by Nancy Warren
He caught her gaze on him and suddenly stowed the grin and made a production of a fake coughing fit. Ha.
When she rose after the movie, so did Mike. He indicated she should precede him up the carpeted aisle, then fell into step when they reached the lobby.
“Enjoy the flick, princess?”
In spite of the fact that she persistently ignored his nickname for her, he just as persistently used it. “Yes, I did. And you?”
He shrugged. “Chick flick.”
“Probably that nasty cough of yours drowned out all the best lines,” she said sweetly. “You should really get that seen to.”
He opened his mouth to retort, but didn’t get the chance.
“Aren’t you Mike Grundel?” a breathless teenage voice asked from behind her.
Poor Mike. He flashed Tess a helpless glance, but she waved cheerily and kept walking. This wasn’t the first time he’d been approached since he’d started reviewing. His picture ran with his byline, so he was a lot more recognizable than she, and, in spite of his outrageously sexist reviews, he certainly had a way of attracting women.
She rather thought his dark good looks with an edge of danger just below the surface, drew women more than his Neanderthal opinions did. She’d laugh if she didn’t count her own foolish self as one of the victims of his careless charm.
She didn’t turn around, but kept walking toward the adjacent parking lot, the girl’s eager questions and Mike’s much less eager answers fading as she strode away.
When she got to her car, all thoughts of movies, men and unrequited lust fled her mind. Her red BMW wasn’t sitting right. It didn’t take much investigation to reveal a flat tire. It wasn’t just flat—the tire was shriveled and flaccid, surrounded by chunks of amber glass.
She swore under her breath. She didn’t much relish changing a tire in a cold parking lot in the middle of February, but, if she was quick about it, she wouldn’t freeze.
Her father believed a woman with a car should know the basics, and when she was sixteen and got her first compact as a birthday present, he’d taught her himself the rudiments of safety and maintenance.
Disarming the theft prevention device, she unlocked the trunk…and groaned. She was already riding on her spare. The garage mechanic had told her she needed a new tire after the last one punctured, and she’d been saving up from her meager salary. She felt like kicking a wheel, but with her luck she’d ruin yet another tire.
She dragged her cell phone out of her bag and stared at it. Who was she going to call at—she glanced at her watch—nine-thirty at night? Her father? He’d give her a lecture about carelessness then make a big production of taking care of the entire business himself and buying her a new tire. Probably a whole new set. She shuddered. Definitely not her father.
The garage wouldn’t have anybody on this time of night. She’d have to take a cab home and sort it out in the morning.
“If you ever want anyone to go with you to the movies, you know, like, uh, for a second opinion or anything…uh…call me.”
Tess turned and watched the teenager slip Mike a scrap of paper.
He took it, saying, “I don’t—”
But in a cloud of bobbing black hair the giggling girl was gone.
If Tess hadn’t been frustrated by her own predicament, she would have laughed at the expression on Mike’s face when he caught her watching him.
“Don’t lose that number. She’s the perfect age for you.”
With a scowl he scrunched the paper and tossed it in a nearby trash bin. “Hope I didn’t keep you waiting,” he said, puzzlement in his tone.
“You didn’t.” She smiled as if she didn’t have a care in the world and standing in the middle of a freezing parking lot was her idea of recreation. She hit the off button on her cell. If he’d just hop on his motorbike and be on his way she could be on hers.
But Mike Grundel never did what she wanted him to do.
“Calling the chauffeur?” His gaze wandered over the sporty red BMW.
As sweet as it was of her parents to buy her the car for a college grad present, she really wished they hadn’t. She felt conspicuous driving a pricey import when all the other reporters she knew drove modest vehicles, even derelict beaters. Or, in Mike’s case, a sleek black motorcycle. But how could she refuse their generosity? They’d be so hurt.
“Yes,” she answered his question semitruthfully. A cab driver was a chauffeur of sorts, after all. “And it’s a private call.”
He snorted. “See ya.”
With a sigh of relief, she watched him walk on. He was passing her car when a tinkling sound had him glancing down to where his booted foot had kicked a chunk of amber glass.
With helpless frustration, she watched him turn and really look at her car. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, princess, but your coach seems to have driven over a beer bottle.”
“The fearless investigative reporter cracks another tough case.”
He shook his head and turned to her. “Where’s your spare?”
“I know how to change a tire, thanks.”
“You wouldn’t want to get grease on your pearls.” He grinned, and the white flash of his teeth conjured visions of Rhett carrying Scarlett up the stairs. She shivered against a rush of lust even as she chided herself for her nonsensical romantic fantasies.
“I can manage.”
“Okay. I’ll just stay and watch. This should be more fun than the movie,” he said, settling into a lounging pose, boots spread comfortably apart, arms crossed at the chest.
Wishing more than anything that she had her tire iron handy to brain him with, she forced a calm smile back on to her face. “I appreciate this, really I do, but I’m fine.”
His gaze swept the rapidly emptying parking lot and for one crazy second she thought he worried about her safety. But that was absurd. He hoped to watch her make a fool of herself. And, darn it all, she was doing a great job.
