Her Sister's Secret (Mills & Boon Vintage Superromance)

by Linda Style

  The man radiated attitude. Attitude and steaming masculinity. Even though she could see only his eyes, she could easily understand Morgan’s attraction. Her baby sister had always been susceptible to the reckless physical side of life.

  And Rhys Gannon might as well have had DANGEROUS emblazoned in fire-engine-red neon across his broad chest.

  But it was Morgan who found that element attractive, not her. Morgan had always been more daring than Whitney—and more needy.

  “Actually, I was passing through Phoenix when I heard Estrade might be a good place to do some research. I was told Bruce Springsteen came here once with his entourage,” she said, remembering the photo shoot she’d done with the singer a couple years ago.

  Gannon laughed, a rich baritone from deep within. “Lady, you’ve come to the right place, but you’re a couple years too late.”

  “What do you mean? Too late for what?”

  “Used to be a biker bar here.” He motioned down the street toward the place where he’d gone inside before. “It’s just a parts shop now.”

  “But those riders…?”

  “Passing through.”

  Whitney frowned, torn between the need to keep him talking so she could get information about her niece and the rush of panic that made her want to run like hell. But he hadn’t recognized the name, so she was okay there. And if she didn’t keep him talking…

  “Oh,” she said. “Well, that’s disappointing. Uhm…well, maybe you could tell me something about your motorcycle?” She narrowed her eyes to examine the vehicle more closely.

  He glanced at his watch, which Whitney noticed was a high-tech stainless-steel digital, definitely not the kind a typical gang member would wear. Spikes on black leather would be more fitting.

  “Nope,” he said, steering his bike around to head in the other direction. “I’ve got an appointment. C’mon round tomorrow morning if you want.” He paused, adding seconds later, “I might be back then.” He gunned the motor.

  Right. And I might be Peter Pan. Damn! If he left now, what was the likelihood he’d come back tomorrow?

  And what would she do in the meantime? Sleep in her car? She hadn’t seen a single hotel or motel in the small town.

  Glancing around, she sighed heavily.

  She’d flown in from New York this morning, rented a car, driven two hours on twisting mountain roads and then waited another two hours for Gannon to show up at the shop. She’d had a hard time even finding him, and if it wasn’t for the name “Rhys” on his license plate, she might still be looking.

  Her shoulder muscles ached, and from habit, she rolled them to get out the kinks.

  As he turned to leave, she said, “Do you know if there’s a hotel or motel around? I didn’t see anything coming through.” If he knew she was staying overnight, maybe he’d feel some compunction to come back.

  Gannon studied her, speculation in his eyes. He reached out a hand. “Get on,” he said, his words a command rising over the engine’s noise.

  She stiffened, yanked the camera bag over her shoulder, and hedged back a step.

  The last thing in the world she wanted was to get on a motorcycle with a drug-dealing kidnapper.

  He nodded toward the road. “I’ll show you where to stay.”

  Oddly, his tone sounded understanding. Was he really offering help or was there more to it? Morgan had said he was smooth. She’d also said he was cruel, dangerous, and as volatile as nitroglycerin.

  Whitney had no reason to doubt it.

  His hand remained outstretched.

  She pointed to the white sedan she’d rented in Phoenix. “I have a car. Tell me where the hotel is and I’ll drive there,” she answered, praying she sounded more confident than she felt.

  He glanced at the car, then withdrew his hand.

  “I’ll follow you,” she added quickly.

  “You ever been on a bike before?”

  Drawing her bottom lip between her teeth, she shook her head.

  “Afraid?”

  Hell, yes! Whitney squared her shoulders. “No,” she fired back. “But I don’t know you. I don’t know anything about you.”

  He looked down, cracking gloved knuckles, one hand in the other.

  Shit. Had she blown it? Was he actually being nice? Or was he testing her to see if her story was for real? “I mean, you are a stranger…”

  Silence. Interminable silence.

