by Cara Colter
"If anybody else said that, they'd be on the floor," Blake said tersely.
"It's probably why so few people are willing to tell you the truth. Look, you've wanted to hit somebody since you came in here. It might as well be me—at least I won't press charges. Who knows? I might take you."
Blake felt the darkness lighten and smiled with self-mocking. "That would be a first."
"You want some advice?"
"No."
"Yes, you do. That's why you came in here when you saw my vehicle."
"All right," Blake snapped. "As if I've ever been able to stop you from talking once you've got your mind set to it."
"Come out of the dark ages."
"Pardon?"
"In your non-relationship with your secretary, you have all the power, according to you."
"And I don't want to abuse it," Blake said, stung by the non-relationship comment.
"It's abuse when she doesn't have a choice. Say if you were making unwanted passes at her, pinching her behind when she walked by, peering down her shirt, accidentally brushing her curves. That would be an abuse of power. There's the I'm-gonna-cream-somebody look again, and I'm the only one here. Calm down, Blake. I know you aren't acting like that, for God's sake. I'm explaining something.
"A more subtle abuse of power is not allowing her to make choices. You're going to be the one totally in control all the time. From what I've seen of Holly, she is quite capable of making good choices for herself. Maybe, as unthinkable as it seems to me when I look at your ugly mug, she wants you. I mean, why else a picnic lunch?"
Blake thought about the picnic lunch, the cookies, the flowers.
Rafe continued. "She gave out the signal, not you. So, ask her out. The choice is hers. If she says no, then absolutely no forcing kisses upon her behind the filing cabinet. If she says yes…" Rafe shrugged wickedly.
Blake stared at him. Could it be that simple? Could this ethical struggle he'd been involved in be a non-issue?
"Blake, is it really about being a good boss, or is this it?"
"It?"
"It. You know, the one. The first woman who's ever got through that tough shell of yours, the first one who has made you realize what intimacy can be."
Blake sensed a frightening truth in that. Holly, his plain little secretary, had snuck by his defenses when he wasn't looking. He had never guarded his heart against her. Maybe would not have been able to if he tried.
Because she was so different than all the other women he had known.
Deep. Compassionate. Funny. Smart. Warm.
She filled some hole in him that no one had ever come close to even touching before. Rafe had hit the nail on the head.
He wasn't worried about being a good boss.
He was worried about surrendering his soul.
"I'm going to tell you something in total confidence, Blake."
Blake eyed him warily.
"She needs you right now. She's going to need someone strong to stand by her."
"Why?"
"I can't tell you."
"Hey, I just spilled my guts to you."
"Trust me on this one. It's better that you don't know. If you ran off half-cocked right now, months of hard work could be jeopardized."
"You know who poisoned the water," Blake guessed in a low, threatening growl.
"I might."
Blake knew if Rafe had decided not to tell him he was never going to get it out of him. Never. Perhaps that was one of the reasons they had remained good friends for so many years. Because that same band of steel-hard stubbornness ran through both of them.
"What's it got to do with Holly?"
Rafe ran a hand through his hair. "I told you, I'm not telling you. But I'll tell you this: If you have feelings for her, you don't have time to debate it for another few months, deciding what's wrong and what's right. She's going to need you to be there for her now. Right now. Within days."
"I hope she's not going to be too disappointed about 98 Degrees," Blake muttered.
"What?"
"Nothing," Blake said, putting down his pool cue. "I've got to go."
"Good luck, buddy," Rafe said softly.
* * *
Her light was still on when he pulled up on his motorcycle. He shut it off in front of her cabin and took the steps two at a time. He pounded on her door. "Holly!"
She came and opened it a crack, and peeped around it. He'd been right about the nightgown. Straight out of Little House on the Prairie. White, sweeping the floor, little ruffles at the high neckline and at the cuffs around the sleeves. How could something so prim be so damned sexy?
He looked hard at her. For somebody who was supposed to be excited about a concert she looked like she'd been crying.
"Hi," he said casually, as if it wasn't nearly midnight.
"Hi," she said.
"Did I wake you up? I thought I saw a light."
"No, you didn't wake me."
"Can I come in? Just for a second?"
"Uh—"
"I'll wait. If you want to throw on a pair of jeans or something."
She wanted to say no. He could tell. He'd hurt her quite enough for one day. But she didn't say no. She nodded and closed the door.
He stood on the porch, went to the edge of it and looked at the sky.
It felt like he had never seen stars before. Ever. The air felt velvety and warm.
He heard the door whisper open behind him, and turned back. She had pulled a robe over the nightgown, knotted it at the waist.
He felt like he was looking at the future. The way she would look puttering around the house on a Sunday morning. Or when he brought her tea and the newspaper in bed.
He was asking her on a date, he reminded himself roughly, not to marry him.
She held open the door, and he went through it. He had seen her place once before, when he had picked her up for the dance.
It looked different tonight. She was burning candles, and it looked soft and welcoming, like a place a man who had been running all his life could take his heart to rest.
