by Linda Style
“Hi, it’s me. How’s my girl?” Listening to his morning report, he grinned. At least some things had worked out.
SaraJane was safe and happy. It was the one part of his life that was going perfectly. And since it was the most important part, he wasn’t about to let anything screw it up.
“No, I didn’t call to check up on the photographer. Maybe she’ll come back, maybe she won’t. Makes no difference to me.”
He drew in a patient breath. “You’re impossible, you know that?” he said affectionately. “Besides, at forty-one, I don’t need a wingman. I can handle my personal life.” He paused. “Even if I haven’t done a spectacular job of it up to now.”
He listened for a moment. “Yes, I’ll be there at the usual time. See you then.”
He hung up and smiled at the framed photo of SaraJane he’d replaced on the desk. Her golden curls reminded him of the blond photographer who’d appeared out of nowhere and now had him thinking about her more often than he wanted.
He didn’t need a woman in his life right now. And when, or if, he ever did, it sure wouldn’t be a woman like Whitney Sheffield. He’d had enough divas to last six lifetimes.
Still, she unsettled him, made him wonder if her skin felt as smooth as it looked. Made him wonder how she’d feel naked against his bare chest, and if that long blond hair would slide through his fingers like silk. Yeah, he’d had a fantasy or two. But hell, he could wonder from here to Alaska, because he wasn’t going to do anything about it.
Not that he had to worry. She’d said she had to wind up some business in California, said she’d be back in a day or two, and that was three days ago. She’d probably blown him off without another thought—which wouldn’t surprise him. It was typical self-centered born-with-a-silver-spoon-in-her-mouth behavior.
And he hadn’t exactly given her a rousing welcome.
He slapped a hand on the toolbox, hefting it with purpose. Good hard work…the most effective way he knew to take his mind off things he didn’t want to think about. Like Whitney Sheffield. And sex.
***
“Hello?” Whitney stepped through the wide double doors into the foyer of the inn. When no one answered, she fished her room key from her purse. If Gretta and Johnny were around, they’d see the car and know she’d returned. She could get the rest of her luggage later.
She bounded upstairs and swung open the door to her suite. Entering, she set her camera gear on the chair in the sitting room, then walked toward the window. As she did, she caught the scent of fresh flowers and noticed a daisy-filled glass vase on a gate-leg table next to the couch.
Gretta’s touch, she figured, stopping to finger the delicate crocheted doily under the vase, registering how everything blended so perfectly with the peach-and-vanilla floral pattern of the sofa and the quilt on the bed. A gentle rap on the door turned her around.
“Yes?” she called. “Please come in.”
Johnny’s cheerful face greeted her. “Welcome back. I came up to see if you need help with your luggage.” He stood tall in the doorway, his height and build oddly familiar in the muted light of the hallway.
“Oh, hi. I didn’t think either of you were here,” she said, smiling at the warm welcome. “And yes, I’d appreciate it. There are only two bags.” She handed him the car keys. “I travel light.”
“Sure, sure. That’s what they all say,” Johnny quipped before he turned to head down the stairs.
Hearing laughter outside her window, she swiveled around to take a peek, but couldn’t see anyone.
“Here you go, young lady.” Johnny returned with her bags a minute later and hauled them into the room. He left them near the closet, then hoisted the largest piece onto the luggage rack. Finished, he dusted his hands and headed toward the door.
Whitney walked with him. “Do you have other guests?” She pointed to the window. “I heard people outside.”
Johnny’s face lit up. “Nope. That’s probably our grandchild—we watch her most every day. And a delight she is.” He started to go again, then asked, “Can we expect you at dinner tonight?” His salt-and-pepper eyebrows bunched. “Gretta’s the best cook in town.”
“Funny, that’s what Charley said about Mabel’s cooking,” Whitney joked, adding, “but after the muffins I had the other day, you don’t have to convince me of Gretta’s culinary expertise. What time did you say? Seven?”
