“I was a virgin.”

Vic felt dizzy at the realization of what he’d done. He’d taken something from Angela through deception. If he’d known…he never would have come on so strong.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

“I didn’t want you to change your mind. Men like you run from virgins. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize for giving me an incredible gift.” He was the one who should be apologizing. But to do that, he’d have to confess this night started off as a setup….

Dear Reader,

Come join us for another dream-fulfilling month of Harlequin American Romance! We’re proud to have this chance to bring you our four special new stories.

In her brand-new miniseries, beloved author Cathy Gillen Thacker will sweep you away to Laramie, Texas, hometown of matchmaking madness for THE LOCKHARTS OF TEXAS. Trouble brews when arch rivals Beau and Dani discover a marriage license—with their names on it! Don’t miss The Bride Said, “I Did?”!

What better way to turn a bachelor’s mind to matrimony than sending him a woman who desperately needs to have a baby? Mindy Neff continues her legendary BACHELORS OF SHOTGUN RIDGE miniseries this month with The Horseman’s Convenient Wife—watch Eden and Stony discover that love is anything but convenient!

Imagine waking up to see your own wedding announcement in the paper—to someone you hardly know! Melinda has some explaining to do to Ben in Mollie Molay’s The Groom Came C.O.D., the first book in our HAPPILY WEDDED AFTER promotion. And in Kara Lennox’s Virgin Promise, a bad boy is shocked to discover he’s seduced a virgin. Will promising to court her from afar convince her he wants more than one night of passion?

Find out this month, only from Harlequin American Romance!

Best wishes,

Melissa Jeglinski

Associate Senior Editor

Virgin Promise

Kara Lennox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my husband, Rob

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Texas native Kara Lennox has been an art director, typesetter, advertising copy writer, textbook editor and reporter. She’s worked in a boutique, a health club and has conducted telephone surveys. She’s been an antiques dealer and briefly ran a clipping service. But no work has made her happier than writing romance novels.

When Kara isn’t writing, she indulges in an ever-changing array of weird hobbies, from rock climbing to crystal digging. But her mind is never far from her stories. Just about anything can send her running to her computer to jot down a new idea for some future novel.

Dear Reader,

I can’t imagine any career more satisfying—or more fun—than writing romance novels. After writing dozens of books over the past few years for different romance lines and different publishers, I’m especially happy to have found a home with Harlequin American Romance, a line I’ve been reading since its launch.

Virgin Promise was a fun story to write, probably because my cautious, organized heroine, Angela, who plans every detail of her life, is nothing like me! I always wondered how such people cope when they fall crazy in love. Here, at least, is one theory about what might happen. Poor Angie doesn’t know what hit her, and Vic, the steady, reliable cop she falls in love with, doesn’t fare much better! Eventually, of course, they figure it all out. But I tortured them a bit along the way. (Authors get to do that.)

I hope you enjoy Virgin Promise, and I look forward to sharing more fun stories with you in the future.

Sincerely,

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Prologue

“It was in the back seat of my mother’s station wagon at the local lovers’ lane.”

Angela Capria listened to her friend Phoebe’s sordid confession with a mixture of discomfort and fascination. Fascination because her friends looked so normal, yet each one shocked her anew with their tales of painful embarrassment. Discomfort, because she’d already heard three humiliating anecdotes during the past half hour. Her turn was rapidly approaching.

She wasn’t sure how the subject had come up, but over pasta salad and diet Cokes at their favorite deli, Angela’s co-workers had spontaneously started confessing how they’d lost their virginity, sparing no details.

“I was sixteen,” Phoebe, a bouncy physical therapist, continued in a hushed voice, “and he was the biggest nerd in the entire school. But he was crazy about me, and, you know, when a guy’s crazy in love with you, it’s really an aphrodisiac.”

Angela was appalled. “So, you didn’t have any feelings for this guy, but you had sex with him anyway?”

“Well, I felt sorry for him. You know how that goes.”

The other three women nodded their commiseration, much to Angela’s confusion. Why would anyone, even a sixteen-year-old, have sex with someone out of pity? Sex was such a…a personal thing. A powerful and special gift that a woman gave to a man after careful consideration. Or at least that was how it worked in Angela’s universe. Anyway, she thought so.

“So, how was it?” someone asked Phoebe.

“Terrible, of course. The guy needed a flashlight and a guide book.”

Everyone laughed, including Angela. Phoebe had a way with words. As the laughter faded, however, Angela realized four pairs of curious eyes were riveted on her. She cleared her throat and looked down into her salad, playing with an olive she had no intention of eating.

“Well, Angie?” Phoebe prompted. “Your turn.”

“No, thanks,” Angela said politely.

“Aw, c’mon,” said Victoria, a refined blond nurse who fifteen minutes ago had admitted she’d been so drunk during her deflowering she didn’t even remember it.

“It couldn’t be worse than mine.” The usually shy Sarah, their clinic’s office manager, piped up. She was the only one in the group who was married, and she’d turned bright red as she’d confessed that she’d been an awkward virgin bride.

“We won’t laugh,” said redheaded Terri, the clinic’s receptionist, who only minutes earlier had sent the whole table into hysterics with her tale of whipped cream and a rubber spatula.

Angela daintily blotted her mouth with her napkin. “All right. You asked for it. But I think you’ll be shocked.”

“I’m a nurse,” Victoria said. “You can’t shock me.”

Angela took a deep breath. “I’ve never had sex with anybody. I’m still a virgin.”

Phoebe dropped her fork. It rolled across the floor with a cherry tomato still attached, but no one bent to retrieve it. They all just stared, mouths gaping.

“Angie, honey, that’s impossible,” Phoebe said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “You’re twenty-six years old!”

“And you’re so…so…” Sarah couldn’t find the word.

“Earthy, I think is what she’s trying to say,” Terri put in. “Sensual. I mean, you’re a massage therapist, for gosh sake.”

Angela waited for their objections to die down and the inevitable question to arise. “Why?” they asked, almost as one.

“’Cause I’ve never met a guy who made me so crazy with lust or desire or pity or whatever that I was willing to risk pregnancy, disease, or the emotional vulnerability that goes with sex. There, I’ve said it.”

Terri sighed. “You mean you’ve never felt carried away by the moment? Like where you just don’t give a flip about the consequences of your actions?”

Angela shook her head. “Never.” She took a small bite of her brownie, savoring the rich chocolate indulgence and hoping the subject would drop. No such luck.

“So, like, do you think it’ll ever happen?” Phoebe asked cautiously. “I mean, you do like guys, right?”

Oh, honestly. Did they think she was frigid? “Yes, of course I like guys, and of course it’ll happen. When I meet the right man, and I have a long-term, secure relationship, that’s when I’ll be ready to take the appropriate steps.”

“Honey, it’s not line dancing,” Phoebe said with a wink. “And believe me, if you sit around waiting for ‘the right guy,’ you’ll be a virgin when you’re eighty. Just what qualities, exactly, does this mythical paragon of yours possess?”

Angela gave the question serious consideration. “He would have to be psychologically mature. Responsible and reliable. Stable, with the kind of job I can respect. A hard worker. Open and, most important, completely honest.”

“Bo-o-o-oring,” the others said in unison.

Phoebe got a thoughtful look on her face. “I’ll bet,” she said slowly, waiting until she had everyone’s attention, “I’ll bet that’s your problem. You’ve been looking for all the wrong things. If the right guy came along—tall and dark, dangerous and mysterious—and he pushed all the right buttons, you’d be putty in his hands.”

The others nodded in agreement.

Angela shrugged. “Maybe so.” She almost wished it were true. She was a passionate, sensual person. Deep down, she knew that. She reveled in all of her senses, but particularly touch. That was why she was such a good massage therapist. Still, she’d never experienced that all-consuming lust her friends raved about. Maybe it was just bad luck. Maybe the right guy hadn’t come along.

