by Cox, Suzanne
The waitress placed Emalea’s hamburger and French fries on the table. Grabbing the ketchup, she began shaking a large puddle onto her plate.
Not willing to be thwarted yet, Lana leaned closer. “You have to admit this guy has potential.”
The ketchup bottle banged as Emalea set it back on the table.
“Potential for what? To be arrested in the next five minutes?”
“Come on, Em, he’s practically sizzling.”
Emalea peered at the man. Jeans hugged massive thighs and a rear that could have been carved from stone. A well-trimmed goatee surrounded lips that weren’t too full, weren’t too thin, but were, well, inviting. The black bandanna tied around his head gave him a roguish pirate appeal. She shook her head, not a pirate—an ex-con or a mafioso hit man.
She squinted at Lana. “Are we talking about the same person? Lana, the guy’s a thug.” Best not to give Lana any ammunition by agreeing the man could be model material.
Lana picked up a fry, chewing thoughtfully. “You’re covering.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re covering. You think the guy’s attractive. I mean, who wouldn’t? So you’re pretending not to be interested.”
With a quick shake, Emalea dumped hot sauce into her ketchup and stirred the concoction with a fry. “Could we please move on?”
Lana grinned. “Whatever.”
Biting into her hamburger, Emalea ignored Lana. What else could she do? Her friend seldom let things go easily. Especially when it concerned Emalea and a man.
Muscles bunched under the tight, dark T-shirt. She shivered, realizing she had been staring at the thug again. It would be better for her to think of him that way, even though Lana was right. The guy had a look that wasn’t all bad. In fact she needed an extra amount of self-control to keep from staring at him constantly. She wondered briefly what color his hair was. His mustache and goatee were dark, so his hair was probably brown or black. He had chocolaty-brown eyes. She did love chocolate.
Dropping the burger onto her plate, she wanted to kick herself. Was she drooling over ex-cons now? So maybe he wasn’t an ex-con. In truth, there was a stiff, almost Dudley Do-Right aura about him. But in the middle of her chest—or maybe it could have been her stomach—she got the feeling he could be trouble. The image of him towering above her made her queasy. Not many men could look down on her five-feet-nine frame. But this one had, easily. He was a bull of a man. And he likely had the temperament to match. She shivered again and this time it wasn’t from admiring his physique.
She had spent a big part of her life learning the hard way about men like that. Her own father had given the very first lessons. They should be required by law to have Keep Away stamped on their foreheads. But since they didn’t, she’d learned how to spot them. Lately, the bad ones seemed to be everywhere. But for some reason, she couldn’t quite get a fix on this guy’s personality, something she could usually do in minutes. Perhaps that was why he kept drawing her attention, like she was searching for the missing piece to a jigsaw puzzle.
EMALEA PATIENTLY WATCHED the man as he stood next to his motorcycle on the edge of the old section of closed highway. Up and down the asphalt, bikes roared as people took their Saturday off to become the decadent bikers they secretly dreamed of being while sitting behind their desks. Her plan to embarrass this guy had formulated in her mind while she ate. It had become her quest for the day, even though she realized he might not deserve it. She felt driven to show him, to prove to him…something. She just wasn’t sure what. The need to prove anything to a stranger was ridiculous and she knew it. She tried to suppress the idea that she was actually attracted to him—better not to dwell on such things now.
With a toss of her head, Emalea slipped away from her friends and started down the path of a woman bent on revenge. She strolled toward him as seductively as she could in her dusty leather boots. He noticed her and visibly stiffened. She met his gaze head-on. Mmm, chocolate.
Giving herself a mental shake, she ran her hand across the seat of his bike. “So you’re the one riding this piece of junk.”
The chocolate became brown granite. “Lady, don’t start with me.”
Emalea heard footsteps on the gravel behind her, but chose to ignore them. She figured it was only Lana, who wouldn’t be too happy when she heard what was coming next. Emalea refocused on the man in front of her.
“What? You think you’ve got something special here?”
