by Diana Palmer
Mike folded his arms across his broad chest defensively and looked at her for a long minute. "This isn't getting us anywhere. What's done is done. But isn't there something you can do—after the fact?"
A short, strangled laugh shot from her throat before she could stop it. "Sure," she said, sarcasm dripping off every word. "I could take the morning-after pill and have an allergic reaction that sends me to the emergency room—or worse. Or, I could bury the warts of a toad under an oak tree by the light of a full moon."
He frowned at her, but she went on, warming to her theme. "Or, how about I boil up a little eye of newt and drink it down while balancing on one foot?"
"Denise…"
Patience gone, she slammed her half-full water bottle down onto the counter. Liquid sloshed up the neck and spilled onto her hand. She wiped it dry on her shorts and snapped, "Just go, Mike. Get out." Storming through the kitchen back to the living room, she felt her own fears fade away in the face of her anger.
It was as though she were stuck in a bad soap opera with a lousy script. Bad boy takes advantage of good girl, then accuses her of trying to trap him. Even as she thought it though, she had to admit that he hadn't taken advantage of her. It had been a mutual seduction. Incredibly careless, but mutual.
Unfortunately, she would be the only one to pay the price if Mother Nature presented a bill.
"Dammit, Denise," he shouted and grabbed her arm to turn her around to face him. "Stop treating me like I'm public enemy number one just because I don't want you to be pregnant."
She yanked free of him. "I'm not mad about that," she told him. "I'm angry because you only bothered to be concerned about it afterward."
"Neither one of us was doing much thinking." He moved in close to her.
She didn't want to be reminded. She didn't want to have to think about why she had reacted to him—responded to him as she had. It had never happened before. She had never known such an all-consuming need to be with a man. Until she had met Mike Ryan, Denise's love life had been as boring as the rest of her life.
Boring, her mind chided her. But safe.
"Denise," he went on, "if we made a mistake, we made it together."
Mistake. What they had done was foolish. Irresponsible. But a mistake? Instantly, she remembered the sense of completion she had experienced when he entered her. When his body and hers were joined.
Was finding that magic a mistake?
And if they had conceived a child—would the child be a mistake as well? She flinched from that notion.
"How long until we know?" he asked, his voice quiet.
For a moment, she wasn't sure what he was talking about. Then it dawned on her. She glanced up at him. "I'll know for sure one way or the other in about ten days."
He nodded. "Okay. So let's not make ourselves crazy about this yet."
That seemed reasonable, she thought and felt some of the tension drain from her.
"If there is a baby…" He paused. "Hell, we'll have plenty of time to figure out what's next."
"We?" She looked up at him.
"Yeah. We." His green eyes locked with hers. She couldn't have looked away if she had tried "I told you already, Denise. I don't weasle out of my responsibilities."
A speech designed to warm any girl's heart.
"I think you'd better leave now," she said quietly.
Seconds ticked past.
She sat down on the couch, drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She kept her gaze determinedly away from his.
"Fine," he said after a while, just as quietly. "I'll go. For now. But I'll be back."
She listened to the sounds of his footsteps as he moved through the condo. After the front door had closed behind him, she let her head fall backward against the couch. She closed her eyes and told herself that he had been right about one thing. It was too early to worry. She would find out soon enough if there was a need for it. And then, she would have nine long months to do all the worrying she wanted.
By the time her lunch appointment rolled around the next day, Denise had convinced herself that everything would be fine. After all, most couples had to try for years before conceiving a child. What were the odds she and Mike Ryan could accomplish such a feat with one, mind-boggling lovemaking session?
Astronomical.
In numbers, she told herself, there was comfort.
Pete Donahue sent her a smile as she signed the check for lunch and slipped her Visa card back into her purse. A widower, Pete was nice, fairly attractive and financially secure. And a week ago, she might have been flattered by his obvious interest in her.
Unfortunately today, she looked at his thinning blond hair and saw it as thick and black. His calm gray eyes were no substitute for the memory of the deep green eyes that had haunted her sleep. And, she admitted, blue suits just didn't have the same fascination for her as tight black T-shirts.
"You can tell your father that I'm happy with Torrance Accounting," Pete said, smiling. "Maybe then he can relax."
"My father? Relax?" Denise grabbed her purse and stood up. She maneuvered her way through the maze of tables in the crowded restaurant, then turned and waited for him to join her in the entry way.
Pete chuckled as he stepped past her to open the front door for her. "I used to be like him, you know. So wrapped up in business that I couldn't see beyond my own nose."
"What happened?" she asked idly and walked into brilliant afternoon sunshine.
"My wife died."
Denise looked at him quickly, lifting one hand to shade her eyes. "I'm sorry."
"It was several years ago," he said, holding one hand up to assure her that he wasn't wounded. "But her death did make me realize that life was too short to miss it all because of business appointments."
Her father, unfortunately, had never learned that lesson. When her mother died, Denise was only eleven. Unlike Pete Donahue, Richard Torrance had buried himself even deeper in his work once there was no one around to demand a slice of his time.
No one but a little girl.
