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“No.Why would I?”
“Then you’re in for a treat.You’re going to want to hold on. To me,” he added after a beat.
She put her hands lightly on either side of his waist.
But when he revved the engine again—she knew damn well he did it on purpose—she swallowed pride and wrapped her arms around him.
Why, she wondered, anyone would want to drive something so noisy, so dangerous, so—
Then they were flying down the road, and the wind blew cool and balmy and gorgeous over every inch of her.
Okay, a thrill, she admitted, and her heart skipped as he leaned into a turn. A terrifying sort of thrill. Like a roller coaster, which was another thing she could admit was exciting without being a necessary experience in a well-rounded life.
The landscape whizzed by. She smelled the rain, the grass, the leather of his jacket, felt the throb of the bike between her legs.
Sexual, she admitted. Add arousing to that terrifying thrill. Which was surely the reason people rode bikes.
When he swung onto her drive, she had to resist flinging her arms up in the air to feel the wind give her palms a slapping high five.
As he stopped in front of the house, Del came out.
“Mal.”
“Del.”
“Parker, where’s your car?”
“Oh, I had a flat just down the road. Mal came by. His tow truck driver’s fixing it. I have a consult.”
Her brother cocked his head, and she saw the corner of his mouth twitch. “Parker.You rode on a motorcycle.”
“So what?” She tried to ease off gracefully, but the heels and skirt added challenge.
Mal simply swung off, then plucked her off like a package for delivery.
“Thank you.Very much. I have to run or—”
“You’ll be late.” He unstrapped her purse.“You probably don’t want to wear this.”
He unclipped the helmet, took it off for her.
“Thank you.”
“You said that already. A few times.”
“Well . . .” Uncharacteristically blank, she turned and hurried toward the house.
She heard Del say, “Come on in and have a beer.”
And tried not to wince when Mal drawled out a “Don’t mind if I do.”
Mal followed Del inside, and caught a glimpse of Parker charging up the stairs.The woman had legs, what he thought of as Hollywood legs.
The rest of her partners—the cool blonde, the raven-haired beauty, the willowy redhead—stood in the doorway of what he supposed they called a parlor, all talking at once.
They made a hell of a picture.
“Flat tire,” Del said and kept walking.
The Brown mansion had style, Mal thought, had class, had weight, and still managed to feel like a home instead of a museum. He figured that clicked on credit for those who lived there, and had lived there.
Warm colors, art that drew the eye rather than baffled it, comfortable chairs, glossy tables, and flowers, flowers, and more flowers mixed together with that style, that class and weight.
But he never felt as if he should keep his hands in his pockets for fear of getting a fingerprint on something.
He’d been through most of the place—excluding Parker’s private wing (and wouldn’t it be interesting to change that?), and always felt comfortable. Still, the easiest and most welcoming area of the house remained Mrs. Grady’s kitchen.
The woman herself turned from the stove where she stirred something that turned the air to heaven.
“So, it’s Malcolm.”
“How’re you doing, Mrs. Grady?”
“Well enough.” She cocked a brow as Del took a couple beers from the refrigerator. “Take those outside. I don’t want you underfoot.”
“Yes, ma’am,” both men said together.
“I suppose you’ll be staying for dinner,” she said to Malcolm.
“Are you asking?”
“I will if Delaney’s forgotten his manners.”
“He just got here,” Del muttered.
“As the other boys have wheedled a meal after the consult, I can stretch things to one more. If he’s not picky.”
“If you’re cooking it, Mrs. Grady, I’ll be grateful for even a single bite.”
“You’ve a clever tongue, don’t you, boy?”
“All the girls say so.”
She let out a quick bark of a laugh, and tapped her spoon on the edge of a pot. “Outside, the pair of you.”
Del opened the fridge, grabbed two more beers. He shoved three of the four on Mal, then flipped out his phone as they walked outside. “Jack. Mal’s here. Got beer. Get Carter.” He snapped the phone closed again.
