Rush to the Altar. Rebecca Winters
be his pet because it was still a newborn. No doubt he had visions of raising it until it was full grown and would follow him around.
Through Callie, Ann had learned that people developed attachments to all kinds of undomesticated animals like iguanas and wombats. A squirrel didn’t sound nearly so strange, especially if a boy’s playground was the woods.
Growing up in farm country, Ann and Callie had been enamored of everything from baby chicks and calves to new foals. But if something went wrong with one of them, it was Callie who always wanted to doctor them.
Ann was a little squeamish in that department. One of her favorite pursuits was to spend time in her bedroom with their family dog. It was there she made up little plays she performed in front of him. He had to be a better audience than any human as he sat there watching and listening in adoration while his tail moved back and forth on the floor.
Good old Jasper. First he’d died, then their dad, then their mom. The home she and her sister had once known and cherished was gone.
With a heavy sigh she hurried inside with the dogs to take care of Anna and start dinner, very much aware that this was Callie’s home, Callie’s and Nicco’s. Ann needed to make one of her own.
The problem was, you needed the right ingredients to come together at the right time and place.
So far that hadn’t happened. Maybe it never would…
Getting closer to thirty every day with no man in her life she wanted to be the father of her children, plus a short-lived acting career in serious jeopardy, Ann realized she needed to do something about her situation.
If she were careful, she could live three more years on the money she’d made from her last picture. That would give her time to start looking for a job. Maybe she could teach. Might as well put her English degree and acting experience to some use.
Tomorrow morning she’d get up early and put out some feelers over the Internet in Callie’s office.
On the outskirts of Turin, Riley found a compound of buildings that had to be the Danelli manufacturing plant. However until he saw the name in small letters on the glass door of the main structure, he would never have guessed he’d come to the right place.
Everything was locked up and the parking lot looked deserted. That didn’t surprise him. It was ten after five in the evening. He’d tried to get here sooner, but after his flight from Rome there’d been a long delay picking up his rental car. The only thing to do was find a hotel for the night and return in the morning.
He walked back to the car and drove around the complex hoping to spot a worker or night watchman who could tell him when the best time would be to speak to the owner.
Luca Danelli wasn’t listed in the telephone directory. All Riley could find was the name of the company and a phone number that reached a recording with only one option: leave a message and someone would return the call as soon as possible.
For what Riley had in mind, he needed the right live body. Nothing else would do.
Disappointed because no one was about, he whipped around the other end of the complex to leave the cluster of buildings the way he’d come in. That’s when he caught a glint of red in the periphery and stood on his brakes.
A tall, well-honed male in a black helmet, gloves and leather jacket was just pushing a motorcycle out of a door marked private in Italian. Riley’s eyes fastened on the fire-engine-red bike. It was an NT-1, the pro racing model that was blowing all the competition out of the water according to the article in the magazine Bart had given him.
Riley shut off the motor, grabbed the copy of International Motorcycle World lying on the seat next to him and levered himself from the car.
The man in the helmet had seen him. He raised his shield. As Riley approached him, he was met by a pair of penetrating black eyes that studied him with guarded interest.
“The plant is closed. What can I do for you, signore?”
His Italian, as well as his whole demeanor, spoke of an aristocratic background, especially the way he’d phrased the question in civil tones to couch his demand. Riley was immediately intrigued.
Whoever this man was, he gave off an aura of someone so sure of himself, nothing fazed him. In an instant Riley realized he’d never met anyone like him. Instinct also told him something else. This was a person who welcomed a dangerous situation and would always come out the winner.
“My name is Riley Garrow,” he answered in fluent Italian. “I’ve just flown in from the States to see Signore Danelli about a job. I came directly from the airport hoping he’d still be at work.”
After a brief pause, “I’m afraid that’s impossible now. The Danelli family buried him a week ago.” The pathos in his voice revealed the two men had been close.
Riley’s spirits sank like lead. “I had no idea. There was nothing about it in the news.”
“The family has asked the press to hold the story until his only son who was injured in a serious small plane accident recovers enough to be told the truth.”
“I’m sorry for them, and sorry for me,” Riley murmured. “For years I’ve wanted to meet the man whose genius built the Danelli-Strada bike. My father taught me how to ride on a Danelli. Before he died, he refused to ride anything else and cursed the day the company went out of business.”
He held up the magazine. “When I read Signore Danelli had started manufacturing bikes in Turin instead of Milan, I got on the next plane out of L.A.”
The other man eyed him speculatively. “Who was your father?”
“You wouldn’t know him. His name was Rocky Garrow.”
“Rocky…” he muttered, “as in The Human Rocket?”
“You’ve heard of him?” Riley blinked in surprise.
“Of course. I thought your last name sounded familiar. As far as I’m concerned, he was the star of the Rimini Traveling Circus that came through Turin every spring. When I was a boy I couldn’t wait to watch him do his motorcycle stunts over all those barrels. He looked exactly like a rocket in that shiny silver suit he wore!”
Riley smiled sadly. He’d given that suit and the other costumes to Bart who’d put them in storage for safekeeping. “When I got old enough to realize he wasn’t immortal, I’m afraid I didn’t want to watch.” There were a lot of things he hadn’t wanted to watch…
“I can understand that,” he answered in a low, quiet voice. “I remember reading about his death doing a stunt over Iguasu Falls in Brazil last year. I’m sorry for your loss. He was part of the reason I fell in love with motorcycles in the first place.”
Upon that admission Riley felt an intangible bond with the man.
He could scarcely believe this person had seen his father perform. He looked to be in his thirties, only a few years older than Riley. How strange to think of him as a boy in the audience while Riley waited anxiously behind the tent flap for his father to survive another jump.
“It was his time to go. He died on his old Danelli, doing the only thing that made him happy.”
“Would that we could all bow out of this world the same way. It’s a pleasure to meet the son of the man who gave me so many thrills in my youth. My name’s Nicco Tescotti.” He removed his glove so they could shake hands.
Nicco Tescotti?
“According to the magazine article, you’re the CEO. I presume Signore Danelli’s death puts you at the head of the company now. This is a singular honor for me, but not a good time for you with such heavy responsibilities. Forgive the intrusion.”
As he turned to leave he heard, “Do you ride as well as your father did?”
Riley spun around. “Better!”
They