“Actually, it’s at six.” He stopped at the door. “If you decide to come, better let Gretta know by soon so she can adjust the menu.”
Whitney smiled, appreciating the invitation. “Thanks. I think I can say right now that I’ll be there.”
She’d been in such a hurry driving back from the Phoenix airport she hadn’t taken time to eat. And now, even though she was famished, she needed to hustle over to Rhys’s store to see what kind of schedule she could arrange with him. Maybe even shoot a photo or two.
She would photograph Rhys, she knew that. First of all, he’d probably think it strange if she didn’t, since that was supposedly why she’d come to Estrade. And regardless of her negative feelings about the man, he’d make an excellent subject.
Even without his motorcycle attire, he had an intriguing quality about him, a latent volatility that simmered just beneath the surface. It was exactly what made him so interesting. Photographically. If she could just capture that essence on film…
When she arrived, the sun was low, its coppery light stretched over the weathered-pine storefront, giving it the appearance of an old photograph yellowed with age. Standing in the street, she clicked off several frames from different angles.
In the middle of a setup, Rhys, dressed in bleached jeans, a black T-shirt and boots, stepped out and leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb.
Perfect.
Her senses spun, her awareness of shape and form, light and shadow acute. Honing in on the elements, she moved from side to side, shooting several frames in rapid succession, anxious to capture as much as possible before the light, or Rhys, disappeared.
Without acknowledging her, Rhys drew a cigarillo from his shirt pocket and, lighting it, turned in her direction. Oh, yes. Perfect again. Head tipped down, a lock of ebony hair carelessly looped over his forehead, eyes dark and brooding, strong chin. A thin curl of smoke rising from the slender cigarillo.
Absorbed by the image in her viewfinder, she jerked back, startled, when he looked up at her and nodded.
Lowering the camera, she strolled toward him. “Hi.”
He studied her, then took another drag.
“The light was so perfect just then,” she said, feeling compelled to explain. She walked closer and climbed the stairs. He hadn’t moved an inch, just kept staring at her, making her squirm under his scrutiny.
“You always carry that thing?” he asked when she reached his side. His voice was deeper, huskier than she remembered.
“Pretty much. A good photographer is always prepared.” She smiled and waved a hand toward the setting sun. “It’s beautiful.” Then staring at the cigarillo, she added, “That’s not good for you, you know.”
He pulled another long drag and, exhaling, stared briefly at the length of burning ash before snuffing it out in the container next to the door.
“I know.” He motioned with a wide sweep of his arm while he held the door open.
Almost before she stepped in, the scent of new leather captured her senses. She felt a flurry of anticipation at the prospect of actually learning about the business of motorcycles—and, she hoped, about SaraJane.
How close would she need to get to Gannon so he’d trust her enough to talk about the child? A jolt of anxiety diminished her anticipation. Getting close to Gannon made her palms sweat and her pulse race. He followed her in, quickly walking past her to lead the way. “Come on back and we’ll talk,” he said.
Trailing him into the office, she sensed a distance in his manner. She’d thought they’d developed good rapport the last time they’d talked. But now… Fresh panic b
ubbled up. Had he changed his mind? Had he realized she might pose a threat?
She grabbed one of the paper cups next to the bottled water and, after filling it, sat in the chair facing his desk. Rhys sank into the chair behind it, his eyes shuttered. Leaning back, he fixed his gaze on the desktop.
“I know we talked about the possibility of you working here,” he said, then paused. Brows bunched. Thinking.
Damn. She shouldn’t have stayed away so long, but she’d had other responsibilities to tie up. But it had given him too much time to think, and now it sounded like he was going to renege on their agreement.
“Research,” she said. “Work in exchange for the opportunity to gather information.” She spoke earnestly, hoping to redirect a conversation that might destroy her plan before it ever got off the ground. “And the opportunity to learn from an expert.”
His expression didn’t change, but the look in his eyes did…a look she couldn’t quite decipher. Caution? Desire? Whatever it was, wasn’t good. He kept her continually second-guessing everything. Did he know who she was? Suspect her motives? Was he playing her?