And that girl had spent the past eighteen years trying to make Daddy proud of her. Was he? she wondered. Had any of her accomplishments been enough to get Richard Torrance's attention?
"Thanks for lunch, Denise."
"Hmmm? Oh," she said, as he walked her to her car. "My pleasure."
The hot summer sun bounced off the asphalt and tossed heat at them like heavy stones.
"I don't suppose I could interest you in the ballet Friday night?"
Caught off guard, she stalled, searching for something to say. "Uh…" She couldn't afford to offend her father's newest client. On the other hand, the only man she was interested in at the moment was someone she was working hard to forget.
"Maybe not," Pete said for her. "Somehow, I think he'd object."
She looked up at him and he jerked his head in the direction of her car.
There, propped casually against the right front fender, was Mike Ryan.
Despite her best efforts, her heartbeat accelerated. Her gaze swept over him, taking in the blue jeans, the white T-shirt and the huge Harley parked alongside her car.
He looked like every mother's nightmare.
And every daughter's fantasy.
Even as her blood rushed through her veins, she realized that she would have a much better chance at forgetting all about him if he would just stay away.
As they approached, Mike pushed up from the car and stood, long legs planted in a wide, almost belligerent stance. He looked every inch the dangerous male.
"Hello, Mike," she said.
He nodded abruptly and shifted his gaze to the man beside her.
"Pete Donahue, Mike Ryan," she said. "Mike, Pete Donahue."
Mike took the man's extended hand and gave it a brief, hard shake. "Good burritos."
"Thanks," Pete nodded, flashed Denise a quick smile and asked, "I'll speak to you at the end of the month?"
"That's fine," she told him, gr
ateful that he was leaving so quickly. With Mike still in his Tarzan stance, it was probably a good idea. "I'll call your secretary."
He lifted one hand in a halfhearted wave and walked off to his own car.
A heartbeat later, she whirled around to face Mike Ryan. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, squinting up at him.
"I needed to see you," he said.
"So you show up at my business lunch?"
"Your lunch was over."
"That's not the point."
"No," he muttered thickly, "the point is, that I can't get you out of my mind."
She sucked in a gulp of air and told herself that it didn't mean anything. Obviously, they were both being plagued with some weird sort of attraction that they were just going to have to deal with sensibly.
"This is nuts," she whispered.
"Among other things," he agreed.
Mike looked down at her and felt something inside him shift, soften. Damn, this was playing with fire. For years, he had managed to avoid feeling anything more than a passing fondness for any woman.
He didn't want love. He didn't want to need anyone.
Yet, here he was, chasing after the one woman who could be real trouble for him. Denise touched him in ways he didn't even understand. Despite her strength, there was a vulnerability to her that brought all of his protective instincts rushing to the surface.
A moment ago, he had wanted to slam his fist into Pete Donahue's face simply because the man had been able to make Denise smile. He had the insane desire to stake a claim on her. To fight off any intruding males.
Blast it, around her, he wanted to go find some dragons he could slay and lay at her feet. He wasn't sure he liked this feeling, but it was too big to ignore.
Not to mention, he thought with a glimmer of panic, the possibility of a baby.
"Mike," she said, shaking her head.
"I know what you're going to say," he interrupted. "Jeez, I said it myself all last night. We're too different. We have nothing in common."
"Exactly." She took a step closer.
"And it doesn't matter." He moved toward her. "Look, you said we've got about ten days before we know for sure about…"
"Yes," she interrupted.
He swallowed hard past the knot of fear that had been stuck in his throat since the moment he had realized that there might be a baby. "All I'm saying is, why don't we spend those ten days together? Give us a chance to get to know each other a little."
She was already shaking her head, so he started talking faster. "If there's a decision to be made, wouldn't it be easier if we could face it together? As friends?"
"Friends?" Denise asked.
"All right," he conceded with a half smile. "Maybe friends is asking too much of either one of us." He rested both hands on her shoulders. Gently, his thumbs kneaded her muscles through the fabric of her red cotton suit. "I'm not talking about forever here, Denise," he said, his voice tight and low. "I'm talking about two grown-ups who share something…incredible."
She stiffened and shot him a quick look. Hell, he knew she would rather hear about hearts and flowers. Declarations of love and promises he had sworn never to make. But if they were going to be together, even if it was only for ten days, then she had to know that he wasn't going to fall in love.
He had seen close up just how love could destroy people.
"I told you before," she said quietly. "I don't do little affairs."
"I'm not asking you to."
"Aren't you?"
He scowled, released her and said, "I don't know what I'm asking for. All I know is that something happened last night." He didn't understand it any better than she did. Could hardly define it. But somehow, when he and Denise had made love, he had felt a sense of rightness that he had never known before. It was more than great sex. How much more scared the hell out of him. But not enough to make him keep his distance. "There's something between us, Denise."
She shivered.
"I'm not willing to give that up yet," he said flatly. "Are you?"
She looked away from him, staring blindly across the parking lot. He waited what seemed forever for her to finally shift her gaze back to his.