Light from a nearby pole lamp cast his features into craggy shadows and gleamed softly on the black leather jacket. He was both menacing and reassuring, an odd combination that had her nerves snapping.
“You’re not leaving, are you?”
He shook his head. “Uh-uh.”
Complete exasperation flooded her body. “I don’t have a spare tire.”
“Darlin’, the Bavarian Motor Works always include a spare.” He pointed at the back of her car as if he was revealing hidden treasure. “It’s in the trunk.”
“No. It’s on the right rear wheel.” She waved the cell phone still in her hand. “I’m calling a cab.”
Once more his teeth gleamed white in the night, giving him the look of a pirate with his long black hair and devil-may-care attitude. “Lock up. I’ll give you a lift.”
“No. Really, I…” It was pointless to keep talking when he was already striding toward his motorcycle. A couple of minutes later he was back at her side, straddling the rumbling, quivering machine.
A shiver of apprehension tickled the back of her neck at the thought of being squished against Mike’s body on that thing. It was too close to her secret fantasies. And she was a firm believer that fantasies had no business morphing into reality; that was the quickest way to ruin them.
She swallowed. “Thanks anyway. I’ll take a cab.”
“Chicken?” he taunted.
God, yes. “No.”
“Ever ridden one of these?”
She shook her head.
“Nothing to it.” He winked. “It’s just like falling off a bike.”
She smiled weakly at the bad joke, but was certain this was a terrible idea. If she wasn’t careful, she’d throw herself at him like one of his teenage groupies.
Being a sensible woman—and she was always sensible—she ought to refuse, but the dare was in his eyes, making sensible seem altogether too dull.
“All right.” She forced reluctance into her tone even as a thrill of excitement coursed through her. Would it feel as sexy as she’d imagined?
/> She stuffed her cell phone and car keys back into her bag and slung it around her neck.
“Come here,” he said, holding up a shiny black helmet.
As he fastened the chin strap under her chin, she felt the strength in his fingers, the slight roughness of the pads of his fingertips, and shivered.
He dropped his hands as though she’d bitten him. “Get on behind me and hang on. Don’t move around. Sit still and we’ll do fine.”
She took a breath and swung her leg over, finding footrests for her feet. She held her body stiffly back from his and, quickly realizing there was nothing else to hang on to, rested her hands as impersonally as she could on either side of his leather-jacketed waist.
He mumbled something, then the rumble beneath her increased to a roar, and they were off.
It was impossible to remain perched at the back of the slippery leather seat. As hard as she tried, she kept sliding forward until her front was plastered against his back. And the first corner had her gripping her hands all the way around his waist in a life-preserving hug.
With a shrug, she gave up the fight and slipped into the fantasy. It was a lot better to ride like this. The man in front of her was solid and warm, his muscular back much more pleasant than his mouthy front.
She could feel the shape and essence of his torso and she was frankly shocked at how strong and exciting it felt, while the machine roaring between her thighs made her feel wanton and daring.
Black hair streamed out behind him, lashing her face and helmet, and the most vulnerable parts of her body were pressed against his, as intimate as lovers. She might as well enjoy the moment. He needn’t know that desire was building in her body as the bike picked up speed.
Stars twinkled coldly in the night sky, and the sound of the rushing wind was muffled by the helmet. Traffic noise seemed far away, while she clung to her bad boy as they sped through the darkness on a long snaking road.
When at last her common sense returned, she realized the dark road they were on led, not to some erotic hideaway where Mike would carry her and make glorious, inventive love to her, but to her parents’ house.
She jabbed his shoulder to get his attention. “Where are you going?” she shouted over the roar of the engine.
“Taking you home,” he yelled back.
“I don’t live with my parents!”
He didn’t reply, and she wondered if he’d heard. But, as she was about to shout again, the roar lessened and they bumped onto the gravel shoulder.
He shot her an impatient glance over his shoulder. “And where do you live?”
She’d been so focused on the bike she hadn’t thought to give him her address. And he hadn’t asked, clearly assuming she still lived at home at one of the prestigious addresses that everyone in Pasqualie knew. Didn’t he realize she was a grown woman?
Stowing her irritation at yet one more illustration that he didn’t take her seriously, she rapidly gave him directions.
He nodded curtly, turned the bike around and once more they sped off into the night, her fantasies trailing behind them like trodden-on, tattered ribbon.
MIKE FELT HER SOFTNESS even through his leather jacket. She clung to him as though she’d been tossed off the Titanic and he was the only life preserver in sight. Her breasts pressed against his back, firm but soft; her thighs wrapped his, warm and enticing. For just a second he indulged himself, imagined her in the same posture, only naked, with him facing her.
The rush of lust that slammed him damn near knocked him off the road. They rounded a corner and, as the bike tilted, she clutched him tighter, one hand settling above his heart.
With Tess wrapped around him, feeling so good he could almost believe she belonged there, he was relieved when they pulled up in front of her building. Except there was no way this dingy apartment—one of a hundred identical stucco blocks built in the seventies—was her home. What game was she playing?
“Thanks for the ride,” she said, holding on to him for balance as she dismounted.
“You putting me on?” His gaze rested for a moment on her building, then shifted to her face, flushed with color from the night ride and looking a touch windblown, which only made her sexier.