“I think it’s a lot better than that flashy girl bike you’re on.” He tried to look serious but couldn’t quite hold it, so he grinned instead.
She tried not to smile with him. She had a mission. She wanted to embarrass him a bit, and maybe show him what this “lady” was made of, all in the name of fun, naturally. “I imagine I could blow you and this piece of junk straight off the road with that girl bike.”
He paused in the middle of digging his key from his pocket and swiveled his head around, his mouth partially open in amazement.
“Are you trying to say you want to race me?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Em, for heaven’s sakes.” She heard Lana’s voice behind her but waved her hand.
Mr. Thug grabbed on to his handlebar and straddled his bike, his brawny thigh bumping into her. She swayed for a moment and clutched his shoulder to keep from falling.
“I’m not racing you.” He had a hand on the key to his bike, and Emalea realized she still had a fistful of his shirt.
She unclenched her fingers and wiped her palms on her shorts. “Oh, come on, we’ll make a little bet. It’ll be fun.”
“A bet, huh? What will we be betting?”
“You say whatever you want then I’ll decide something for myself.”
“Really?” His eyes narrowed as though he didn’t believe her or maybe he was really intrigued. She should have been able to tell, but a fog kept obscuring her senses.
“In that case, I’ll do it. If I win you’ll go to dinner with me tomorrow night.”
Emalea’s heart surged into her throat for a moment before breaking into an erratic rhythm. Trying to make a valiant recovery, she tossed her braid over her shoulder. He caught her fluttering fingers between his and grinned. “What do you think?”
She pushed her feet solidly into the ground, using all her determination to keep from turning tail and running. The scent of him—leather, beer, man—filled her nose, causing a certain amount of dizziness. Her hand was already starting to burn. She wanted to blame that heat on the late evening sun, but she knew exactly where it was coming from. She was attracted to him. It was a mind-numbing realization.
She put the brakes on her runaway feelings. She wasn’t going to lose. Pinning him with a sweet smile, she said, “I’ll take that bet.”
They shook hands. He had a nice laugh and for a minute she felt a little guilty about what she was going to do. Just a little joke and she’d clear it up tomorrow, right?
She put her hands on her hips. “Well, when I win, I want your bike, to keep. As in, you give me the papers.”
The thug flinched. “Have you lost your mind?”
Emalea felt a bump at her side. Lana hovered next to her shoulder. “Please excuse her, sir. She seems to be having an attack of pure insanity.”
Lana tugged at her arm. “Stop it!” Emalea hissed. “I know what I’m doing.”
“I doubt that,” Lana said, but let go, retreating a half step.
“You better listen to your friend.”
She widened her eyes innocently. “You’re not afraid you’re going to lose, are you?”
Jackson frowned. The woman just didn’t know when to quit.
“We’ll run this strip like everyone else. The first one to pass the orange stripe at the end of the road will win.”
He gritted his teeth. “Is this something you do on a regular basis, challenging people to races for their bikes?”
The shorter woman moved forward. “No, she does not.”
She glared at her friend. “She needs to reconsider what she’s doing.”
The woman—Doc—pushed her friend to the side. “I know what I’m doing.”
He glared at the two of them. So what? He’d race. When he won, he’d tell her to forget about the dinner. Part of him still wanted to go, but that wasn’t a part he needed to be thinking with. Good sense was beginning to tell him this might not be the type of woman he needed to spend time with or even let know where he lived. Images of mad stalkers and pet rabbits in cooking pots flashed in his mind.
He twisted the key, then thumbed the start switch. “Get on your bike, honey. Let’s do it.”
When he pulled onto the road she was right behind him. The asphalt stretched before him into the distance. The small crowd that had gathered to watch the races didn’t seem especially interested. Though, at the moment, they didn’t know what was at stake.
For a second, he considered backing out. What was he thinking? This was not the way he had imagined he’d start life in his new town. She raced ahead of him, and he gunned the engine to pull alongside her. She needed to learn a little lesson. Now was as good a time as any. With a wave of her arm, she began to slow, then came to a complete stop.
