Maternity Bride. Maureen Child
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same outfit, the results would be very different. A quick glance down at her own, less than impressive bustline confirmed the thought.
“Looking for a bike, lady?”
She turned toward the first man again. “No.” She cleared her throat and told herself to remember why she was there. It didn’t matter if she would look terrible in a leather vest, since she had no plans to acquire one. “Actually, I’m looking for Mike Ryan.”
He nodded, then said wistfully, “Too bad.” Jerking his head toward the door behind the counter, he added, “Mike’s in the service bay. He’ll be back in a minute.”
“Thank you.”
A moment later, that door opened and Mike stepped into the room. Denise’s stomach jumped. She ignored it and walked toward him.
“Nice wheels,” the bearded man said.
She stopped and looked at him. “What?”
“Your legs, Denise,” Mike spoke up and shot a telling look at the other man. “He said you have nice legs.”
“Oh.” Flustered a bit, she nodded and said, “Thank you very much.”
Hell, Mike thought, what did he care if Tom Jenkins looked at her legs or not? He ignored the skitter in his gut, slapped both hands down on the countertop and leaned forward as Denise came closer.
Dammit, he’d been hoping that he had imagined most of the instant attraction he had felt for her the night before. His gaze raked over her quickly, thoroughly, as she marched determinedly across his shop.
Just his luck, he thought. Even in a boxy, green suit jacket and too long skirt, she did things to him he would have thought impossible at this time yesterday. From the sound system overhead came the muted strains of the Eagles. But over that familiar music, came the sharp click of her high heels against the floorboards. They seemed to be tapping out a rhythm that screamed silently in his head, “Take her, she’s yours. Take her, she’s yours.”
His body tightened and he gritted his teeth in an effort to ignore the voices and concentrate on the woman. Even though he’d been expecting to see her again, he hadn’t expected to feel such a rush of pleasure.
It’s nothing, he told himself. At least nothing more than a very healthy response to a pretty woman. It had been a long time since he’d confused hormones with something deeper.
“Morning,” he said as she came to a stop opposite him.
“Good morning ”
He watched her nervous fingers playing with the strap of her bag. Good. That gave him the upper hand in whatever was going to be between them. And he knew already that there would definitely be something.
“What can I do for you, Denise?” he asked, despite the fact that he knew damned well why she was there.
She inhaled sharply, glanced to either side of her to make sure no one was near, then said, “When I left Patrick’s office last night, I forgot to take the spare key with me.”
“And the files you needed,” he added.
“Yes...”
“Oh, and all that junk from your purse.”
She frowned. “That, too.”
“I know.” He smiled at her and saw temper flare in her eyes before she battled it down again.
“You’re not going to make this easy,” she said quietly. “Are you?”
“Nope.”
Her lips thinned a bit, the only sign of her agitation. “Why not?”
“What would be the fun in that?” he asked.
“Does everything have to be fun?”
He gave her a long, slow smile. “If we’re lucky.”
She sucked in a gulp of air and laid her palms flat on the counter, just an inch or so from his. He thought about touching her, but decided to wait.
“Look, Mike. I just want to retrieve that key, get back into Patrick’s office and pick up my things.” She looked him dead in the eye, hoping, no doubt, to convince him with her calm appeal to his better nature.
Too bad he didn’t have one.
He should do what she wanted, be told himself. Just give her back her stuff and let her disappear from his life. He didn’t want any entanglements. He wasn’t interested in love or long-term relationships. Mike had learned the hard way that love was an invitation to pain and he wanted no part of it. Besides, Lord knew, he had no business getting any closer to a woman who practically had conventional stamped on her forehead.
Still, something inside him just couldn’t seem to let go. To let it...whatever it was between them... end just yet.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he said instead.
“What kind of deal?” Her head cocked to one side and she looked at him through the corners of very cautious eyes.
“Here’s the key for Patrick’s office and the files, but to get the rest of your stuff you have to go to dinner with me tonight.” Even as he said it though, he knew dinner wouldn’t be enough. He wanted to be alone with her again Somewhere quiet and dark, where he could kiss her, touch her. And discover if the sensations that had tormented him long after she had stormed away from him the night before were real...or just a product of the unusual situation they had found themselves in.
“Dinner?”
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
“My choice.”
Her toe tapped against the floor. He watched her as she mentally went over the possibilities. She threw him a worried glance and he knew she was thinking the same thing he was. That here was their chance to prove that absolutely nothing had happened between them the night before.
Then she surprised him.
“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “Patrick never mentioned this ruthless streak of yours.”
He widened his stance and folded both arms across his chest. “I’m not ruthless, honey. I just live my life on my terms.”
“Which are?”
She wouldn’t understand his terms, he told himself. To understand, she would have had to have been sitting in the desert sun, listening to gunfire. She would have had to watch friends die. She would have had to experience the one inescapable fact that life is short. Too damned short.
Since it was pointless to try to explain all of that, he said only, “The terms vary from day to day.”
“Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?”
He gave her points. Irritated and frustrated, she still gave as good as she got.
“So,” Mike said. “What about dinner?”
“Can’t you just give me my stuff?”
“I could...but I won’t.”
Her lips thinned and that toe of hers started tapping even faster. Finally, after she checked her narrow-banded gold watch, she spoke.
“All right, dinner. Here’s my address.” She dug into that saddle bag she called a purse and came up with a business card. She set it down and took a step back from the counter. “Of course, it’s not like I have a choice, is it?” she asked. “To get my things back, I have to go.”
“True,” he agreed and ignored the small stab of conscience.
“Do you always use extortion to get a woman to have dinner with you?”
“Only when I have to. Like I said, the terms vary. Seven-thirly.”
“Seven-thirty.”