“I beg your pardon?”
“This is where you live?”
“What’s wrong with it?” Her voice lilted with curiosity.
“It’s a dump.”
She bristled. “It’s all I can afford on my salary.”
He rolled his eyes, reminding himself she was a slumming rich girl taking an adventure holiday in his world. He guessed it beat some fancy European spa, but she wasn’t part of his kind of life. Never would be. “Right.”
Tess yanked the helmet off her head, but he wondered why she bothered. Looked to him as if the steam coming out her ears could blow it off.
She turned to him and he expected a tongue lashing. Instead she tilted her head to one side and studied him. “Would you like to come up for coffee?”
2
Have you ever noticed the so-called “chick flicks” are about love, strong women and family? “Guy movies” are about war, bloodshed and big machines. Think about it.
MIKE’S EYES NARROWED. “You inviting me up to see your art collection?”
“No. I want to talk to you.” Without giving him a chance to make any more smart remarks, or herself a chance to retract the invitation, she hauled out her keys and opened the front door of her apartment building. She wasn’t certain whether he’d follow her or not as she stalked to the elevator and punched the up button then waited, wondering which tenant had had fish for dinner.
She felt him take his place at her side. They didn’t speak. Not then, and not in the elevator while they watched the numbers blink until the five lit up and the scarred beige doors groaned open. She marched to Apartment 505 and fitted her key into the lock.
He followed her inside, and, as she shut the door, she wasn’t at all sure she’d done a smart thing. But it was time she told him, calmly and sensibly, that she was a colleague, and a grown-up and would appreciate being treated as such.
And that’s just what she was going to do, with dignity and finesse. “May I take your coat?”
“I thought you were mad at me.”
So much for finesse. “I am, as a matter of fact.”
“Then why are you being so polite? You want to yell? Yell. Hit me. I promise not to hit back.” His eyes glinted, steely sparks in the deep blue depths that did crazy things to her pulse.
“I never yell. Your coat?”
He shrugged it off and handed it to her. The soft leather, still warm from his body, reminded her of the crazy ride, of the thrill of intimacy that still tingled in all the womanly parts of her body that had been pressed against him.
She opened the coat closet and the ill-fitting louvered door creaked, loud in the silence.
Once she’d hung the coat neatly and forced the door closed, she turned to invite him into the living room. But he was already there. Manners, she reminded herself, were not his strong suit.
She walked the few steps down the beige-carpeted hallway to the living/dining room. It wasn’t much, but she’d done what she could, painting the walls a rich butter-yellow and arranging her furniture so as best to hide the stains on the wall-to-wall.
The furniture consisted of bits and pieces that she’d picked up at yard sales and flea markets and prettied up.
Mike Grundel might scoff at her car, but he’d have to admit her father’s influence was nowhere to be found in her apartment. All she’d brought with her when she’d moved out on her own was her great-grandmother’s bedroom suite, which had been willed to her. Maybe it was foolish pride, as her mother insisted, but Tess’s independence had seemed desperately important when she set up a first home of her own.
And the truth was, she kind of liked her stuff. It was eclectic, that was for sure, and best of all she didn’t worry about marring a priceless antique table with a glass of water, or staining expensive up
holstery if she spilled coffee. Not that she was careless, she just felt more relaxed with furniture that wouldn’t look at home in a museum.
“Coffee?” she asked brightly, fighting the urge to fidget, feeling as though her apartment had shrunk since Mike had entered it.
“Only drink it in the a.m. I’ll take a beer, though, if you have it.”
She shook her head slowly. “I’m all out of beer. I do have a nice Chardon—Some wine.”
She couldn’t decide if she disliked him more when he was scornful or when, as if now, his eyes just plain laughed at her. It felt as if she’d just failed a test. According to his rules of conduct, real reporters drank beer, she supposed.
“Wine would be great.”
He was still inspecting her book collection of current paperbacks and a smattering of film star biographies when she returned with two glasses of chilled wine and, remembering how his stomach had growled earlier, a plate of cheese and crackers. He built a triple decker of cheddar and saltines and demolished it in a mouthful.
“Please, have a seat.” She gestured to the old couch she’d covered with a tapestry throw. “Sorry about the mess, I wasn’t expecting anyone.” She swept the pile of newspapers off the coffee table and onto the floor.
Drat if his picture wasn’t grinning at her from the movie section of the Star when she did it. And, of course, as she tried to shovel the papers out of the way, his gaze followed her movements and he caught sight of his own byline.
“So, how’d you like my Boneblaster review?”
“It was pretty much what I expected. As was your intelligent and sensitive commentary on A Country Wedding.”
He chuckled. “Bet you brought me here to steal my ideas about You Can Keep Paris.”
“We’ll Always Have Paris,” she corrected automatically.
He scratched his head. “Well, I’m not saying we won’t. But we should probably go there together before you start making rash pronouncements.”
How did he do that? Even while he mocked her, his words carried a hint of sexual promise. An image flashed in her head of the two of them in a Paris street cafe, sipping wine. In her mind, they weren’t arguing, they were holding hands, gazing at each other….