And maybe she wouldn’t have any idea what to do if he did. It was a sobering thought.

Chapter One

Angela cursed three times, stamped her foot and beat on the windshield glass with her fist, but her temper tantrum did nothing to change the situation. First her car had refused to start. Then, when she’d stomped off to find a phone to call her motor club, she’d locked her keys inside the car. She was out here in the clinic parking lot at a quarter past nine in the evening, and everything she owned was locked inside, including her purse. She didn’t even have thirty-five cents on her to make a call from a pay phone. All she had going for her was that things couldn’t get worse.

As the full wretchedness of her situation dawned on her, she became aware of a rumbling that grew louder. Whirling around, she saw a man on an awesomely big motorcycle slowly approaching. Suddenly her situation seemed a whole lot worse than it had just seconds ago.

She should run, she thought, though her feet remained stubbornly planted to the asphalt. Her eyes were riveted on the broad shoulders of the biker, the way his faded denim shirt stretched across his chest. His powerful thighs, covered by yet more denim, gripped the bike, and his black-leather-gloved hands held the handlebars in what looked like a gentle caress.

A tinted visor across the front of his helmet hid his face, but Angela knew he was looking at her. Staring, in fact.

Though a stranger in a dark parking lot represented unspeakable danger, Angela was fascinated. She couldn’t turn her gaze away, much less run. A tightness claimed her chest and a slight queasiness assaulted her stomach. The feeling reminded her of riding the Ferris wheel at the State Fair—exhilarating, but scary.

The bike pulled up beside her. The rider pulled off his helmet, revealing a full head of thick, black, wavy hair, a bit shorter than she’d expected. He smoothed it off his forehead in a fluid gesture, all the while staring at her.

Then she saw his eyes. They were a piercing blue, so vivid she could easily detect the color even in this dimly lit scenario. They almost glowed, as if they had a light of their own. They were topped with steeply angled, dramatic eyebrows and rimmed with thick lashes. His long nose might have been aquiline once, but it looked as if it had been broken a few times. His cheekbones were razor sharp, his lips full and sensual, his chin square as a brick and just as stubborn looking.

She took in all of his features instantaneously, though for a moment it seemed time stood still as they stared at each other.

“Problem?” he asked in a deep, almost gravelly voice. A whiskey voice. She’d read that in a book once, but only now understood the meaning of the phrase.

Somehow she found her own voice. It even managed to come out sounding fairly normal. “It won’t start. Then I locked my keys inside.”

“Double trouble,” he said, turning off the bike. He swung one leg behind him and dismounted. His innate animal grace made Angela’s mouth go dry. In two strides he was very close, and for one agonizing moment she thought he was going to grab her. Instead he stepped around her, leaned down and peered into the driver’s window.

“Yeah, there they are, all right.”

“You didn’t believe me?”

“I like to see things for myself. What’s your name?”

“Angela,” she blurted out. God, what was wrong with her? She shouldn’t give out her name to a perfect stranger.

“Angela,” he repeated. Her name coming out of his mouth had an erotic turn to it she’d never heard before. “Well, Angela, got a coat hanger?”

She noticed he didn’t offer his own name in return. “No. Actually, I think I’ll just go find a phone and call someone…” As she spoke, she edged away from him, overwhelmed by the overt maleness of him. He wasn’t huge—she’d give him six foot one—but there was something about him, a barely leashed power, a dangerous essence, that made her uneasy even as it fascinated her.

“Hold on, now. Maybe I can help you out.” He sidled past her and went to the trunk, popping it open with one deft movement. “You don’t lock your trunk?”

“There’s nothing in there anyone would want to steal.”

“Just a spare tire and a jack. And—” he grabbed something from her trunk and held it aloft triumphantly “—a coat hanger.” He slammed the trunk shut and immediately began untwisting the wire hanger. Angela watched, utterly enthralled, as he manipulated the pliant metal into a curved hook. He’d obviously done this a time or two, which only added to her uneasiness.

“Maybe I should just go call the auto club,” she ventured, knowing now she’d made a mistake. She never should have let this frightening stranger take control of the situation away from her. Hadn’t she learned anything in her assertiveness-training class?

“They’ll take forever to get here,” the stranger argued as he returned his attention to the locked door, then felt expertly along the edge of the window for just the right point of entry. “It’s St. Patrick’s day. Drunks all over Dallas are running out of gas, flattening their tires on broken beer bottles and losing their keys. Trust me, you don’t want to be out here alone.”

He had a point. Angela stood back a few feet, ready to flee at the slightest provocation. But the stranger, frightening as he was, hadn’t made any threatening gestures or comments. Then again, he didn’t have to. His mere presence was intimidating enough.

He made several tries at the lock, then pulled the hanger out and reshaped it slightly.

“You’ve done this before,” she said.

“Yeah.” He inserted the hanger again. “Hell, there’s not a car made I can’t get into.”

Oh, that was comforting.

“Comes from a misspent youth. Hah!” He gave the coat hanger one final yank, and the door lock gave. In seconds he had the front door open.

She was so relieved, so anxious to retrieve her precious keys, that she forgot to be cautious. She slid right past him, only belatedly realizing her body would brush against his. She received a brief impression of heat and hardness before she gained the relative safety of the driver’s seat. His physical allure was undeniable.

She refused to look at him, afraid of what she would see in those luminescent blue eyes. Mostly she was afraid she would see acknowledgment of what she felt—awareness. Awareness on a totally physical, sexual level.

It was a preposterous thing for her to admit, but it was true. She’d felt desire before. She’d even been tempted, at least mildly, to break the celibacy habit. But for her, physical awareness had always followed emotional closeness. She’d never just looked at a guy, heard his voice, watched his hands and felt a rush of heat wash through her like liquid fire.

All wrapped up in this crazy flush of lust was her fear. She was completely vulnerable to him. He was big and undoubtedly strong, and he could have her under his control in a heartbeat. Her smartest course of action, she knew, was to get the hell out of there. Grab her purse and her keys, lock up her car and flee.

“Thanks so much for helping me out,” she said in an attempt to end the encounter. “I don’t know what I would have done…”

He wasn’t listening to her. He leaned through the open car door, and for one glorious, hideous moment she thought he was going to kiss her. Then he sank lower, leaning in farther, and her engine hood popped open. He’d been searching for the release lever.

“Really, you don’t have to—”

“It’s no trouble,” he said, withdrawing, but not before Angela got a noseful of his scent—clean, like soap, but with a hint of musk. He probably hadn’t showered in the past thirty minutes, but the essence was enough to convince Angela that the man had good grooming habits. That didn’t exactly fit the Hell’s Angel image given off by the rest of him.

Resigned, Angela climbed out of the car with her purse and car keys firmly in hand—in case she decided to run away after all. But despite his daunting appearance, the man had been nothing but helpful so far, she reasoned. If he’d wanted to do something terrible, he’d probably have done it already.

With that comforting thought in mind, she stood passively by and let the man try to fix her car. She didn’t normally allow fate or luck to dictate her behavior, but tonight she felt powerless to divert the freight train of events barreling along the tracks in her personal universe.

She was taking an enormous chance by trusting this man. Yet she didn’t seem to have any choice. For the first time in her life, Angela Capria had been swept off her feet.

And the guy wasn’t even trying! Imagine the results if he put a little effort into it.

WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING? Vic Steadman thought, as he fiddled pointlessly with the woman’s car engine. The distributor cap had been unscrewed, a fully deliberate effort someone had made to disable her vehicle. With a twist of his hand he could have her engine running and send her on her way.

That’s why he’d come, right? To make sure the woman wasn’t stranded all alone in a dark parking lot? But he didn’t fix the car. Instead he checked fluid levels, disconnected and reconnected hoses, checked points and plugs, all in an effort to buy himself some time. What did he really want to do here?

He’d never expected Angela Capria to be so gorgeous.

