Good Guy Heroes Boxed Set

by Julie Ortolon

  Chris looked down at her hand resting over the place where his heart raced as if he’d just run a marathon and sighed. Disaster Waiting to Happen? She wasn’t kidding. He should have been angry, or at the very least annoyed. But when he looked into those big brown eyes, brimming with regret, all kinds of feelings swarmed through him, and not one of them even came close to annoyed. No, instead what he felt was desire. Want. Need. And a clawing impatience to yank her against him and put out this damn fire she’d lit in him.

  Of course, he couldn’t deny that he actually found this episode pretty amusing— but he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell her that.

  Arranging his face into a stern expression, he said, “I suppose I can forgive you— provided you promise never to do such a thing again.”

  “You mean the flick-the-switch-before-the-repairs-are-done maneuver?”

  “Precisely.”

  “I promise. I’ve learned my lesson. Yes, sirree, no more flicking for me. Ever.”

  Chris drew a slow, deep breath and fought the urge to simply crush her against him. This need, this craving she inspired in him bordered on ridiculous. He couldn’t even compare it to anything he’d experienced before because he’d never felt anything like it. The damn woman hadn’t left his mind the entire time he’d been out of town. In fact, she was the reason he came home early. Instead of tossing and turning in an empty bed while thoughts of her chased away all hopes of sleep, he’d worked every night until two or three in the morning, cutting an entire day off his trip.

  Never had three days seemed like such an eternity.

  And now, finally, she was only inches away. And if that meant potato peels all over him, so be it.

  He drew her into his arms and sucked in a breath at the sensation of her pressed against him from chest to knee. God, she felt good. In fact, she felt… perfect. “All right, I forgive you. But I insist we seal your promise with a kiss.”

  Mischief twinkled in her eyes. “Oh, my. I haven’t kissed a Mr. Potato Head since I was five. As I recall, he was rather stiff-lipped and his nose poked me in the eye.”

  “Serves you right.” Leaning forward, he settled his mouth on hers.

  And somewhere in the back of his mind the words dude, your bachelor days are toast echoed.

  And for the first time, he didn’t think he cared.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  *

  BY FRIDAY EVENING, Melanie had everything in perspective. Sort of.

  So she had a date. And he was picking her up in five minutes. So what. Big deal. They’d have dinner, share a few laughs, end of story. One date, that was it. Nothing serious. Besides, he’d promised to be ugly. Totally gross were his exact words. Gross was good.

  It didn’t make any difference that he’d kissed her socks off last night in the Pampered Palate’s kitchen. And who cared that he’d then helped her clean the potato mess off the floor and walls? What difference did it make that in spite of the disaster she’d caused, he’d proceeded to finish his repair job and unclog her garbage disposal?

  So he was a nice guy. A nice, fun, smart, sexy, gorgeous guy whose kisses could melt brain cells into puddles and who had the patience of a saint. Whoop-dee-doo. Lot of guys were just like that. Probably. Just because she didn’t know any of them didn’t mean they weren’t out there. Somewhere.

  After dressing in a pair of white capris and an aqua tank top, she slipped on her favorite wedge sandals and laughed aloud at herself for making such a big to-do over nothing. She’d just finished spritzing on cologne when the doorbell rang.

  Perfectly calm, she walked down the stairs, giving herself a last-minute pep talk, like a coach encouraging his team before the big game.

  “He’s just a guy like any other guy. Probably leaves dirty socks, damp towels, and empty pizza boxes on the floor. His kitchen cabinets are no doubt full of sugar-frosted cereals and Spaghetti-O’s. Undoubtedly mixes last week’s Chinese takeout with scrambled eggs and calls it Egg-Foo Breakfast. So snap out of it, Melanie! This is just a date. He’s just a man.”

  She pulled open the door and froze.

  Just a man.

  Good grief, and what a man.

  She took one look at him and all her resolve trickled away like sand drifting through an hourglass.