Beside them, Mick had come to be the official race starter, leaving someone else in charge of the bar. Jackson revved his engine. He was way too old for this. Doc rolled her motorcycle into position and he did the same. The dark shades she wore hid her eyes, leaving him wondering if a hint of worry might be lurking there. Probably not. She was a little too cocky for that. He adjusted his own sunglasses, then faced forward, twisting the gas, his engine roaring.
Mick raised a towel into the air as Jackson had seen him do several times already for other races. Before he could reconsider, Mick brought the cloth down with a flourish.
The race was on. Jackson’s lips twitched upward slightly as his front wheel inched past hers, then half his bike was ahead. He could just imagine her desperation, now that she was beginning to realize she would lose. A full bike length ahead, his mouth curved into a victorious smile.
A thundering noise exploded next to him and his hands nearly slipped off the rubber grips. A flash of blue streaked past him, a long braid blowing in the wind. His wrists flexed as he begged his machine for more speed. But it was completely spent. The wind whistled in his ears, and he felt a little sick.
JACKSON SLAMMED HIS FIST on the seat of his Harley. Or was it her Harley? “What kind of motorcycle is that you’re riding? You shouldn’t challenge someone to a race when you’re on a souped-up machine.”
The long-legged witch grinned at him as she stuffed the keys to her motorcycle in her pocket. With a deft move, she straddled his bike. Her friend ran up.
“Em, you’re not really going to take this guy’s bike, are you?”
“Of course I am. If he had won I’m sure he’d have collected on his bet.” She regarded him disdainfully. “You can just leave the papers at the bar. I’ll come for them later. I know you won’t try and shirk on this bet, not with all these witnesses.”
The other woman stepped back from the motorcycle, giving Jackson a brief but worried glance. “You need to admit yourself for therapy, Em. Enough is enough. Now end this little joke and give him the bike back.” She stomped over to him. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into her today. But she’ll give you your bike back, I’m sure.”
He could barely hear her, as Doc or Em or whoever she was revved his motorcycle. He wasn’t so sure he’d ever get it back. She gunned the engine one more time then roared onto the highway. A moment later she disappeared from sight. He stood there, stunned.
“I’m Lana.”
The woman standing next to him held out her hand. If he hadn’t been so angry he’d have laughed. He grasped her hand. It really wasn’t her fault, anyway. “Well, Lana, your friend should be locked in a padded room somewhere.”
“She’s really a nice person. She’s never done anything like this.”
“So what are you saying? She suddenly developed a split personality?”
Lana tucked her hair behind her ear. “I don’t know.” She pulled on the arm of a man who had been at the table with them earlier. “This is my husband, Lance. Lance, tell him how Em is usually not like this.”
The man put an arm around Lana. “Em’s not usually this bad.”
Jackson fumed. “Yeah? Well, looks like she chose today to be off-the-chart bad.”
“How will you get home?”
He eyed Lana. Now there was the question of the hour. “I guess since your friend took the keys to her bike I won’t be riding it.”
A large, rough hand hit him on the shoulder. “Come on, man. I’ll give you a ride home in my truck. Somebody’ll cover for me in the bar.”
He squinted at Mick’s smiling face then nodded. Jackson followed the beefy man to a dilapidated blue truck. The passenger door squeaked in protest when he opened it. He tried to get comfortable in the worn seat while the truck rumbled down the road. Somehow his plan to explore his new neighborhood had gone seriously awry.
“Take a right, Mick. It’s only a few miles.”
Mick pulled at the steering wheel, following his directions.
“What do you know about the woman who took my bike?”
The big man gave him a sidelong glance. “You mean the woman you lost your bike to in a bet.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay. But do you know her?”
“Known her all her life.”
Jackson’s elbow slipped off its resting place on the edge of the window. “And you didn’t see fit to warn me that she was crazy.”
“Doc’s not crazy,” he said with a grunt. “But I ain’t never seen her do nothin’ like this before.”