But damn. Whatever she was feeling didn’t matter. She had to be nice, agreeable, maybe even willing to do things that went against everything she stood for. If that’s what it took, so be it.
“I cleared my schedule. Totally. So I’m free to help out.” Maybe a little guilt would work. “And I did some research while I was in California,” she continued. “I gathered a bunch of information from the Internet and actually learned quite a bit about motorcycles. It’s amazing stuff,” she said, resting one elbow on the desk. “But there’s so much I didn’t understand.”
She sent him a college-student-awed-by-her-professor look. “Can you tell me why one bike would be preferred over another? For example, the one you were riding the other day, why would you ride that when it’s obviously not as comfortable as one of the, uh, Big Twins?” God, she sounded like an idiot.
“Big Twins?” he asked, smirking.
She not only sounded like an idiot, she was one. If he didn’t see through that crap… But she forged ahead. “Yes, you know…” She fiddled with the pen on the desk. “Wouldn’t a smaller bike, something like your Sportster, be less comfortable to ride?”
His smile broadened and he slanted a glance at her from under his brows. “Did you find the ride uncomfortable? I didn’t get that impression.”
Instant heat reached her cheeks. She shifted her position, crossed her legs. He was purposefully trying to unnerve her. And he was doing a pretty good job of it.
She steeled her resolve. Play along, Whitney. Do your freaking job. She leaned against the back of the chair, brushed a hand against her hair and, unflinchingly, returned his look.
“It was a smooth ride,” she said softly, deliberately. “At least, the first part was.”
He sent her a knowing smile, and she gave him one back. She would not let him unnerve her again. “And I enjoyed it very much. Actually, I just wondered why you chose the bike you did.”
His expression suddenly shifted from amused to interested.
“Lots of reasons,” he said, settling back in his chair. “Racing is one. It requires a smaller lighter bike.” He pointed toward the back door. “Like my Sportster. But that’s not the reason I ride it.”
“And your reason is?”
“I collect old bikes. They appreciate in value. But I also like the quick response I get.” He grinned. “A quick response is one of my requirements.”
Again heat creeped up her neck. Until she saw the glint in his eyes. He was doing it on purpose. He liked to unnerve her.
“Really,” she said tersely. “Well, even though I haven’t had the riding experience, I have a feeling I’d prefer the big one.”
His eyebrows shot up, but the hesitation brief. “I’ve got one of those, too.” He scraped a hand across his chin. “I can take you for another ride. Then you’ll know which you like best.”
She leaned forward again, elbows on the desk, one hand cupping her chin as bits and pieces of research came back to her. “You own a…fat boy? A HOG?”
Rhys threw back his head in a burst of laughter. “Yeah, it’s a Harley. Most of the bikes I own are Harleys.” He stood, picked up a magazine from a table near the window and handed it to her. Pointing at the title, he said, “That’s a HOG—Harley Owners’ Group—magazine.”
She spared him a speculative glance, waiting for further explanation, or another innuendo, or God only knew what. She hadn’t a clue what would spring from this man’s mouth next.
“So HOG’s an acronym, not the name of a bike. Though some people use it that way.”
He smiled again, that same blinding smile he’d given her before.
“I knew that,” she deadpanned. “It was a test…to see how much you know.” She allowed a grin.
“Well,” he said, grinning, too. “I can see you do need a little guidance.” With a gesture he indicated Whitney should pull her chair around next to his, and as he sat again, he reached behind her and took several books from the shelves. “Let’s start with the basics.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
WHITNEY FRESHENED UP for dinner, replacing her denim shirt with a soft navy turtleneck. Her brain was still frazzled from all the information Rhys had heaped on her, but at least they seemed to have arrived at an understanding.
He realized she was serious about her job, and regardless of whatever sideline business he had, it was obvious the man knew his motorcycles. He said he’d been riding since he was fifteen and had dozens in his collection. She’d asked immediately when she could photograph them, but he’d put her off. Which only meant she’d try again.