He still wore his suit, Mal noted, and though he’d taken off his tie, loosened his collar, he looked every inch the Yale-educated lawyer. He shared his sister’s coloring—thick, dense brown hair, misty blue eyes. Her features were smoother, softer, but anyone with working eyes would make them as siblings.
Del sat, stretched out his legs. His manner tended to be more casual and a hell of a lot less prickly than his sister’s, which might have been why they’d become poker buddies, then friends.
They popped the bottles, and as Malcolm took the first cold sip, his body relaxed for the first time since he’d picked up his tools twelve hours earlier.
“What happened?” Del asked.
“About?”
“Don’t play me, Mal. Flat tire, my ass. If Parker’d had a flat, you’d have changed it—or she would have—and she wouldn’t have ridden home on your bike.”
“She had a flat.” Malcolm took another pull on his beer. “In fact, she had two.They’re toast.” He shrugged. He wouldn’t lie to a friend.“From what she said, and how it looked when I got there, some asshole swerved to avoid a dog. Parker had to cut it hard to the shoulder to avoid getting creamed. Wet road, maybe a little overcompensating, she had herself a little spin, shot out the two left tires. Looked to me from the skid marks, the other driver was booking—she wasn’t. And he kept right on going.”
“He left her there?” Outrage colored Del’s voice, blew across his face in a storm.“Son of a bitch. Did she get the plate, the make?”
“She got nothing, and I can’t blame her. It must’ve happened at the peak of that quick squall, and she was busy trying to get control of her car. I’d say she did pretty well. Didn’t hit anything, didn’t even pop the airbag. She was shaken up, and she was pissed. And she was extra pissed thinking she’d be late for her meeting.”
“But not hurt,” Del said, mostly to himself. “Okay.Where?”
“About six miles out.”
“Were
you out this way, on your bike?”
“No.” Damn third degree. “Look, Ma got the call, and she came out to tell me somebody ran Parker off the road, and she was stuck, so I rode out to check on her while Ma dispatched Bill.”
“I appreciate that, Mal.” He glanced over as Mrs. Grady walked out, then set a bowl of pub mix and a plate of olives on the table. “Sop up some of that beer. Here come your boyfriends,” she added, nodding across the lawn as the dusk light flickered on.
“You.” She poked Malcolm in the shoulder.“You can have one more beer, as we won’t be sitting down to dinner for another hour or more, then that’s it until you park that monster machine back at your own place.”
“You and me could go out dancing first.”
“Careful.” She twinkled at him. “I’ve got plenty of moves left in me.”
She strolled back into the house, leaving Malcolm grinning. “Bet she does.” He tipped his beer toward Jack and Carter in greeting.
“Here’s what the doctor ordered.” Jack Cooke, the golden-boy architect and Del’s college pal, opened a beer. The sturdy boots and jeans told Mal Jack had focused on site work rather than office work that day.
He made a contrast with Carter’s oxford shirt and khakis. Carter’s reading glasses poked out of his shirt pocket and had Malcolm imagining him sitting up in his new study grading papers with his Professor Maguire tweed jacket neatly hung in the closet.
He figured they made a motley crew—if he had the meaning right—with Del in his slick Italian suit, Jack and his work boots, Carter in his teacher’s khakis, and himself . . .
Well, hell, if he’d known he’d get invited to dinner, he’d have changed his pants.
Probably.
Jack grabbed a handful of pub mix. “What’s up?”
“Somebody ran Parker off the road. Mal came to the rescue.”
“Is she okay?” Carter set his beer down quickly without drinking. “Is she hurt?”
“She’s fine,” Malcolm said.“Couple shredded tires. No big.And I get a couple of beers and dinner out of it. Pretty good deal.”
“He talked Parker onto the bike.”
Jack snorted, glanced from Del to Mal. “You’re not kidding?”