  “It’s almost dark,” he said at last, “and the place is hard to find. If you’ll get on, I’ll show you.” He gazed directly into her eyes. “And if you really want to know about motorcycles, you’ll need firsthand experience.”

  Another pause.

  “I’ll bring you back to your car.” He thrust out his hand again. “I promise.”

  Her stomach tumbled. Damn. Was he testing her? If she didn’t get on, he could easily disappear and then she’d have to start the search all over again. Besides, if she went, maybe she could get him to talk enough so she’d know where to look for her niece.

  SaraJane’s safety was at stake.

  She’d told him she was here on a job, and under any other circumstance, on any other assignment, she’d jump at the chance to go along. She would’ve been the one suggesting it. He couldn’t possibly know why she was really here…and…maybe he was thinking he could make some money if she photographed his bike for the book; guys like Gannon always needed money, didn’t they?

  “C’mon, you’ll like it,” he urged, his tone cajoling, yet firm enough to let her know he didn’t want to take no for an answer.

  Adrenaline coursed through her veins. How dangerous could it be? If he believed her story about the book, she should be safe.

  And, as far as she knew, even as evil as Morgan had said he was, he hadn’t killed anyone.

  Yet.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE ACRID TASTE of fear rose in the back of Whitney’s throat as she flexed her fingers, deciding. Gannon could have other motives, and once he got her out of town… She swallowed, her throat tight and dry. Anything could happen. He could take her anywhere, do anything he wanted to her…rape…murder…

  She shivered at the ugly thought. But the image of a golden-haired child flashed before her. A child whose life could well depend on her.

  Gritting her teeth, Whitney took his hand. Her stomach muscles clenched. She was so tense her nerves zapped like live wires under her skin. And yet, a strange weakness flooded her limbs as she threw one leg over the seat behind him.

  The seat was smaller than it looked, and so slick that she slipped forward, her body practically touching his. She inched back, but kept sliding. He shifted around, checked her position, then pointed to his helmet.

  Was he offering her his helmet?

  Right now, all she wanted was to get the ride over with ASAP. No sooner had she shaken her head no, than the motorcycle jerked forward, and she threw both arms around his waist to steady herself.

  They sped down the switchbacks, heading in the same direction as the gang. When she saw the town was just a smudge on the hillside behind them, a dark foreboding washed over her. They were completely alone, tearing down a desolate mountain road so fast there was no turning back.

  Between gulps of wind, she decided it was better to concentrate on her next step. She’d take mental note of her surroundings and memorize any significant markers—just in case she had to get back to town on her own.

  In the waning light of dusk, they sped by emerald trees, with branches jutting from gnarled and twisted trunks of silver gray, dotting the craggy vermillion rock of the canyon.

  She clung to Gannon’s solid body, arms wrapped tightly around his waist. He was strong and sure in his movements, yet flexible enough to anticipate changes in the winding road. As she caught the rhythm and sway of the bike, she molded herself against him for protection from the wind and the threat of falling off. She pressed her cheek flat against the smooth cool leather of his jacket as they spiraled downward, then onto a dirt road that
plunged them deeper into the canyon.

  The sharp breeze whipped against her face and tore at her hair, loosening it from the clasp. As she filled her lungs with the heady pine-scented air, a quixotic exhilaration coursed through her…a sudden sense of freedom.

  And for a few surrealistic seconds, time suspended, her mind experiencing nothing but an acute awareness of the moment—and Rhys Gannon. The man she hated. The man whose touch had, just for a fraction of a second, made her blood rush. The man whose muscles tightened and released with each curve taken. Had they been two other people, she might have enjoyed the sensation, might have delighted in the feel of his muscular power against her body.

  But they weren’t two other people. And it was dangerous to even think like that.

  The road leveled out. As they slowed and pulled onto a flat precipice, the roar of the motor receded to a deep-throated growl. Gannon eased the bike to the edge of an escarpment overlooking a turbulent rain-swollen river that crashed against piles of rocks and boulders. The thundering crescendo echoed upward between the granite walls.