If she said yes.
If she made the choice.
"I was wrong," he said, looking down at her, fighting hard the urge to take her in his arms, pull her to him, taste her lips again.
"Wrong?" she asked.
"About it being wrong."
Her eyes widened. "I'm not sure I'm following you."
"I told you it was wrong. That kiss on the hill today."
"Oh," she said, and even in the soft glow of the candlelight he could see the blush moving up her cheeks, staining them the most beautiful shade of pink.
"If you'll give me a chance, I want to try this again. Not me boss, you secretary. But me man, you woman." God, he thought he sounded like Tarzan.
Her mouth worked for a moment, but not a sound came out. Were those tears sparkling in her eyes? He was making a complete mess of this, but he plunged stubbornly ahead anyway, a man who had decided to navigate quicksand, even though he knew fully the risks.
"I don't want it to be like asking you to the dance. It's not to thank you for the wonderful job you do of looking after me in the office. It's got nothing to do with the office. I'd like to take you out. Because I like you. Because I want to know you better."
For the longest time he thought he'd blown it, her silence stretched so long.
"I want," he finally said, "for the choice to be yours. Will you go out with me?"
"Yes," she whispered.
Suddenly he wished they could just skip all the next part. Going out together. Awkwardly holding hands during a movie, sharing buttered popcorn, slipping his hand over her shoulder.
He wanted to just get to the part where his lips were on her lips again. And other parts of her, too.
He reminded himself he did a fair imitation of a civilized man now.
And besides, this was Holly. Decent, wholesome Holly.
"So," he said, "maybe a movie tomorrow night?"
Did she loo
k disappointed?
"Unless you have a better idea," he said, remembering what Rafe had said about sharing power, giving her choice.
Her whole face brightened up. "What I'd really like to do is go for a motorcycle ride. Could we do that?"
Why hadn't he thought of that?
"Sure," he said. "We could do that. There's a nice little inn about thirty miles north of here on the secondary highway. We could go there for dinner and come back."
"That sounds perfect."
He could leave now, but he didn't.
The tension was suddenly in the room. Electrical. Sensual. That kiss of this afternoon whispered on the air between them. He wondered if her lips would still taste of strawberries.
He stepped toward her.
Her eyes were wide and reminded him so poignantly of what he had tasted in that kiss, besides strawberries.
Innocence.
That was the part he'd forgotten to discuss with Rafe. Holly's innocence in the face of his experience.
"I'll pick you up around five. Do you have a leather jacket?"
"No."
"I'll see what I can dig up for you. I probably have one I've outgrown somewhere." The one he'd stolen when he was fourteen would fit her perfectly. It was probably a measure of his true character that he still had a soft spot for that jacket.
Now he could leave. He still didn't. He took another step toward her. And then another. And then he dropped his head and tasted her lips.
Not strawberries anymore.
They tasted like rain. Clean and pure.
Before he totally lost his head, he spun on his heel and went out the door. And ordered himself to think of motorcycle parts and football stats until five o'clock tomorrow.
But somehow he already knew he wasn't going to listen.
Eleven
Holly touched her lips and stared at the door that had just closed behind Blake. The smell of his leather jacket, tangy and rich, still filled the air of her small cottage, swirled around her like an embrace.
All she could think was that dreams, those elusive wisps of hope and magic that she had been about to pack away and hide under her bed for good, came true for ordinary girls like her, after all.
Blake had asked her out, and he couldn't have been more plain. His interest in her was pure and potently masculine.
The taste of his lips was still on hers, and she touched her tongue to her own lips and felt joyful and afraid and joyful again. Could he love her? Could a man like Blake Fallon ever love a woman like her?
She reminded herself firmly that it was a date, not a declaration of love.
But when she remembered the smoldering look in his gray eyes, she shivered and hugged herself.
She spent the entire next day on pins and needles like a bride before her wedding. She tried on different outfits and fiddled with her makeup and played with her hair.
But in the end she had to concede to the reality she had created: She was going to be on a motorcycle. Which meant that navy blue skirt that always got such a nice reaction at the office was out. And so was too much makeup as the wind would be blowing in her face. If her eyes teared, she didn't want mascara running down her cheeks. And as for her hair, there was no sense going to great lengths for that either, because she would be wearing a helmet that would squish whatever she did anyway.
She ended up wearing her new green shirt and a pair of jeans, flat sensible shoes and just the faintest touch of makeup. She left her hair loose.
She tried to read. She tried to clean her house. She tried to knit.
But she could not make the time fly by until he got there. It was a humbling experience because Holly had always secretly scorned women who went to bits over men, who put their own lives on a shelf for the latest beau.
But then, with a gentleness born of the love blossoming within her, Holly forgave herself. This wasn't her latest beau. This was her only beau.
This was the first time she had ever been in the grip of these wonderful and terrifying emotions and she knew she had to give herself a little leeway. Even the most practical of women were entitled to lose their heads once in a while.