A few hours ago, when his rookie partner, Bobby Ray Allen, had lain on the gurney getting stitched up in the Parkland E.R. after an unfortunate confrontation with a beer bottle, he’d confessed his problem to Vic. It seemed he had a blind date, and there was no way he was going to make it out of the E.R. in time to meet her. Would Vic pinch-hit for him?

Vic had considered this a very peculiar request. Normally Bobby had plenty of female company and didn’t need fix-ups. Also, Bobby was territorial about his girlfriends. He seldom introduced any of the guys on the force to his various women, much less invited one of his buddies to fill in for him on a date. If Bobby hadn’t been lying there bleeding, Vic would have suspected he was being set up.

“Why can’t you just call her?” Vic had wanted to know.

Then Bobby had explained the unusual circumstances, and Vic had been stuck. Apparently this woman refused blind dates. So her friends had covertly set her up. They’d sabotaged her car, and Bobby was supposed to rescue her, then sweep her off her feet with a dark, dangerous, sexy persona.

If Vic hadn’t filled in, the poor woman would have been stranded out here alone in a questionable neighborhood.

He’d originally planned to identify himself as a Dallas cop so as not to scare her, then fix her car and send her on her way. But that was before he’d seen her.

“Do you see the problem?” the woman asked anxiously.

“Not yet,” he lied.

From the way Bobby had talked about her, he’d been expecting some homely, sexually repressed spinster. Nothing could be farther from the truth.

Angela was in her mid-twenties, slender, with rich dark hair pulled into a loose braid and shapely curves that not even her sexless nurse’s whites could disguise. Her breasts were high and full, more than a handful, and her hips were gently rounded beneath the white slacks. He wasn’t sure what color her eyes were, other than that they were dark, but her mouth was incredible—full, moist and pink.

As he thought about that mouth and all the things it might be persuaded to do, Vic felt a stirring inside him, like a sleeping beast opening one eye. Though the foreignness of the feeling concerned him, he couldn’t help but smile at the imagery that had come to mind. Him? A beast? He was reliable, steady Steadman.

Incredibly, his police badge never came out of his pocket. Instead, during that split second he had to assess her, he racked his brain for everything Bobby had told him about her. Massage therapist…repressed…needs a fantasy man to sweep her off her feet, someone dark and dangerous to take control out of her hands, to push her buttons, to awaken her sexuality.

Without any conscious decision on his part, he’d found himself becoming that dark, dangerous fantasy man. He’d stopped short of actually frightening her, because that wasn’t in him under any circumstances, but he’d definitely taken control away from her.

“Looks like it might be your distributor,” he said, hoping she didn’t know much about car engines. “I could fix it if I had my tools.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “I don’t live far. I’ll just call a friend to pick me up, and deal with the car tomorrow.”

That thought made him uneasy. Any mechanic would immediately spot the sabotage, and she would know Vic had pulled a fast one. He quickly formulated a plan. “If you don’t live far, I’ll give you a lift,” he offered.

The woman’s eyebrows shot up. “On that?” She nodded toward his cycle.

“Sure, why not?”

He could tell she was intrigued. “I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before.”

He shrugged. “Nothing to it. I do all the driving. You just hold on to me.”

She shook her head. “I’d have to have a helmet, and I won’t take yours.”

He sauntered over to his motorcycle, opened the side compartment and produced an extra helmet. He dangled it by the chin strap, almost like bait. “Any more objections?”

Angela licked her lips and cocked her head, still indecisive. She would have to be crazy to go with him, he thought. He hadn’t even offered her a name. But she felt the same sexual pull he had. He’d seen it on her face, in her eyes, during those first few moments when they’d simply stared at one another.

“Do you promise to go slowly?”

“I haven’t had a ticket in years.”

“All—” Her voice cracked, and she took a moment to clear her throat. “All right. I appreciate it very much.”

“Pleasure’s all mine.” He gave her a long look before he climbed aboard the bike. She hesitated another moment, then took the extra helmet and set it on her head. He had to help her adjust the strap. His knuckles brushed against the ivory smoothness of her cheek, sending ribbons of warmth trickling through his body. Damn, if her cheek did this to him, imagine what her other body parts might accomplish.

No, maybe it was better not to think of that. He had no idea how far this would go, but he didn’t imagine Angela would invite him into her bed no matter how powerful the fantasy. He didn’t believe she was that impulsive.

After donning his own helmet, he extended a hand to her for support. She grabbed it and clambered aboard behind him.

That first touch of her hand to his jolted him to another level of awareness. He’d never been so conscious of the feel of a woman’s hand before, the smoothness, the soft pads of her fingers. She wiggled around, settling in, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. He was supposed to be the one in control, yet he was the one whose brain was short-circuiting. He imagined how her cute butt looked wiggling on the black leather seat.

She tucked her purse between their bodies, but there was still plenty of contact as she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him in a snug, warm embrace.

Vic could have sat there all night, just feeling her soft breasts pressed against his back. He could even smell her, and she smelled like coconut and almonds. As a massage therapist, she probably slathered scented lotions on her hands all day long.

“Where to?” he asked.

“Oh. On Seymour and Huntington, the Huntington Terrace Apartments. Do you know where that is?”

“I’ll find it.” And if he made a wrong turn by accident, well, a few extra minutes of this exquisite torture wouldn’t kill him. Maybe.

With a turn of the ignition key the bike rumbled to life beneath them.

The evening was beautiful, the air warm but still with the crispness of spring. The streets of Angela’s Oak Lawn neighborhood were filled with St. Patrick’s Day revelers, and he was glad she didn’t have to wander around by herself. Normally the eclectic area Dallas called Oak Lawn was pretty safe—he’d once ridden a beat here as a bicycle cop—but muggings and car break-ins weren’t unheard of, especially when so much drinking went on.

The roar of the cycle’s engine precluded talking, but Vic enjoyed the ride immensely. He was disappointed when he found her apartment building with no trouble.

The building was an old one, probably built in the 1930s, a humble, three-story brown-brick structure with an inviting front porch surrounded by mature trees. Small air-conditioning units protruded out many of the windows, so this wasn’t one of those luxurious renovations with sky-high rents. But it looked reasonably well taken care of. The walkway was lined with daffodils, and pots of orange geraniums decorated the front porch.

He pulled into a no-parking zone right in front and cut the engine.

Slowly Angela released her grip around his middle and eased herself away from him. “That wasn’t so bad,” she said, more to herself than to him.

He was a little surprised to hear her say that. Normally he was a very conscientious rider. Working the traffic division, he’d seen firsthand the devastation that could be done to the human body when it flew off a motorcycle at high speeds. But he’d driven a hair faster than normal tonight—nothing unsafe, but enough to get Angela’s adrenaline flowing.

Enough to add to the aura of danger.

She removed her helmet and handed it to him, her hands shaking slightly. “Thanks for everything. I’d have been in quite a mess if you hadn’t come along.” Her voice was a little bit breathless.

“No charge. I’ll see you to your door.”

“That’s not—”

“I know it’s not necessary. What if there’s a mugger waiting in the lobby?” He didn’t wait for her permission, but climbed off the bike, removed his own helmet and followed her up the steps to the porch. Her hand shook as she stuck the key in the front door lock. She pulled open the door a crack, then turned to face him.

“I’m in,” she said. “Thank you. And good night.”

He could see, now, that he’d made her uneasy. He hadn’t meant to. It was this new, dark and dangerous evil twin inside him that had done it by refusing to let her dismiss him. And it was the evil twin who leaned over and stole a kiss.

He didn’t touch her with anything but his lips. She could have backed off at any time, kicked him in the shins, screamed, whatever she wanted. But she just stood there, passively accepting the light pressure of his mouth against her soft, soft lips. Other than a telltale quiver and the flutter of her tentative hand against his chest, she didn’t react.