Mike wasn't sure what he would do if she turned him down and sent him away. He held his breath until his chest hurt with the effort.
"No," she admitted. "I want to be, but no. I'm not."
Air rushed from his lungs. He felt himself grinning like a fool as he reached for her hand. "Come with me."
"Where?"
"Just for a ride." He drew her toward his motorcycle.
"I have to get back to work," she said as she dragged her feet.
Mike flicked a quick glance at her and felt his pulse speed up. What was it about this woman? "It's your father's business. Take an extra hour."
At the mention of her father, Denise's expression tightened slightly. "No, I really can't."
He pulled her to him, slipped one arm around her waist and tugged her tight up against his side. Staring down into the wide blue eyes that had kept him awake most of the previous night, he whispered, "One hour. Tell him your lunch went long."
The tip of her tongue smoothed across her bottom lip and Mike's gaze tracked it. A familiar hunger rippled through him.
"All right," she finally said. "But just an hour."
He smiled and Denise's stomach flipped over. Telling herself that she was being a fool where Mike was concerned didn't seem to be helping. She hitched her suit skirt up to midthigh, climbed aboard the narrow seat and pulled on the helmet he handed her.
Mike got on the bike and sat down in front of her. Plopping her purse down onto her lap, she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his middle. "Ready?" he called loudly as he fired the engine.
No, she thought, but nodded against his back anyway. The powerful bike lunged forward and in seconds, they were roaring down the Coast Highway.
Four hours later, Mike took her back to her car.
"You're a pretty good pool player," he said.
"I distinctly hear, 'For a girl', in that statement," Denise countered and handed him her helmet.
"Are you accusing me of being a sexist?" He gave her a slow, lopsided grin that set off firecrackers in her bloodstream.
Denise tugged at the lapels of her suit jacket and straightened her short red skirt. "Sexist? Of course not. Male? Definitely."
He chuckled softly. "I'll pick you up at your place at eight."
She checked her wristwatch. Five o'clock. Only three hours to go before she climbed back onto that bike of his and… "Five o'clock!"
"What's the matter?" he asked as she hurried around to the driver's side of her car.
Denise hardly spared him a glance. She fumbled in her purse for the keys. Pulling them free, she opened the car door and threw her purse onto the passenger seat.
"Denise?" he said, louder this time. "What's gong on? What's the big hurry?"
"I had an appointment with my father at 3:10," she reminded him and slid behind the wheel. She fired up the engine, pulled out of the parking lot and sped down the street toward her office.
Most of the cars were gone by the time she arrived. Naturally, her father's was still there. The man never left work before seven at night.
Hurrying into the building, she grabbed the first elevator and rode it impatiently to the third floor. She bolted through the slowly opening doors and hustled down the long, quiet hall to Richard Torrance's office.
She knocked gently and walked in.
He looked up from his desk, gave her a vague smile, then returned his gaze to his work.
"Father, I'm—"
"Going home now?"
"Uh…"
"Fine, fine," her father muttered and began scribbling on the paper in front of him. "See you tomorrow then."
Denise stared at him for a long, thoughtful moment. He didn't remember. Obviously he had forgotten all about their appointment. He must not have written it down after all. Apparently somethin
g more important than his daughter had cropped up, wiping all thought of an appointment with her out of his mind. She wondered if he had noticed at all that she hadn't been in the office for most of the day.
The only sound in the room was that of his pen, scratching against paper. A humorless laugh caught in her chest, but she managed to squelch it.
As she walked back to the elevators, Denise told herself that it was a good thing that he had forgotten about her. At least, she wasn't in trouble for skipping out on work. She should be happy at the way things had turned out.
Chapter 7
It was as if she were a comic book superhero.
Like Clark Kent, Denise was leading a double life. By day, she was a mild-mannered, stuck-in-a-rut accountant. She said the right things, wore the right clothes and danced attendance on her father. In short, she did everything she was expected to do.
By night though, she had become someone quite different.
Someone she was enjoying.
Denise glanced at her reflection and smiled in amazement. If someone had told her three weeks ago that she would be wearing black leather pants, black boots and a red sweatshirt with the Harley-Davidson logo on it, she would have laughed at them.
She shoved two silver clips in her hair at either side of her head, then grimaced slightly. No matter how much fun her secret identity had become, she didn't think she would ever get used to flat "helmet" hair.
But that was a small price to pay for discovering this new Denise Torrance.
"And," she told herself, "Mike was right about the leather pants being warmer." When she wore jeans on their nightly rides, the icy sea air seemed to cut right through the denim.
She sat down on the edge of her quilt-covered bed and reached for her boots. As she yanked them on and stomped into them, she wondered where Mike was taking her tonight.
Over the last week or so, the two of them had hopped onto his motorcycle every night to ride off in search of another adventure. Besides a few return visits to O'Doul's, there had been quiet dinners in tiny, out-of-the-way restaurants, and even once, a trip to Tijuana.
At that thought, she looked up at her mirror again. Tucked into the frame was a photo of she and Mike, wearing sombreros, sitting astride two stuffed donkeys.