  He stood on her porch, a tall, dark, lethal hunk of manhood dressed in snug Levis faded in all the right places. A baby blue Polo shirt stretched across his chest, accentuating his shoulders and strong arms and bringing out the color of his eyes. A sprinkling of dark, intriguing chest hair peeped above the top button on his shirt. Windblown ebony hair, a sexy half smile, stubble-darkened jaw, and the subtle scent of his woodsy cologne completed the picture. The single long-stemmed red rose he held didn’t hurt either.

  What the heck had happened to ugly and totally gross?

  Melanie gulped. She was a goner.

  She would have said hello, invited him in, something, but it seemed she had suddenly forgotten how to swallow. And talk. Her hormones, however, were annoyingly vocal. Zippity doo dah, they sang, strutting their little hormone tushies.

  He handed her the rose. “Hi.”

  Okay. She’d say hello as soon as she remembered how to speak English. In the meantime, she brought the bud to her nose and inhaled its sweet, heady fragrance. We love roses, her hormones sighed.

  Resisting an urge to pound her chest with her fists a la Tarzan and shout, “Me woman, you man, let’s mate,” she managed to say, “Hi.”

  “You look great, Mel Gibson,” he said, leaning in to brush his lips over hers in a soft kiss that was over way too quickly.

  She cleared her throat and somehow managed to smile at him. And not beg him to kiss her again. Good. That’s good. You smiled. Now talk. “Thanks. You look nice, too.” Nice? That was such an understatement, it fell into the realm of a blatant lie. Steaming hot was more like it. “But you’re not supposed to look nice. You’re supposed to look gross.”

  “I didn’t shave. And these are my grungiest jeans.”

  Well, if this was his idea of gross, God help her if she ever saw him in a tux. He freakin’ looked like sex on a stick. But really, how gross could he possibly look? Even covered in potato peels the man was gorgeous.

  “Thanks for the rose. They’re my favorite.”

  “You’re welcome.” Reaching out, he tugged gently on one of her curls. “You ready to go?”

  “Yup.” Thank goodness she remembered how to speak. Now if she kept her eyes closed so she didn’t see him, and stopped breathing so she couldn’t smell him, she just might survive the evening.

  He peeked around her into the foyer. “Where’s Nana?”

  “She and Bernie went to the movies. She said not to wait up and not to call the cops if she wasn’t home until morning.”

  “Sounds like fun. I’m happy for them.”

  “Me, too.” Remembering her manners, Melanie asked, “Do you want to come in? Have a drink before we go?”

  “No thanks. We need to leave. It’ll be dark soon.”

  “So?”

  “So, I want to get where we’re going before there’s no light left.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “The sooner we leave, the sooner you’ll find out.”

  Melanie ran inside long enough to put her rose in water, then grabbed her purse and locked the door. She was halfway down the porch steps when she halted. “Where’s your car?”

  He grabbed her hand and tugged her along. “Home.”

  “Home?” He led her past her Dodge, which sat in the driveway. When she saw what was parked behind the Dodge, she halted.

  She peered at the huge black and chrome machine and felt her stomach roll down to her feet “Wha… what’s that?”

  “What does it look like?”

  Uh-oh. This smelled like big trouble. “It looks like a motorcycle.”

  “Not just a motorcycle. A Harley Davidson.”

  “This is yours?”

  “Sure is. Had it ever since colle
ge.” He slapped a shiny black helmet into her hands and swung one leg over the leather seat “Let’s go.”

  She gaped at him, then at the monstrous gleaming steel machine nestled between his long legs. Sweat popped out on her forehead. “Go?” she asked in a weak voice.

  “Yeah. Go. You know, the open road, the wind in your hair, the asphalt beneath your feet”

  Melanie pursed her lips. It really irked her when someone tossed her own words back at her. And verbatim, no less. What did he have, a photographic memory?

  She plastered a false smile on her face. “As appealing as that sounds, I, ah, I’m afraid I can’t. Maybe some other time. Why don’t we take the Dodge?” She handed him back the helmet. He leaned over and plopped it on her head.

  “Better buckle that up.” He chucked her under the chin and grinned. “It’s the law.”