But he did. That dozing beast inside him opened both eyes wide and snorted to life. He felt the tightness in his groin, the pleasurable curls of desire warming his belly.

Suddenly Angela lost her balance. The door closed behind her, and she fell against it, breaking the kiss.

For a moment all she could do was stare at him, her eyes smoky with desire but wary as hell. Did he blame her?

“Please…” she said.

“Please…what?”

“I can’t ask you inside.”

He ran one forefinger along her jaw. “You could if you wanted,” he whispered, amazed at his own bravado. He was acting like one of those guys in the movies he hated, the ones who were so damn sure of their sex appeal that it never entered their minds that a woman might not be willing. He considered himself confident when it came to the opposite sex, but not pushy.

“I don’t even know you!”

“But you trust me just the same.”

Unwillingly, it seemed, she nodded. On some level she must have sensed that he was one of those serve-and-protect types, not a taker or a defiler of women, despite his cocksureness.

When she made no further move to escape, but just stared at him with an expression he couldn’t read, he finally figured it out. She was his for the taking. She couldn’t ask him in, because she was a nice girl, and nice girls didn’t ask strange men into their apartments. But if he invited himself, she wouldn’t turn him away.

He’d accomplished Bobby Ray’s mission, and it had been surprisingly easy. She was his, at least for this night.

Somehow, that realization didn’t make him feel overjoyed. Yeah, maybe he could sweet-talk his way into her bedroom, and they could spend one awesome night indulging in mindless sex. But that would be the end of it. Instinctively, he knew that.

She deserved better than that. Much as it pained him, he would have to deny himself the pleasures of Angela’s body—for a while, anyway.

He cupped her face between his palms and kissed her again, as if he meant it. This time she was anything but passive. She tilted her head and opened her mouth, eagerly accepting the thrust of his tongue. She put her arms around him, drawing his body closer until they were hip to hip, chest to chest.

He wanted more than anything to remove the barrier of clothing between them, to lie beside Angela and feel her warm, smooth flesh all up and down his own body, to explore every inch of her with his hands and mouth. It took all his willpower to pull away.

She looked up at him, questioning, breathing hard.

He brushed one last kiss on her forehead. “I have to go. Good night, Angela.”

She swallowed. “Good night, then.”

He turned and walked toward his bike without a backward glance, though he ached from his toes to his scalp. Delaying gratification would make it that much better, he told himself, hoping he hadn’t messed this thing up royally. What if, by tomorrow, she’d come to her senses and wanted nothing to do with him?

But as long as he remained her dark and dangerous fantasy man, she would be interested. He was counting on that.

“Hey!” Angela called out, startling him. “You never told me your name!”

He waved goodbye, but he didn’t answer her.

Chapter Two

Angela walked to work the next morning. She could have called Phoebe or Victoria to give her a lift; both of them lived nearby. But she didn’t think she could face either of them just yet. What if they asked her how she’d gotten home last night when her car had broken down?

So she walked. The weather was cool and crisp, and the forty-five-minute “urban hike” helped clear her head.

She had no idea what had gotten into her last night. The moment she’d seen that dangerous-looking man approach, she should have run like a rabbit. She’d learned in a self-defense class that avoiding conflict was a woman’s first, best defense. But no, she’d stood there like a deer blinded by headlights.

Getting on the back of his motorcycle had been sheer insanity. She hated motorcycles. They were dangerous. Though she had to admit her mystery man was a good rider—he hadn’t lied about that. The large bike gave a surprisingly smooth ride, and once she’d figured out how to lean into the turns and move her body in sync with his, she’d found herself enjoying the trip.

That didn’t change the fact that she’d thought nothing of throwing her arms around a complete stranger, pressing herself against his back and inhaling that sexy, soap-and-starch smell of him. She’d almost been sorry when they reached her building.

By the time she climbed off the bike, her senses had been so full of him she could hardly stand up straight. And when he’d leaned down to kiss her, any semblance of control she’d maintained had faded into the warm spring night.

He never should have assumed she would be receptive to his advances just because he’d helped her out of a jam. Yet he had, and damn it, he’d been right. Any sane woman would have slapped him silly. But that reaction wouldn’t have made sense in her case, not when she’d been consumed with lust herself.

If he’d been a cad, he’d have taken advantage of the situation and had his wicked way with her.

“Oh, why didn’t he?” she asked, not realizing she’d spoken aloud until a woman waiting on the corner with her for the light to change gave her a funny look. The realization that she would have made love to a man after less than an hour’s acquaintance rocked her to her foundations. But she couldn’t deny the regret weighing down her heart.

She was so flustered she had to concentrate to remember the way to work.

When she reached the clinic it was still early, so she ducked into the doughnut shop across the street and bought a dozen glazed twists for the office. By the time she returned to the clinic, most of the office staff had arrived. Her pastries were greeted with enthusiasm and gratitude, distracting everyone so she could slip into her office.

But her luck didn’t hold out. She was just unlocking her office door when she was accosted by Phoebe and Victoria.

“Hey, Angie,” Phoebe said. “We were wondering where you were. We saw your car, but you weren’t here.”

“I ducked into the doughnut shop,” she said. “There’s a box of glazed twists in the break room.” She hoped they’d take the hint, but they followed her right into her office like a couple of puppies.

Phoebe found a perch on the edge of Angela’s massage table. “So, anything interesting going on in your life?”

Angie gave an indifferent shrug.

If they only knew! Did it show on her face? she wondered. Did her obsession with the mystery man ooze out of her pores? She studied her fingernails with casual indifference, then pulled out a nail file and went to work. Ragged nails were anathema to a massage therapist.

“When we saw your car,” Victoria said, “and the clinic was still locked, we were worried.”

Shoot. She might as well fess up, or they were going to pick the truth out of her. She’d never been much good at keeping secrets. “Actually, last night is when you should have been worried. My car didn’t start, and you two buzzed out of the lot so fast you didn’t even notice.”

In unison, they gasped melodramatically.

“Oh, Angie, honey, we’re so sorry!” Phoebe said. “What did you do?”

She took a deep breath. Confession was good for the soul, right? “A Good Samaritan gave me a ride home.”

Phoebe and Victoria exchanged a glance.

“You got into a car with a perfect stranger?” Victoria asked, sounding more intrigued than disapproving.

“He, um—”

“He?” Phoebe repeated, arching one suggestive eyebrow.

Angela ignored her. “He was riding a motorcycle, actually.”

“A motorcycle!” the two other women squealed together.

“Look, he was very nice, he dropped me off at my door and now I’m calling the motor club.” She stood and opened the office door, gesturing for her friends to beat it. “If you please? I have a client scheduled in ten minutes.”

They looked a bit bewildered, but they left. Angela closed the door and sank back into her chair. How could one—Okay, two little kisses completely destroy her composure?

God, those were the best kisses. They’d been not just a turn-on, they’d transformed her, melted her into an abject pool of acquiescence. What was she to do with a man like that? Not that she’d ever get a chance to do anything, she reminded herself. He was gone forever, and she hadn’t even gotten his name. He probably liked it that way. No telling how many foolish women he’d have trailing after him if he gave out his name and phone number like so much candy.

Maybe she should have invited him in. At least she would have been taking back some of her normal control. Last night she had felt about as far out of control as she could ever remember.

Wearily she dialed the motor club for a tow to her regular mechanic. When they asked for her license plate number, she couldn’t remember it.

“Um, just one second, I’ll have to look it up,” she said. She put the call on hold, then went to her window, which faced the parking lot. What she saw there took her breath away. The hood of her car was open, and a man was leaning over working on the engine, giving her a fabulous view of his butt. And what a butt.

Though she couldn’t see his face, she knew who her mystery mechanic was. Her heart leapt with joy. She was being given a second chance to be foolish, and she was deliriously happy.

She grabbed up the receiver. “Uh, never mind. The problem with my car seems to have taken care of itself.” She hung up and ran out of her office, not even bothering to explain to Terri where she was going in such a hurry as she sped past the receptionist’s desk.