She glanced around the room. While she’d been gone, her room had been cleaned and the bed turned down. She loved her hosts’ attentiveness, loved the way Gretta and Johnny made her feel like part of the family in the short time she’d been at the inn. Maybe when this was over—
No, that wouldn’t happen. If she found SaraJane and got custody as planned, she’d probably never return to Estrade.
Voices filtered up from outside, and, phone in hand, Whitney padded stocking footed to the bay window. Once again she couldn’t see anyone, since the sound came from below her on the veranda. She sat on the window seat, curled her legs under her and punched in Albert’s number, anxious to tell him what she’d learned today, in case he could use any of it in his search for SaraJane’s birth certificate.
She left her number, then called Tanya.
“Hey, Ms. Editor, it’s about time you decided to show up for work.”
“I had another hot date with one of my many lovers. Where are you? And what’s so urgent?”
Whitney hesitated, thinking how to explain.
“You mentioned another book,” Tanya prompted.
“Motorcycles. A coffee-table book on motorcycles.”
“Motor— Uh, excuse me, I think there’s something wrong with the phone.”
Whitney heard a loud thumping on the other end, as if Tanya was hitting the phone with her hand.
“There, I hope that’s better,” her friend said, coming back on the line. “I actually thought I heard you say something about a book on mo-tor-cy-cles.” She emphasized, drawing out the syllables.
Whitney laughed out loud. The woman’s terse sense of humor, which she claimed was the result of being raised an only child in an Italian-Jewish family, never failed to amuse Whitney.
“Right. Motorcycles it is,” she said, launching into her best sales pitch, describing the concept in the same way she had for Rhys. “And the bottom line is that I still have an enormous amount of research to do even to get a proposal to you. What I really want to know is if the project interests you.”
Tanya’s silence suggested she liked the idea or was at least considering the possibilities. When she didn’t like something, her reaction was immediate.
“Besides, I think it’s a good departure from my usual work.”
“Any part
icular reason you picked motorcycles?”
“Not just motorcycles,” Whitney said. “Also the people who ride them, where they go, what they do—you know, all that stuff I just said.”
“You checked Books in Print?” Tanya switched to her editorial mode.
“Yes, but like I said, I still have a ton of research to do.” Whitney paused, uncertain how much to tell her friend. Tanya was privy to almost everything about her, and had ever since they were roomies in college. Whitney had told her about Morgan and that Whitney had hired Albert to help locate Morgan’s baby…her niece, but this was different. She wasn’t sure she wanted to divulge how the book tied in with it—not just yet.
She didn’t want anything to screw up her chances of finding SaraJane. Besides, the book idea really did excite her. Nothing wrong with dual research, especially if it gave her legitimacy with Rhys.
“I plan to be in Arizona for a while doing research at a motorcycle shop called Journey. The owner’s offered to let me hang around for a couple of weeks to research the business. Like an intern.”
“You had to go to Arizona to research? There’s no place like that in Southern California—where you happen to own a house?”
Tanya knew something was up. They were too close for her not to know. Still, Whitney the timing wasn’t right. She felt a need to keep some information to herself for the moment. “Estrade was recommended as a haven for bikers…and the landscape is a great backdrop for photos, so I checked it out. That’s all.”
Another pause. “So, what do you want from me? Carte blanche so you’ll have a good reason to hang out with this biker guy?”
“Tanya. It’s work. And besides, you know I’ve never been attracted to the macho type.”
Her friend’s laughter rippled through the phone line. “Maybe you oughtta consider it. A little macho might do you some good.”
Whitney gave a derisive laugh of her own. “Yeah, guess I couldn’t do any worse than I have in the past, could I?”
So far, she’d had three strikeouts in the love department. No question, she was a lousy judge of character when it came to men, always picking ones who turned out to be interested in her money or the publicity they could gain from the association.
