awesome," she said, laughing. "Incredible."
He grinned. "I hate to say I told you so… "
"Oh, go ahead and say it. You were right, I was wrong. You're a big macho motorcycle hunk and I was a wuss." She swung her leg around and slid off, then practically danced around the bike in her excitement. "What a feeling. Like flying. Like nothing I've ever done before."
"Glad you liked it."
"Yes, sir," she enthused, patting the Harley, "I've gotta get me one of these babies." She looked at him and asked in a dead-serious tone, "How do you think I'd look in one of those black leather biker-chick outfits?"
The thought of her dressed in black leather gave him palpitations and made his knees sweat. He removed his helmet and hung it by its strap on the handlebars. "Come here."
Her eyes narrowed and a knowing, provocative, totally sexy smile curved her lips. She sauntered over to him, hips swaying. It was all he could do to remember to breath. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.
She stopped when she stood directly in front of him. Reaching out, she walked her fingers up the front of his shirt. "You'd better not be thinking about trying anything funny, big boy," she whispered in a husky drawl that tightened his groin and raised his temperature ten degrees. "I'm a real badass, bitchin', Harley babe now."
"Oh, yeah? Prove it."
"All right." She gracefully swung her leg over and straddled the leather seat facing him. Then she looped her arms around his neck and wrapped her long legs around his waist. "How's this?"
Chris hoped his tongue wasn't hanging out. It took every ounce of his rapidly deteriorating concentration to keep his feet planted on the ground so the Harley didn't keel over.
She leaned forward and gently nipped the side of his neck with her teeth. "Am I doing okay?"
A shaky laugh escaped him. "Yeah. You're a real badass." His skin suddenly felt too tight. Like it had shrunk a couple of sizes in the last two minutes. Hauling her up even tig
hter against him, he said, "I hope you know CPR."
Her tongue flicked out and brushed his earlobe. His eyes glazed over.
"CPR?" she whispered. "Why's that?"
"Because I'm about to have a heart attack.” Fisting his hand in her hair, he dragged her mouth to meet his in a kiss that left him shaking.
He didn't know why this woman affected him the way she did, but he was apparently helpless to stop it. He hadn't wanted this, hadn’t been looking for it, but this was the hand he'd been dealt, and by God he was going to play it.
His palm settled on her the small of her back, urging her closer, deepening their kiss, mating his tongue with hers. She tasted like sugar and cinnamon and smelled like flowers, a combination that made his head spin. He untangled his hand from her hair and cupped the soft fullness of her breast.
A tiny kernel of sense penetrated the steamy haze of passion engulfing him, reminding him they were in the parking lot. With an effort that damn near killed him, he ended the kiss. Leaned his forehead against hers. Fought to catch his breath. His heart pounded so hard he wondered if he really was having a heart attack. Thank God it was nearly dark and no one was around. He was in no condition to make apologies to his neighbors or give explanations to an arresting officer. He had to get off this bike, out of this parking lot, and into the privacy of his condo before he exploded. He was so hard he didn't know if he'd ever be able to walk again.
When he lifted his head, he groaned at the sight of her. She looked dazed and aroused and sexy as hell. Her hair was a mess thanks to a combination of the helmet and his plundering hands. Her lips were moist and swollen from his kisses. A reddish abrasion marked her neck where his stubble had rubbed her.
The tip of her tongue peeked out to wet her lips. "Wow," she whispered. She eased herself away from him and slid off the bike on legs that were clearly unsteady. Chris made no move to stop her. Indeed, he decided it was best that she move away from him before he simply let nature take its course right in the parking lot.
Drawing a deep breath, he gripped the handlebars and forced himself to calm down. Whatever had just possessed him, he was pleading temporary insanity. At the moment he wasn't sure if he wanted to drag her off somewhere private and make love to her until they both passed out, or run away from her and whatever potent spell she'd cast on him as fast as his shaky legs could carry him.
Havoc. That's what this woman wreaked. Havoc. With his senses, his mind, his body. He'd only met her a week ago, and his life was turned upside down. A week ago he'd wanted nothing more than his bachelor freedom. Now he wanted Melanie. And nothing else.
She touched his arm. "You're a million miles away. You okay?”
He tried to smile and failed. He wanted to say he was fine, but that would have been an outright lie.
"To be perfectly honest," he said, plunging unsteady fingers through his hair, "I'm a bit shaken."
"I know what you mean." She wrapped her arms around herself. He knew she couldn't be cold. It had to be two hundred degrees outside. "I’m glad you had the presence of mind to stop. Time and place and all that jazz.”
“Yeah, well, it damn near killed me. But I figured if the bike fell on us that would hurt more. And, as you said, time and place.”
She nodded. “Right. And speaking of place… " Her words trailed off and she frowned. "Where are we?"
"My place." Feeling once again in control, he locked the bike, set the kickstand then swung his leg over the leather seat. "I hope you're hungry." At her blank stare he added, "I'm making dinner."
"You're cooking me dinner?"
He snagged her hand and led her toward his front door. "That a problem?"
He actually heard her gulp. Good to know she wasn't calm while he was like Elvis-- all shook up.
"No problem," she said. "I'm just surprised. What's on the menu?"
"Steak, potatoes, salad. Real bachelor-guy stuff."
"I thought bachelor-guy stuff was moldy bologna, stale potato chips, and beer."
"That was last night. Tonight, we feast." He unlocked his door and pushed it open with a flourish. "Welcome to my humble abode. I haven't had much time or inclination to decorate, but all the essentials are covered."