Angela paused at the exterior door to catch her breath. What was she going to say? It might pay to be prepared, to have a plan so she wouldn’t fly by the seat of her pants like last night.

She would be completely in control this time. That was her plan. She wouldn’t let him lead her into anything she wasn’t ready for.

The question remained, though—what exactly was she ready for?

You’ve never felt carried away by the moment? Terri’s question at lunch the other day haunted Angela. She’d remained a virgin all these years because she’d never been faced with a compelling enough reason to change her status. Was this bad-boy Good Samaritan her compelling reason?

Maybe. But she absolutely was not going to rush into anything. She would get to know him first, find out exactly what sort of person he was.

Squaring her shoulders, she emerged from the building and walked resolutely into the parking lot. She approached the man quietly, because she wanted the element of surprise on her side, but somehow he sensed her sneaking up on him. He straightened and turned, a lazy smile brightening his foreboding features.

“Good morning.”

“Hi,” she returned. For the first time, she felt a bit irritated with his high-handedness. She hadn’t given him permission to work on her car. “How did you get my hood open?”

“I have my ways.”

Ye gods. Her stomach fluttered. He looked good this morning in black jeans and a dark green cotton shirt rolled up at the sleeves. Overlooking that, it was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to cease and desist, that she would take care of her own car, thank you very much.

But he spoke again. “I think I have the problem fixed. Want to give it a try?”

The driver’s door was already unlocked. As he closed the hood, she slid behind the wheel and felt around for the spare key she kept under the floor mat. Yes, there it was. She cranked the ignition, and the car started up immediately, the engine humming smoothly. In truth, it sounded a lot better than it had in months.

She shut it off and got out again. “What did you do to it?”

“Fixed the distributor. There were some, er, loose connections. Then I tuned it up. You need an oil change.”

“Thanks very much,” she said, meaning it. She’d had several unexpected expenses the past couple of months, and she couldn’t really afford a big car repair bill. “Can I pay you for your trouble?”

“Consider it a favor between friends.”

“We aren’t friends,” she was quick to point out. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Vic. Vic Steadman.”

Finally. She repeated the name several times in her head, trying to decide if it suited him. It was a sturdy-sounding name. What had she been expecting, something scary? Blade Black, maybe, or Dirk Danger?

“Okay, Vic.” She shook hands with him, which seemed silly after the steamy kiss they’d shared last night. Then again, this guy could make a handshake an erotic experience.

He gathered up a few tools he’d left on the ground and stuck them into the storage compartment on the back of his cycle. “If you really want to reward me for my hard work,” he said, “I can think of ways that don’t involve cash.”

She gasped at his audacity.

“Have dinner with me,” he added quickly before she could stomp off in a snit.

“I have to work late again,” she said, almost grateful for the excuse. She wasn’t ready for an entire evening alone with him.

“We’ll make it a late dinner.”

“How about lunch instead?” she hedged. Lunch seemed much less threatening. They could talk, get to know each other—

“I’ll pick you up at ten tonight.”

She would have protested, but he looked at her with such utter confidence that her objections withered. This was a man used to getting his way.

Without another word he left, climbing on board his cycle and rumbling off with a careless wave in her direction.

All right, so he was an alpha male. Such men made good leaders. They ran corporations and governments. They usually had all the women they could handle. One thing they didn’t do was make good husbands, not for a woman who believed in equality between the sexes, mutual sharing and all that.

“He doesn’t want to marry you,” Angela grumbled to herself. If she took this thing any further, she had to face the fact that this was a man to enjoy fabulous sex with. Any further expectations on her part would be ludicrous.

She wasn’t the type of person to have a fling. At least, she’d never been before. But maybe mind-blowing sex was something she ought to experience before she settled down to marriage, home and family, which she intended to do sometime in the next few years. Her friends certainly waxed enthusiastically about their various liaisons.

Talk about food for thought.

VIC HAD THE DAY OFF, but he stopped by the station to pick up his paycheck. Then out of habit he checked the bulletin board. The scores from the recent sergeant’s exam, which Vic had taken, were still posted. He’d made a ninety-eight out of one hundred, the highest score of everybody who’d sat for the test. Just seeing that score after his name gave him a lift.

After the test he’d gone in for a personal assessment, interviewing with various people, and apparently he’d aced it. Rumor had it he was number one on “the list.” Next time a sergeant’s spot opened up, the promotion was his. He’d been a senior corporal for almost four years, and it was about damn time.

His mood deflated somewhat when he ran into Bobby Ray, who’d drawn desk duty while he recuperated from his injuries. Vic hadn’t thought about what he would tell his partner about the previous night, but he doubted it would be the truth. He had no intention of turning a tomcat like Bobby loose on Angela. The woman was hot, in her own sweet way, and Vic intended to keep her all to himself. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had made him hard just standing there looking at him.

“Hey, buddy!” Bobby called to him from the bullpen.

Damn. “I’m in kind of a hurry, Bobby.”

“Just tell me how it went last night. Phoebe said this woman was hot looking but a real prude. Well, she didn’t use those words, but I read between the lines.”

Vic hesitated, then walked over to Bobby’s temporary desk so everyone in the place couldn’t overhear. “She wasn’t bad.” He didn’t plan what he would say next. The words just poured out, seemingly of their own accord. “Her teeth were hardly noticeable as long as she kept her mouth closed.”

“Teeth?”

“Oh, I guess Phoebe didn’t tell you. Our gal’s got quite an overbite. But it’s kind of endearing, really.”

“What about the rest of her? I mean, there’s always a paper bag.” Bobby guffawed, but Vic didn’t join in.

“She’s okay. From what she tells me, the diet center she goes to has really paid off. She says she has twenty pounds more to meet her goal, but I thought she looked fine.”

“She’s fat?”

“No. Well, not really huge or anything. Just normal size.”

“Okay, okay, never mind that. What about her hands? How was her technique? I mean, she’s a massage therapist.”

Vic shook his head. “Her hands were fine, and I didn’t even mind the smell that much.”

“What smell?”

“It’s this special medicinal lotion she uses for massage. She’s allergic to the regular kinds. It smells kind of like mothballs, but it wasn’t that strong.”

Bobby’s eyes bulged, and his lips drew into a grimace. “Did she put that stuff on you?”

“No, of course not. The scent of the lotion sticks to her, she said, no matter how many times she washes. I could smell it just standing next to her. Anyway, there was no massage. I just took her home, like I told you I would do.”

“So you’re telling me you didn’t get lucky.”

“It all depends on how you look at it.” With that he left Bobby to mull over his own good luck. He felt only a twinge of guilt at the outrageous lies he’d told. Someday Bobby would probably talk to Phoebe and discover the truth, but Vic would deal with that when the time came.

A more immediate problem was what to do with Angela tonight—if she even let him through the door after the high-handed way he’d finagled a date from her. Ordinarily, for a late-night rendezvous, he would take a woman to a coffeehouse or sidewalk café for a bite to eat and some good conversation. But this situation with Angela demanded something unusual.

She definitely responded to an element of mystery. So he had to think of something unexpected, a little bit daring, a little risqué.

Did her building have a flat roof? he wondered.

ANGELA HATED EVERYTHING in her closet. Her clothes were so mundane, so ordinary, and much too conservative. Vic would be here in fifteen minutes, and she still wasn’t dressed.

Finally she settled on her all-purpose spaghetti-strapped black dress. She could snazz it up with a beaded bolero vest and heels, or dress it down with a funky hat and lace-up boots, depending on where they were going. Whatever their destination, she would insist on driving. She couldn’t negotiate the back of a motorcycle in a short dress.

She was ashamed of herself that she hadn’t even considered not going. She hated it when a man had to have his way, when they brushed aside her ideas and suggestions as insignificant. Why, then, did those habits seem intriguing and exciting in Vic?