  Melanie stood rooted to the spot and watched with mounting trepidation as he released the kickstand and backed the motorcycle down to the street. He strapped on his helmet then turned to where she still stood on the driveway.

  “Hey, you’re lookin’ kinda green, Mel Gibson. What’s up?”

  With as much dignity as she could muster, Melanie walked over to him. So she’d lied. So what? Lying wasn’t a crime. Well, in certain cases it was, but since this wasn’t a grand jury/Congressional hearing situation, she was going with it wasn’t a crime. She halted next to the motorcycle. Holy smokes. He looked totally sexy sitting astride all that steel and chrome. She almost swallowed her tongue.

  “I’m not green,” she reported in her haughtiest, queen of England voice. “I simply don’t want to ride on that… thing.”

  He raised his brows. “Why not?”

  “I’ll, uh, get helmet hair. Bugs in my teeth. A sore butt. Besides, I try to avoid things with a negative fun/risk ratio. You know, three minutes on a motorcycle, eight months in the hospital.”

  His smile grew broader. “Chicken.”

  Melanie drew herself up. “I am not chicken.”

  He leaned forward until they were nose-to-nose. “Then prove it, Miss I-don’t-want-aboring-accountant-I-want-a-motorcycle-kind-of-guy. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe your exact words were ‘My motto is: it’s either motorcycle guys or no guys.’ “

  She shot him a dirty look. “Hasn’t anybody ever told you it’s impolite to throw people’s words back at them? You might piss someone off.”

  “Hasn’t anybody ever told you to be careful what you wish for because you might just get it?”

  Yeah, she’d heard it. Blah, blah, blah. She’d always hoped it would apply to winning the lottery. She made one last desperate attempt to save herself. “Nana would be worried sick if she knew I was on that… thing.”

  “Bull. Ten bucks says Nana would love to go for ride on this ‘thing.’ “

  Darn it, he was right. A lump of real fear lodged in Melanie’s throat. She’d never even been close to a motorcycle before. No doors, no seat belts, no nothin’. It gave her the willies.

  “Look,” she said, giving up all pretenses at bravery. “I lied. I don’t want a motorcycle guy. Wind in my hair gives me split ends and I’m allergic to asphalt.” She swallowed the rest of her pride. “I just can’t get on that thing. I’m not ready to die. There are too many things I still want to do.”

  He leaned his forearms on the handlebars and regarded her with interest. “Such as?”

  “Such as… go canoeing. Play in a tennis tournament. Teach a cooking class. Try a martini. Bake the chocolate cake I found the recipe for in yesterday’s newspaper. Skinny-dip. Lots of stuff.”

  “Great. I’ll help you with five out of six. Let’s go.”

  “Five out of six?”

  “I’ll take you canoeing, be your partner in a tennis match, and you can teach me how to cook something. I make a great martini and,” his grin turned wolfish, “I’ll arrange for the skinny-dipping any time you say. You’re on your own with the cake.”

  Melanie couldn’t smother her laughter. She shook her finger at him. “If Nana knew how you were talking to me, she’d take a rolling pin to you.”

  “Good. We’ll use it to make your cake. Now I’m six for six.” He held out his hand. “C’mon, Melanie. Climb on. Take a chance. Do something wild.”

  “Hey, I do plenty of wild things. Lots of ‘em. Wild is my middle name.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and regarded her with amusement. “Oh, really? What’s the last wild thing you did?”

  She shuffled her feet. “Uh, well, yesterday I handwashed a rayon shirt that said dry clean only.”

  He hooted out a laugh. “Oh, yeah, you’re a real daredevil.”

  “Ha, ha, ha. I once put bubble bath in the Jacuzzi— “

  “Now that’s more like it.”

  She sent him a withering look. “I was twelve.”

  He made a tsking sound and shook his head. “That’s pathetic. Absolutely pitiful. Boy, are you lucky I came along to save your sorry butt.”

  “It’s my sorry butt I’m attempting to save by not getting on that thing.”

  A warm, teasing, utterly sexy expression entered his eyes. Melanie felt the pull of that look and groaned. “Don’t look at me like that,” she protested, knowing she was going down for the third time with no lifeboat in sight. “Time out. No fair.”

