Virgin Promise. Kara Lennox
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