She’d always been independent, had never let anyone lead her around by the nose. Maybe it was the novelty of surrendering control, she reasoned as she debated over what color hose to wear. Black, maybe. She started to grab some black panty hose. Then she spotted a pair of stockings that required a garter belt.

Feeling naughty, she pulled them out of the drawer, running the smooth silk over the back of her hand. She’d bought them on a whim and never worn them, but tonight seemed like a good time—they made her feel sexy. Not that she needed any artificial stimulation when Vic was around. She felt as if she could outsex Madonna when he looked at her with those electric blue eyes.

Angela didn’t know what to do with her hair. Normally she wore it in a ponytail or braid, but that seemed too youthful for the way she felt tonight. She thought about pinning it up. Did guys ever really take a girl’s hairpins out one by one so her hair could tumble over her shoulders, all sexy and tousled? She was afraid it wouldn’t work in real life the way it did in movies, so she left her hair loose. She decided she liked the way the curled ends brushed her bare shoulders.

She was dressed and ready at ten minutes to ten. Since she hated watching the clock, waiting for a date to pick her up, she got to work on a neglected craft project, a cross-stitched pillow for a cousin who was getting married this summer. If Vic stood her up, at least she would have something to show for the evening.

The next time she looked up at the clock, it was ten-fifteen. She threw her needlework aside in disgust. The jerk had changed his mind!

It was for the better, she told herself. She had no business going out with a man like that. He was a threat to her well-ordered world, not to mention her sanity. She couldn’t think rationally when he was around.

Just when she’d decided to change into her nightgown, a knock came at the door. Her heart jumped into her throat. If it was Vic, he ought to be ringing her from the front security door.

“Just a minute!” she called out, sliding her feet back into her black flats and zipping up her dress. If it was Vic, she’d give him an earful. Twenty minutes late, and not even a phone call to let her know.

Full of righteous indignation, she threw open the door, and any lecture she might have delivered died in her throat. Lord, the man was gorgeous, but in a tuxedo he was incredible. He didn’t have that smooth, urbane James Bond look, but somehow he appeared oddly at ease in the formal wear. She wouldn’t have expected that.

“How did you get through the security door?” she blurted out in the way of greeting.

“Your neighbor, Mrs. Gibbons, let me in.”

Mrs. Gibbons? She was the old lady on the first floor who was terrified of burglars and muggers. She had three dead bolts on her door and required three pieces of ID before she’d let her own sister in. It was comforting to know that Angela wasn’t the only female susceptible to Vic’s charms.

“You look hot,” Vic added, his voice husky.

A surge of feminine pleasure washed through her. She murmured her thanks, then moved aside to let him in. He looked out of place in her fussy, feminine living room, and she decided right then and there to redecorate. It looked as if a spinster lived here. She would use Vic as the focal point of the decor.

“Sit down, and I’ll go change,” she said. “I hadn’t realized we were going formal.”

He grabbed her arm before she could make good her escape. “You look just fine for where we’re going.”

“Oh, but I have this little beaded vest….” She didn’t finish outlining her wardrobe possibilities to him. His hot gaze struck her absolutely dumb. Before she knew it he had his arms around her, and they were kissing.

It was a beautiful kiss, steamy, full of passion, yet oddly she knew it was just a kiss to be enjoyed for its own sake. This was a guy who knew how to kiss. He nipped at her lips, then moved in for the kill, covering her mouth with his, using a gentle but insistent pressure. He let his tongue flirt with hers, then just when she thought she was going to pass out from overwhelming sensations, he backed off to kiss her neck, her ear, her forehead.

He didn’t press his advantage, for which she was grateful. She had hours yet to resist him.

Chapter Three

Angela eased away from Vic. “Let me get the vest anyway,” she said. The husky breathlessness in her voice turned him on almost as much as the kiss had. “I want to look my best. Please sit down. I’ll be right back.”

He nodded, but he didn’t sit. He’d figured out one of Angela’s buttons—she liked to be in control. The less he allowed her to dictate to him, even with something as trivial as whether he should sit or stand, the more off balance she would be.

As she left the room, Vic contemplated her shapely legs, revealed to midthigh and encased in sheer black silk. He’d never seen her legs before, though he’d fantasized about them.

They were better than he’d dreamed, slender but with calf and thigh muscles clearly defined.

Vic had thought Angela looked quite sexy enough in her work clothes. There was something very sensual about her, a quality that would shine through even if she wore a nun’s habit. But Angela in a short, figure-revealing black dress literally made his mouth go dry.

He hooked his thumbs into his pockets and paced around Angela’s small living room, trying not to anticipate what the night might bring. Events were unfolding in surprising ways.

He hadn’t planned on moving in for a kiss quite so abruptly, but the gesture had seemed as natural as breathing. She felt good in his arms; she fit perfectly against him, and as he’d pulled her close, he’d experienced a little thrill of victory—like when he’d been a kid and found a missing piece in a jigsaw puzzle, only lots, lots better.

How could one woman, a woman he hardly knew, have such an exaggerated effect on him? It wasn’t just his body involved, but his mind, his spirit and, he was very much afraid, his heart.

Not that he was falling in love with her. He didn’t allow himself to do that, not since college. In Vic’s world, everything had its proper place. The problem with love was that it didn’t like to stay in its place. It liked to ooze all over everything, spilling onto other parts of his sturdy, well-organized life until nothing functioned smoothly anymore.

Kimberly Rose Mundy, a woman he’d loved as thoroughly as any college kid can love, had turned his life into a circus. His grades had suffered, he’d shown up for his campus bookstore job late and disheveled, he’d neglected his friends, he’d dropped out of intramural basketball. She had consumed him. Then, without preamble, Kimberly had dumped him for a med student.

He’d recovered quickly enough, pulling the shreds of his life back together before all was lost, mending fences and taking a hard look at the person he was before, during and after falling in love. After that, he’d managed to avoid the sticky emotion.

But Angela gave his heart palpitations nonetheless. He felt an undeniable, burgeoning affection for her, for her shy smile and the way she fought with herself over how to behave with him.

That was acceptable, he supposed. Affection was manageable. He wasn’t sure what he wanted with Angela. He was a normal guy, so sex had to be part of the recipe, of course. Still, a fiery fling sounded appealing but unfulfilling somehow. Too shallow and confining for a woman like her.

A long-term friendship, perhaps, that included sex? He’d tried that before, a couple of times. He’d discovered that sooner or later the woman grew dissatisfied with the status quo and wanted to either deepen things or end it. He supposed that was the nature of a woman, to move in the direction of marriage. It wasn’t, however, in his nature.

Did he need to know right now? He supposed not. He could wing this thing. That’s what he’d been doing so far and it had worked out okay.

Angela reappeared shortly wearing the sparkly vest and a pair of spike heels that did great things to her already fabulous legs. “I’m ready if you are,” she said breezily. “Unless you’d like a drink first? I have some box wine in the fridge….”

“No, I think we’d better go.”

She grabbed a small purse and started for the front door, but he snagged her by the arm. “This way.” He led her in the direction she’d just come from, where he assumed her bedroom was.

She dug in her heels. “What?”

“I’m not planning to drag you into the bedroom and ravish you, if that’s what you thought,” he said, smiling to soothe her expression of outrage. “A window in your bedroom leads to the fire escape. That’s where we need to be.”

She looked around, bewildered. “Why? Is the building on fire?” She smiled uncertainly.

Yeah, there was a fire, all right. Inside him. “All right, I guess I’ll have to tell you. The fire escape leads up to the roof. That’s where dinner is.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

In reply, he gestured for her to lead the way into her bedroom. “I’m completely serious.”

Bewildered but wanting to be a good sport, she preceded him down a short hallway and into a bedroom. “You’ll have to overlook the mess, okay?”

“I won’t notice a thing,” he promised.