  “C’mon, Mel. Ride with me.” He leaned forward and brushed his mouth over hers. Their helmets bumped. “I promise you’ll like it.”

  Riding on a Harley with the sexiest guy east of the Rockies, arms wrapped around him, pressed into his body? She’d probably like it no end. That was exactly what she was afraid of. And if the motorcycle didn’t kill her, the overdose of potent male sexuality no doubt would. She took a deep breath.

  Oh, well. What the heck. Everybody’s gotta go sometime.

  CHAPTER NINE

  *

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER the sun was just slipping beneath the horizon, bathing the sky with a palette of pinks and oranges. Chris cruised the Harley down the road, feeling the tension of the past several hectic weeks ease from his body and mind. There was nothing like a motorcycle ride on a gorgeous summer evening to relax him.

  And there was nothing like a curvy female body pressed against his back, hugging his waist, to remind him that not every part of his body was relaxed.

  “You okay back there?” he shouted.

  He felt her helmet unjam itself from between his shoulder blades and knew she’d finally lifted her head.

  “Prop your chin on my shoulder,” he urged. “I promise you’ll love it.”

  It took her a minute, but she finally settled her chin on his shoulder.

  “I don’t have to open my eyes, do I?” she yelled.

  “If you don’t, you’ll miss the most beautiful sunset you’ve ever seen,” he yelled back.

  They drove on in silence, along a tree-lined, winding road that ran parallel to the Chattahoochee River. Chris smiled when he felt her rigid body slowly relax, loosening the death grip she had around his waist. By the time he parked in front of his condo, he suspected she’d changed her mind about motorcycles.

  After turning off the ignition he looked behind him. “Well?”

  She pulled off her helmet and shook her head, spreading a flurry of curls that settled like a halo around her face. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed pink.

  “That was awesome,” she said, laughing. “Incredible.”

  He grinned. “I hate to say I told you so… “

  “Oh, go ahead and say it. You were right, I was wrong. You’re a big macho motorcycle hunk and I was a wuss.” She swung her leg around and slid off, then practically danced around the bike in her excitement. “What a feeling. Like flying. Like nothing I’ve ever done before.”

  “Glad you liked it.”

  “Yes, sir,” she enthused, patting the Harley, “I’ve gotta get me one of these babies.” She looked at him and asked in a dead-serious tone, “How do you think I’d look in one of those
black leather biker-chick outfits?”

  The thought of her dressed in black leather gave him palpitations and made his knees sweat. He removed his helmet and hung it by its strap on the handlebars. “Come here.”

  Her eyes narrowed and a knowing, provocative, totally sexy smile curved her lips. She sauntered over to him, hips swaying. It was all he could do to remember to breath. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.

  She stopped when she stood directly in front of him. Reaching out, she walked her fingers up the front of his shirt. “You’d better not be thinking about trying anything funny, big boy,” she whispered in a husky drawl that tightened his groin and raised his temperature ten degrees. “I’m a real badass, bitchin’, Harley babe now.”

  “Oh, yeah? Prove it.”

  “All right.” She gracefully swung her leg over and straddled the leather seat facing him. Then she looped her arms around his neck and wrapped her long legs around his waist. “How’s this?”

  Chris hoped his tongue wasn’t hanging out. It took every ounce of his rapidly deteriorating concentration to keep his feet planted on the ground so the Harley didn’t keel over.

  She leaned forward and gently nipped the side of his neck with her teeth. “Am I doing okay?”

  A shaky laugh escaped him. “Yeah. You’re a real badass.” His skin suddenly felt too tight. Like it had shrunk a couple of sizes in the last two minutes. Hauling her up even tighter against him, he said, “I hope you know CPR.”

  Her tongue flicked out and brushed his earlobe. His eyes glazed over.

  “CPR?” she whispered. “Why’s that?”

  “Because I’m about to have a heart attack.” Fisting his hand in her hair, he dragged her mouth to meet his in a kiss that left him shaking.