Resting his elbow back on the window, Jackson wanted to spit. “What do you call her Doc for? Is she a doctor? Turn here.”
Mick hit the brakes then pulled on the steering wheel. “Not no medical doctor, but she has papers that say she should be called a doc. She’s a head doctor. You know, talks to people about their problems and stuff.”
“A psychologist?”
“Yep, that’s it.”
Where had he moved to? A psychologist with a Ph.D. had raced him for his motorcycle. Worst of all, she had won.
“This is it.” He pointed to the driveway ahead of them.
“You’re on the old Wright place.”
“Yeah, I’m just renting for a while until I can find something for myself.”
The ragged truck veered into the gravel lane that led to his new home. He’d been here for a week. Talk about getting things off to a good start.
“Uh-oh.” Mick hit the brakes on the truck. “Looks like the law’s at your place.”
Jackson ignored the car with the emblem painted on its side and shifted in the seat with something akin to embarrassment.
“That would be my car, Mick. I’m the new investigator for the parish and the coordinator for Cypress Landing’s volunteer search-and-rescue unit.”
Mick stared at him for a moment then gave a deep belly laugh that continued until Jackson thought the man would start crying. He slammed the truck door behind him then leaned into the window. “Thanks for the ride, Mick. I really appreciate it.”
The big man wiped a hand over his beard. “Man, this just keeps gettin’ better and better.”
Jackson had to jump to keep the tires from crushing his feet as Mick gunned the old truck back down the driveway. Yeah, he guessed it probably didn’t look too good that the newest employee of Cypress Landing’s sheriff’s department had just lost his Harley on a bet with the local psychologist. Or maybe it just meant he was going to fit in really well.
CHAPTER TWO
“WHAT’S THIS I HEAR about you and some guy’s motorcycle?”
Emalea chewed on a beignet without looking at her uncle. The sweet white sugar melted against her tongue as she breathed in the rich coffee-scented air. With her elbows propped on the counter, she twisted on the small
stool. News sure traveled fast and to the most unwanted places. She’d only exacted her revenge late yesterday evening. But she did live in a small town. Cypress Landing was an hour and a half away from New Orleans and a stop off for tourists or anyone needing a ride across the river on the car ferry. She had heard the town called quaint, historical, even an arts-and-antiques mecca, whatever that meant.
Overhearing the question, her aunt Alice stopped to lean across the counter, ignoring the bustling workers behind her as they hurried to get orders for the diner’s early morning customers. John and Alice Berteau had raised Emalea since she was twelve. Truthfully, she’d spent a big part of her first twelve years with them, too. They weren’t going to like this.
“I won a bet, that’s all.” She met her aunt’s gaze for a second and caught a flash that could have been a smile but it never reached her lips.
“Emalea, you got no business doin’ any bettin’. What kind of lady does that?” Alice stepped away from the counter, putting her hands on her hips. Her Cajun accent always thickened when she was upset. “This is your fault, John. You got her on those motorcycles and such. She’s goin’ to bars with all those biker people. You better be settin’ her straight, now.” She stood in front of Emalea and her husband for a second longer, then wiped her hands on her white apron and disappeared into the kitchen. The idea that a thirty-year-old woman would be “set straight” by her aging aunt and uncle would have been laughable to some. Not Emalea. Aunt Alice and Uncle John were two of the most important people in her life; if they thought she needed to change something, she would give them her utmost consideration. They deserved that from her. Besides, she respected their opinions and they were usually right.
Emalea stared past her uncle to the window at the front of the diner, known simply as Main Street Coffee Shop. Naturally, the place sat at the end of Cypress Landing’s Main Street, next door to her uncle’s equally successful garage. He was a gifted mechanic, working on cars as well as motorcycles. Together, her mother’s brother and his wife did very well and that’s exactly how they did everything. Together. As a team. Unlike Emalea’s own parents, Aunt Alice and Uncle John kept life running smoothly by pouring on plenty of love. They were the lucky ones.