Once in a lifetime.
And that was how she felt when she finally heard the motorcycle stop outside her house. Like she had completely lost her head. She wanted to run and change clothes. She wanted to run to the mirror and do a final check. She wanted to hide under the bed. No, she wanted to fling herself into his arms. How could two such wildly opposing thoughts hold court in the same brain?
The knock came at the door. Firm and strong.
She felt giddy and hot and cold, and she wished she had never started this, and was so glad that she had.
She took a deep, steadying breath and went to the door and opened it.
And amazingly, just like that, she felt just right.
He was wearing his black leather jacket and faded jeans, and his hair fell boyishly over his forehead. His gray eyes took her in, and a light winked on in them.
"I brought you this." He held up the jacket for her, and she turned around and slipped her arms into it.
It fit her like a black leather glove, and it had a tantalizing aroma to it. Leather, but something more. The boy he used to be clung to that jacket, wild and rebellious and devil-may-care. She snuggled into it.
"Nice fit," he said, turning her around and eyeing her with frank male appreciation.
Her. Holly Lamb.
Then he kissed her, on the tip of her nose, and leaned back, smiling. "You look great in black leather. I never figured you for a wild kind of girl."
Somehow she knew he was going to coax the wild side of her to the surface. Maybe she had always known that, and it had formed part of the irresistible attraction she felt for him.
He waited while she locked the door to her house, and they walked down the steps together.
He had two helmets on the seat of the motorbike, and he took one off and crooked a finger at her.
She stepped close to him, and he set it down on her head and guided it over her ears. Carefully, he took the wisps of her hair that were sticking out and tucked them up under, before he took the chin strap and pulled it tight, snapped it closed.
The whole time, she looked at him, felt his touch, felt some trembling begin within her.
He put his own helmet on, then mounted the motorcycle first, swinging his long legs over it, kicking down hard to start it. She saw the muscle in his leg ripple when he did that, and tremble deepened into anticipation.
He patted the seat behind him, and she climbed on, suddenly shy about what to do with her hands, her legs.
She settled for holding the back of the seat; her heels found the passenger bar.
But he turned and over his shoulder gave a small shake of his head. He reached back with one arm and pulled her right into him, so her chest was flattened against the black leather of his broad back, her thighs making an intimate V around his rear end. Lastly, he took her arms and guided them around his waist.
"Hold on tight," he ordered.
He gave the big machine a bit of juice, and the deep, rumbling purr it was making turned to a roar, and it surged smoothly forward. One leg down, he made a smooth circle to turn around, then put his leg up and gave the bike more gas.
They headed out on the highway, a paved back road that twisted and turned through the abundant beauty of redwood country.
But the truth was the scenery was lost on Holly.
Her cheek on his back, her arms around him, her body finding the rhythm of the bike so that she leaned when he leaned and came back to center when he did, was exhilarating, like learning the steps of a dance. He blocked the worst of the wind, but still she could feel it on her cheeks, trying to tug her hair out from under the helmet.
She felt alive. And free. And on fire.
She laughed into the wind, held tighter with her arms and called, "Faster."
He glanced back at her, grinned and opened the bike up. They surged around twis
ts in the road, soared through dips and hollows. She thought that this, not being in an airplane, was probably as close as human beings could ever come to knowing what it was to fly.
It seemed too soon when he came to the little country inn that he had promised, though when the bike stopped she realized her hands were cold, and so were her cheeks.
She slid off and blew on her hands.
Seeing that, he came and took them in his. "Next time I'll remember gloves," he said.
Next time. Two small words. Beautiful words.
"Did you like it?" he asked.
"Like it?" The words seemed so inadequate. "It gives new meaning to the word freedom."
He looked at her thoughtfully, smiled a small smile. "Exactly." He held her hands flat between the two of his, until she could feel the blood flowing back into her fingertips. Then he tucked her hand in his and escorted her into the restaurant.
It was a small, cozy place, with lace at the French-paned windows and a mismatch of antique chairs and tables.
They were led to a quiet table in the corner, where a candle flickered in a glass globe.
"Good," she said. "Darkness. You can't see my hair."
He laughed, ran a hand through his own hair. "The price of freedom. But you should see your cheeks. You're blushing like a—" he stopped, and something grew very dark in his eyes, as if it occurred to him the circumstances under which brides blushed. "A tomato," he finished insincerely.
"A tomato?" she sputtered, and then they were laughing together, and it felt so good. The way it had been before, only better. The way it had been before, only with an exciting new dimension, an exciting new possibility, shimmering on the air with their laughter.
Over a delicious dinner, he proved himself to be every bit the man she had always known he was. He was tender and funny and strong.
And to her amazement he was vulnerable.
He told her about the first time he'd been locked up. Just a little boy who'd stolen a bicycle. The policeman, wanting to throw a scare into him, had put him into a cell until his mom, annoyed about being disturbed at a luncheon, finally came for him.