But he did notice. Her double bed had been hastily made, with numerous fussy pillows with lace and satin trim heaped near the bentwood headboard. Several dresses and blouses were draped over a low chair, as if she’d tried on and discarded many outfits before deciding on the black dress. Instinctively he knew this was true, and the knowledge pleased him enormously.

Angela unlocked the window, but Vic stepped forward to raise it for her. It was large enough that they could step onto the tiny metal landing outside without contorting their bodies in undignified ways. Angela went first, sitting on the ledge, then swiveling those enticing legs through the opening. Her movements were graceful and feminine.

Vic followed, then closed the window. “After you,” he said, gesturing toward a ladder attached to the brick wall leading up to the roof.

She folded her arms and gave him a sideways look. “Now you have to be kidding. I can’t climb a ladder in this dress.”

“Sure you can,” he said easily. “Take your shoes off.”

She stared at him a moment longer, challenging. He could tell she wanted to see what surprises he had planned for her on the roof, but this went against her conservative nature. Finally she capitulated, kicking off her shoes. “Okay, fine. But you go ahead of me. I don’t want you looking up my dress. And you would, too. Don’t try lying about it.”

She was right. With a shrug he grabbed her shoes, stuck one in each pocket, then started up the ladder. When he reached the top, he climbed onto the roof and looked down. She was following, slowly, giving him a lovely view of her cleavage. It wasn’t until then that Vic admitted to himself how afraid he’d been that she would balk at this crazy idea of his. He was knocking down her barriers one by one, but her personality was strong enough that victory was by no means assured.

He extended his hand and helped her the last few steps.

“I did it!” she said triumphantly once she was on firm footing. “That’s the first time I ever climbed a ladder, other than a stepladder.”

“I hope that’s only one of many firsts tonight,” he said as he set her shoes down for her to step back into.

She laughed, a bit hysterically he thought, then reclaimed her shoes.

The rooftop was dark, and they could actually see a sprinkling of stars in the navy blue sky, despite the fact they were in the middle of the city. A few blocks away the lights of Oak Lawn Avenue’s late-night hot spots, muted through the treetops, provided a colorful backdrop. Farther into the distance, downtown Dallas’s artfully lighted skyline shone like a jewel in the night.

“Oh, it’s beautiful up here,” Angela said, almost reverently. “I’ve been living in that apartment four years and I’ve never been on the roof before. It’s isolated, but at the same time the city’s life is all around.”

Precisely why he’d chosen this environment. It was stimulating, yet still secluded. He took her arm and led her across the tar-and-gravel rooftop to a spot on the far side, where the branches of an enormous crepe myrtle tree brushed against the building, softening the harsh lines of the roof edge and gutters.

“Oh, my.” Angela stopped in her tracks, admiring Vic’s handiwork. A table covered with a white cloth bore two elegant place settings, courtesy of Vic’s grandmother’s dishes. He’d inherited them years ago, but they’d remained boxed up in his attic until today. Until now he’d never seen a need to go fancier than his sturdy stoneware and stainless.

The table was lit by a candle inside a glass, where the light breeze made it flicker. Off to the side was an ice bucket containing a good bottle of Chablis. Tucked under the table was a soft plastic container, similar to the ones the pizza delivery guys used to keep their pies warm.

“Sit down,” Vic said. “Do you want some wine?”

“I’d love some,” she replied, claiming one of the padded folding chairs at the table. “How did you get all this stuff up here?”

He’d about broken his back, that’s how, hauling it all up that ladder, terrified the whole time that Angela would hear him creeping around on her fire escape and call the cops. Or if not Angela, one of her neighbors. He’d made sure to bring his ID shield just in case. But no one had questioned him or tried to stop him.

“Magic,” he answered. He wanted her to think the task had been effortless.

As soon as he’d poured each of them a glass of wine, he went to the plastic container and began unpacking their dinner—first a small Caesar salad, then rosemary-tarragon breast of chicken, freshly grilled asparagus spears and crusty French bread.

“That smells wonderful,” Angela said. “Don’t tell me you cooked it.”

He was tempted to lie. But he felt he’d been dishonest enough as it was. If he wanted more than this one night with her, he was going to have to start revealing a little of the real Vic Steadman. She might be bowled over by this dangerous mystery man, but he had a hunch she might actually like the real Vic, if he introduced him slowly.

“No, I can’t claim cooking among my many skills. I got it from that gourmet-to-go place a few blocks from here.”

“Great! I love their food.”

She patiently allowed him to serve her. After Vic had filled their plates, and with mouthwatering aromas drifting up from the table, he took his own chair. He lifted his glass in a toast.

“To new experiences.”

She lifted her own glass and tapped it against his with a smile and a nod. But an uneasy expression crossed her face. He wondered what bothered her about his toast.

During dinner, Vic questioned Angela about her job, her family, her hobbies. She was relaxed enough that she answered without hesitation. Whenever she made an attempt to steer the conversation toward him, he provided glib answers, then deftly reversed the flow once again.

He was glad to see that she had a healthy appetite.

Nothing irritated him like a woman who picked at a good dinner. Vic made sure her wineglass stayed full, though he carefully monitored how much she drank. For what he had in mind later, he wanted her relaxed but with a clear head.

He drank a couple of glasses himself, hoping it would take the edge off his own nerves. Though he felt he was performing with admirable suavity, he was a bundle of tension. Tonight mattered, more than it should, probably. He’d been too long without a woman, he reasoned. That was all it was.

“It hasn’t escaped my attention that you don’t like to talk about yourself,” Angela said easily as he put away the leftovers.

He said nothing, hoping to distract her with his next assault on her taste buds, caramel cheesecake. Her eyes widened when he set the decadent wedge of dessert in front of her, but she didn’t immediately dig in to it.

“An hour ago, when I was starving, you might have succeeded in distracting me with food, but not now. I’ve told you everything but my shoe size, and the only thing I know about you is that you ride a motorcycle, fix cars and you know how to bowl a woman over.”

“What else do you need to know?” he said, shrugging playfully.

“Lots of stuff.”

Vic sensed he wasn’t going to wiggle off her hook this time. He sat down and took a bite of his cheesecake, savoring the sweet caramel flavor mixed with cool cream cheese. “My life’s an open book,” he said. “What do you want to know?”

“How many questions do I get?” she asked warily, obviously skeptical of his sudden openness. And well she should be, he thought guiltily.

“One. No, wait, two—okay, three. But that’s my limit. I’m boring. Why would we want to talk about me?”

“What do you do for a living? Do you have a job?”

“That’s two questions.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, and he gave in.

“Okay, we’ll count it as one.” He paused, wondering if there was any way to make his job sound more mysterious. “Let’s just say I associate with some of the city’s less savory characters, and leave it at that.”

“You’re a criminal?” she asked, involuntarily pulling her chair back. Uh-oh. He’d gone too far.

“No, no. I’m a completely law-abiding citizen, I promise. It’s just that my work isn’t something a refined, beautiful woman such as yourself would want to hear about.” And that, he decided, was probably the truth. Rounding up drunks, breaking up fights, writing tickets, patrolling high school football games for extra money when he was off duty—it just wasn’t very glamorous. He was hoping to make sergeant soon, and he was fairly certain he would be assigned a detective position within the next couple of months. But he wasn’t there yet.

“But you’re employed? You’re a contributing member of society?”

“Yes.”

“You’re annoyingly mysterious. How do you know I’m not interested in your job? I have very wide-ranging interests.”

“Is that a question?”

“No. How many do I have left?”

“Two.”

“Where do you live?”

“Near White Rock Lake.” Which revealed very little. The old White Rock neighborhood featured everything from cramped apartments to mansions. “One more—make it a good one.”

She paused and licked her lips. He was breathless, waiting for her next question, wondering what answers he could provide that would keep her off balance. It was a game. She knew it as well as he, or he wouldn’t have continued with it.

