“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

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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.

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