"Essentials?" she asked, craning her neck as she stepped into the foyer.
"Beer in the fridge, towels in the bathroom, gym equipment in the dining room, electronics and recliner in the den." He led her into the den and indicated a tan leather sectional. "Make yourself at home. That's the most comfortable sofa on earth. I'll get us some drinks and fire up the grill. Be right back." Before heading into the kitchen, he flicked on the stereo. The smooth sounds of Jason Mraz played softly through the speakers.
Melanie took advantage of his absence to look around. The room was spacious, with one wall dominated by a stone fireplace and another with a series of sliding doors that led onto a roomy deck. Soft track lighting highlighted the gleaming hardwood floors. She wandered past a whitewashed oak entertainment center chock full of sleek, complicated-looking stereo equipment and a huge flat screen TV. Built-in bookcases flanked the fireplace, and Melanie perused his selection of books. Lots of accounting texts. The latest Grisham novel alongside a pictorial history of New York City. Several volumes concerning cars and motorcycles, and, most surprising, a book of poetry.
Several framed photos of his family sat on the shelves. One photo in particular caught her attention. She picked it up and studied a teenage Chris standing next to a very handsome man who looked exactly like him. They grinned identical smiles into the camera.
"That's my dad," he said, entering the room. He set two drinks down on the glass coffee table. "It's my favorite picture. My mom took it just a week before he died."
Melanie’s heart squeezed at the sad look in his eyes as he gazed at the photo. "I'm sorry."
His face cleared and a half smile touched his lips. "Yeah. Me, too. He was a great guy."
After she set the photo back on the shelf, Chris led her to the sofa. Once they were seated he handed her a drink.
She sniffed it and her eyes fogged up. "Yikes. What is this?"
"It's the best vodka martini you'll ever have."
"Martini?"
"I seem to recall you saying you wanted to have one before you died."
"This may come as a shock to you, but I'm not planning to kick the bucket anytime soon."
"No time like the present," he said, clinking the edge of his skinny, triangular-shaped glass to hers. "Try it."
She took a tentative sip. The alcohol was icy cold and powerfully potent.
"Well?" he asked.
"I like it. I imagine it’s what freezing-cold lighter fluid tastes like.”
He laughed. "You can no longer say you've never tried a martini." He leaned back and stretched out his Levis-clad legs. “I thought we'd start on the other stuff tomorrow."
"What other stuff?"
"Canoeing. Tennis. Cooking lessons. Baking." He shot her an exaggerated leer. "Skinny-dipping."
"Whoa," she said, alarmed by the hormonal chaos his words started. Skinny-dipping meant Chris naked, and she'd already vowed not to say those two words in the same sentence. The mere thought of him naked made her toss back a hefty swig of her drink. "Those are lifetime goals. If I knock them all off in one weekend, what will I have to live for?"
He leaned forward and dropped a warm, teasing, heart-accelerating kiss on her lips. "I'm sure we can come up with something.”
Before Melanie could jolt her vocal chords into replying, he stood and said, "The steaks need to go on the grill. Wanna join me?"
"Sure." She followed him into the kitchen, and raised her brows. This was definitely not the month-old-linguine-encrusted room she'd envisioned. Cherry wood cabinets complimented the maroon-veined, cream granite countertop and terra-cotta ceramic tile floor. A round, glass-top table took up the corner eating nook, and sliding doors led to the deck, where a gas grill gleamed in the moonlight.
"Very nice," Melanie remarked, tu
rning around in a circle. "Very manly. And clean, too. I like it.”
"Thanks. It’s a lot cleaner since Mark moved out. He could wreck a room in ten seconds flat.”
Melanie nodded, imagining that living with a college-aged sibling hadn’t equaled Neatness All Around. “What can I do to help?”
“Table needs to be set.”
“I’m on it.”
“Dishes are in the upper left cabinet. I'll get the steaks."
Melanie gathered plates and cutlery, all the while sneaking peeks of Chris manning the grill. Good grief, the man looked all kinds of yummy wielding tongs and turning foil-wrapped potatoes. So good she completely lost track of what she was doing and missed the table when she set down a knife. It fell to the floor with a loud clatter.
“Everything okay in there?” Chris called through the screen door.
“Yup.” Except that you’re the Most Distracting Man on the Planet. Jeez-- that knife could have amputated her toe. He was distracting and a foot hazard.
Twenty minutes later Melanie sat across from him in the breakfast nook. When she eyed her steak with trepidation, Chris laughed. "You're not about to be poisoned," he promised. "Steak is the only thing I know how to cook, and after lots of practice, I'm good at it."
Melanie sampled a bite, then smiled. "This is excellent."
"Coming from a gourmet cook, I'm flattered, but the note of surprise in your voice is a bit deflating."
"I'm not surprised. Well, maybe a little," she conceded. "I guess I had a stereotypical view of bachelors-- can't cook, live in green fungus-filled squalor, spray Lysol on dirty clothes rather than do the laundry." She waved her fork around. "I must admit, I'm impressed."
"Wait 'til you taste dessert."
Melanie looked at him and almost choked on her potato. She wasn't sure what dessert was, but based on that I-wanna-gobble-you-up look in his eyes, she had a feeling it was going to involve more than a simple slice of pie. And that she would love it. She gulped down the rest of her drink and held out her glass for another.
After dinner they sat on the deck, sharing a cushiony blue-and-white striped patio loveseat. Melanie leaned her head back and sipped her third martini. By the time she was halfway finished with it she realized that those suckers tasted pretty damn good-- in fact, they were the most delicious thing she'd ever tasted.
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