When she finally voiced her next question, though, he was the one thrown off balance.

“Are you planning to make love to me tonight?”

Angela very nearly clamped her hand over her mouth. Where had that question come from? Some deep, deep part of her subconscious, no doubt. She’d been sitting there enjoying their banter, thinking what gorgeous blue eyes he had and how broad his shoulders looked in the tux.

She kept seeing quick images in her mind of her and Vic together—her fingers sifting through all that thick black hair, or slowly unfastening his bow tie and unbuttoning his shirt, then her kissing his chest.

Then her Question Number Three had popped out.

My Lord, she thought, I just propositioned a man. She’d never done that before, never even come close.

He didn’t answer her right away. He stared back at her, one eyebrow cocked and a look of pure deviltry on his face. At least she hadn’t shocked or disgusted him. Maybe she’d even excited him. Given her line of work, Angela knew a lot about body language. Vic didn’t look agitated, but his rate of breathing had picked up.

“I think that’s pretty much up to you,” he finally said.

Then his answer was yes, she decided. All she had to do was make one move in his direction, and he was hers.

But she didn’t move. A lifetime of caution kept her glued to the chair. What about pregnancy? she asked herself. She’d always thought that getting pregnant outside of marriage would be the worst disaster that could befall her. But the only thought that came to mind now was that it wouldn’t be so bad having his baby.

What about her other fears surrounding sex? Losing her independence. Opening herself up to being hurt. Feeling foolish afterward. Being taken advantage of. When it came right down to it, she’d always been a little afraid that she simply wouldn’t do it right, that her lack of experience would make her an inept, fumbling ninny.

Looking at Vic, she knew her independence was already at risk. He was quite capable of hurting her—all it would take would be for him to walk away after his conquest. She could feel more than foolish afterward.

But if anyone was taking advantage, it was Angela herself. And the way her instincts took over when she was with him, she couldn’t envision herself as a clumsy lover. She would know what to do when the time came.

She tried to draw together every sensible thought in her repertoire about why making love with someone like Vic was a bad, bad idea. But somehow, the only sensible thought she could grab on to was, There’s an all-night drugstore around the corner, and it sells condoms.

Without really meaning to, she pushed back her chair and stood. Her decision was made. And, really, it had been made the moment he walked in the door. She took a step toward him, then another; then she held out her hand.

She could have sworn his eyes sparkled with their own light. He took her hand and brought it to his lips, all the while staring into her eyes, mesmerizing her. He was magic, she decided.

Abruptly he stood up, so quickly that his chair fell back. Then she was in his arms again, her lips pressed against his in a kiss that caused her burgeoning passion to well up inside her like an overflowing well. Unlike the simpler kiss he’d bestowed upon her in the living room, this one was a prelude, brimming with promise. Vic held her face between his hands. She couldn’t escape—not that she wanted to. Her mouth was his to pillage any way he desired, and he tried them all—hungry, devouring kisses that involved tongue and teeth and, she’d swear, tonsils, then light, teasing nips that left her limp and almost begging for more.

His grip on her loosened as he moved his lips along her jaw, to her ear, down her neck and to the hollow of her throat. His hands, meanwhile, explored her back in a proprietary manner that thrilled her. She had committed to him—her body, at least—and he was taking possession. He cupped her bottom with one large hand. The intimate contact ignited a fire deep within her core. She wanted him to touch her there and everywhere. She wanted to shed clothing and feel skin against skin. Never had she experienced such a strong drive to join her body with a man.

He moved his hands to the top of her dress and eased her vest off her shoulders, then slowly lowered the zipper. Cool night air caressed her back, followed quickly by Vic’s touch against her bare skin, a new level of intimacy.

“I like your hair down,” he said. “I can bury my face in it, and it smells like flowers.”

“Thank you.” She’d been noticing the way he smelled, too, like soap and menthol shaving cream, starch, and…yes, baby shampoo. As he kissed the sensitive place between her neck and shoulder, she pressed her nose into his hair and inhaled deeply. The scent reminded her of childhood and, oddly, of safety.

On some instinctive level she knew she was safe with Vic, no matter what outward appearances told her.

His talented hands moved to her shoulders and eased the spaghetti straps of her dress down her arms. Yes, all right, she was standing on her roof with nothing on above the waist but a strapless bra.

“I think—” she began, but he kissed her again.

“Don’t think,” he murmured.

“I won’t change my mind. It’s just that…” She couldn’t articulate her thoughts into words when he laid those feathery kisses along her collarbone. She threw her head back and reveled in the new sensations, especially enjoying the feel of his soft lips on the tops of her breasts.

Her knees were getting weaker by the minute. She wanted to lie down with him, and if they’d been anywhere else but on the roof, she’d have given in to her impulse right there.

“Vic…”

“Mmm, what?” His words were muffled. He’d pressed his face against her breasts, teasing the cleft between them with his tongue. No one had ever done anything like that to her before.

“Um, uh, don’t you…think…we should go…inside?” She couldn’t seem to get enough air into her lungs.

“Uh-uh,” he said as he moved his hands around to her back, seeking the clasp to her bra.

“But we can’t…out here….”

“Sure we can. It’s dark. No one can see us.”

What he said was true. Out of the immediate sphere of the candle’s glow, it was pretty dark. “But there’s nowhere to lie down….”

“We don’t have to lie down,” he said, calmly knocking down her most pressing objection.

But no, she had one more. “Vic, we have to have protection.” Ah, here was evidence she had not gone completely insane. On that one point she would not compromise, no matter how appealing the fantasy of bearing Vic’s child might be.

By way of an answer he grasped her right hand and tucked it into the inside pocket of his tux jacket, where she felt a long string of square plastic packages.

“Good Lord, how many did you bring?”

He laughed, a low rumble that reminded her of his motorcycle. “Enough, I hope.”

“So you planned this from the beginning.” She wasn’t sure whether she was supposed to be affronted by his premeditation or not.

He paused in his sensual assault and drew back, looking into her eyes with an honesty she hadn’t seen before. “Sweetheart, I know you’re naive in a lot of ways, but there’s no way you could have recognized what went on here tonight as anything but a blatant seduction.” His voice deepened until it was almost a whisper. “Yes, of course I planned for it. Believe me, there’s nothing that throws a wet blanket over a seduction faster than having to make a midnight run to the 7-Eleven for condoms.”

Angela laughed despite herself. This was the longest speech she’d ever managed to extract from him, and she got the distinct impression that she’d seen more of his true personality in those few words than he’d allowed her to glimpse before. His sense of humor was shining through. And the picture of him frantically throwing on clothes and making a mad dash to the convenience store…well, it was less than dignified and not in keeping with the controlled alpha male he’d presented to her so far.

And she liked it. Her affection for him expanded, making her chest feel almost too full.

She removed her hand from his pocket, letting it slide down around to his back. With one surprisingly coordinated flick of her wrist, she unfastened his cummerbund and let it fall at their feet.

His eyes smoldered, and her amusement fled. She leaned forward, draping her body against his, to whisper in his ear. “I’d like to know how you’re going to finish this seduction without us lying down.”

“I’ll show you.”

Their conversation ground to a halt as once again they concerned themselves with exploring each other’s bodies. Vic’s jacket and tie joined his cummerbund in the gravel, but she left his shirt on, unbuttoned of course. She liked the contrast of the crisp, white cotton to his tanned chest.

As for her own clothes, the dress ended up around her ankles and the bra disappeared. Vic eyed her garter belt and lace-topped stockings with a low whistle. “You had a few plans of your own, I see.”

She couldn’t deny it. No matter what she’d told herself about wanting to feel sexy, in the back of her mind she’d dressed for Vic.

For a long, almost terrifying moment, Vic just looked at her. She’d never stood half-naked for a man’s inspection before, certainly not outdoors. But rather than making her nervous, his hot gaze inflamed her further. She could almost feel rays of desire pouring off him.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.