  Inhaling the musky scent of dried leaves and the chill moisture in the air, Whitney glanced around. They were surrounded by dense trees—and completely isolated.

  Her throat constricted. She looked to the angry river below. An instant helpless feeling coursed through her. Dammit. She hated feeling fearful. She hated feeling helpless even more.

  She’d learned early on that fear only generated more fear. Once she’d faced that fact and strengthened herself against it, she no longer felt helpless. For most of her life that philosophy had worked well.

  Except right now, things were out of her control. And the need to find SaraJane was so great she’d do almost anything.

  She steeled herself, forced back the emotions, and waited, body rigid, poised for escape while Gannon sat in silence, his long legs stretched out to steady the bike.

  What was he contemplating?

  Just as she spotted a narrow dirt road, Gannon gestured toward it with a wide sweep of his arm. The road ran across a small wooden bridge that spanned the river and curled up the mountain on the other side.

  She squinted. There was a house. A huge house that resembled some of the old homes in the Hamptons. She blinked…a house. A bed and breakfast?

  Gannon shifted to face her. “That’s it. The only place around here to stay.”

  “I…” God, she really did have an overactive imagination. “Will I need a reservation? It’s getting kind of late.”

  He laughed, his tone warm, almost cordial, but she couldn’t quite tell over the bike’s idling engine. And for the first time since she’d climbed onto the seat, she was conscious of Rhys Gannon’s thighs pressing hot against the insides of her own and vibrating with the steady rhythm of the engine.

  “Not in Estrade this late in the fall.” He settled himself more snugly against her, then guided the bike toward the road.

  “Think you can remember how to find the place again?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “Sure—if my brains aren’t too scrambled from the rough ride,” she said, raising her voice to be heard.

  “Ms. Sheffield,” he said, turning back. “I doubt you have any idea what a rough ride is.”

  The subtext in his words was obvious. She was about to respond, but he gunned the engine until the noise exploded and ricocheted through the canyon like fireworks.

  A sharp thrust forward jerked her backward. She clamped both arms around his waist, holding on for her life, as they roared out even faster than before.

  He opened the throttle and blasted up the mountain at breakneck speed. Her breath lodged in her throat. They skidded recklessly around the switchbacks, flirted with sheer drop-offs edging the narrow unfenced road, then whizzed within an eyelash of the jagged granite wall on the other side.

  The relentless wind clawed at her hair and stung her eyes until they teared. She was terrified—but she’d be damned if she’d let him know it.

  Back in town, he roared up to her rental car and jammed on the brakes. The bike spun around in a cloud of dust, then screeched to an abrupt stop. Turning from the waist, Gannon extended a hand to help her off.

  She stood for a long moment, elbows propped against the trunk of the car, legs wobbly as Jell-O, before she expelled her breath.

  When she finally turned to face him, he lifted the visor and asked, “Rough ride?”

  Shoving back her snarled hair, Whitney straightened with as much dignity as she could muster. “Point made.”

  Again Whitney saw crinkles form in the outer corners of his eyes, but it was hard to tell their nature. She drew in a deep breath. “I have a lot to learn,” she said more sharply than intended.

  They were playing cat and mouse, and suddenly she wasn’t sure who the predator was. She’d started out intending to set him up, and now she wondered if he’d cunningly lured her into some kind of trap she didn’t recognize. Or maybe he was trying to scare her off?

  Whatever the case, she wasn’t going to let him take control, again.

  “I know,” he said, gunning the motor in spurts, sidling so close she could feel heat from both the man and his machine. “Makes me wonder why a publisher would pick someone who knew nothing about motorcycles to do a book about them. Maybe your boss ought to get someone else for the job.”

  Arrogant son of a bitch. She held her stance, drew in another breath. “It was my idea, and even if it wasn’t, I’ve never once bailed on a job.” She lifted her chin and smiled. “Research is the fun part…and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the riding lesson. I’m looking forward to learning everything I can tomorrow.”

  His laugh was low and husky. “You still want to hang out with the biker boys? It’s not exactly high society, Ms. Sheffield.” He placed a hard emphasis on her last name.

  A jolt of fear shot through her. He couldn’t know who she was, could he? Morgan had said he wouldn’t. And there was little resemblance between her and Morgan since her sister had dyed her hair black and taken on that pale gothic look. Whitney held her breath while he examined her from head to toe.

  “And you look like you’re real used to the good life.” His words dripped with provocation.

  “I’m a professional photographer and—”

  “Could be dangerous.”

  Again she heard the challenge in his tone, and again she straightened her spine.

  “I’ve been in dangerous situations before.” She forced a tight smile. “I’ve got a job to do, and whether I do it here or elsewhere, I will get it done.”

  He reached a gloved hand to her face, and she flinched. With two fingers under her chin, he nudged her face upward.

  It was all she could do not to jerk away. Did he know? Was he playing her? A cat with a mouse? Did he see a familiarity? She and Morgan did have the same eye color.

  His gaze, intense and unreadable, settled on her lips.

  Her breathing accelerated. Her heart raced. Suddenly her mouth was as dry as the desert. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue and, despite the panic rioting within her, remained perfectly still.

  “You’re very pretty,” he finally said, his hand dropping away.

  “I’m sure you always get what you want.”

  ***

  Rhys paced the rustic, made-to-look-old boardwalk in front of the store window, stopped to glance down the street and cursed himself for opening his big mouth yesterday. He shouldn’t have told her to come back. With any luck, she wouldn’t.

  So, why had he done such a stupid thing?

  He tapped the bike tire with the toe of his boot. He knew damned well why. His idiot ego. And the fact that the photographer intrigued him.

  He’d been suspicious when he saw her taking photographs. Hardly a day went by that he wasn’t aware someone might try to find SaraJane. But the woman had said she was there to research a book about motorcycles. He’d pressured her to see how far she’d go to get her story—to see if she was telling the truth.
He’d goaded her to take a ride and in general acted like the crude bastard he was.

  Yeah, he’d said and done plenty to scare her off, and maybe he’d succeeded. Nothing to worry about. She probably wouldn’t show. Or would she?

  She’d surprised the hell out of him when she’d actually gotten on the bike. How naive was she? For all she knew, he could be a rapist…or a serial killer.

  It would’ve been easy to take advantage, and he’d tried his best to let her know it. But when her pale-blue eyes glistened with that silvery sheen of purpose and she said she’d get the job done here or elsewhere, he figured her reasons for being there probably were legit.

  But she wasn’t as confident as she made out. Oh, she acted cool and in control, but he’d sensed her insecurity. It was a subtle thing…he’d felt her hand quiver when he took it in his to assist her. And he’d felt her stiffen when he’d touched her cheek. Man, that woman was drawn tighter than a set of guitar strings.

  She should be if she planned on venturing into the biker subculture.

  Which, despite her apprehensions, she did seem determined to do. He grinned, remembering her bravado when she’d nearly toppled off the bike. Yeah, she had moxie. He liked that in a woman.

  Not that it made a difference. It hadn’t taken him a split second to realize she was a lot like Stephanie, his spoiled-rotten ex-wife—the kind of woman whose ancestors came over on the freaking Mayflower. The kind whose parents would do anything to keep their daughter away from lowlife like him.

  He’d been the proverbial bad boy from the wrong side of the tracks. And he’d never been allowed to forget it. Not in school and not in his short-lived marriage. He’d been blinded by Stephanie’s style and class. Blinded by the challenge.

  And after Stephanie, there was Raven. Briefly. He’d thought she was different. Wild and free. No ties to anything…or anyone. And even though she didn’t dress the part, she, too, had an elegance about her. Probably what drew him. Eventually the truth came out. The blue-blood roots. The expectations.

  Yeah, he’d pegged Whitney Sheffield immediately, with her cool manner and understated elegance. He recognized the expensive cut of her clothing, knew too well the breathy cultured voice with its traces of East Coast finishing school.