By Vonnie Davis
I remember my first motorcycle ride with
great clarity. The man I was dating, at the time, had just bought a new Yamaha
650. Since my children were spending the weekend with their father, the new guy
in my life decided it would be a great day to initiate me to the joys of riding
a bike.
Poor guy had no clue as to the extent of my
novice status--or my fear. Or that I’d be so stiff I’d make steering the bike harder for
him. I was so scared, I was afraid if I moved my eyeballs, I’d
throw the bike off balance. I froze. During the entire two-hour ride I stared at the
back of his helmet, memorizing the serial numbers and other information.
When we got home and I could mercifully
stand on solid ground, rubbing my bumm to get the circulation going
again, he asked how I’d enjoyed the ride. “Fine,” I replied, “except, don’t
your feet get hot? First I kept my toes down until I couldn’t stand the heat
anymore and then I'd put my heels down.
He shot a glance at his tailpipes where the
rubber from my soles had melted onto them. He’d forgotten to put the foot pegs
down and I’d been riding with my feet on the hot tailpipes. He had to spend
several hours rubbing the melted soles off the chrome. It was a long time
before he left me forget it.
In my recent release, Those Violet Eyes, Win takes Evie home from work after the battery
on her car goes dead. She’d never ridden a bike either.
“You need a ride home. Come
on.” Win turned and walked to his Harley, tugging a key from his jeans pocket.
Evie scurried after him, his
helmet dangling from her hand. “Wait. Wait a second. I’m not riding on that
thing with you.”
Win settled onto the seat and
inserted the key. The Harley jumped to life, making that low rumble it was so
famous for; her system did a strange rumbling of its own when she took in his
broad shoulders. He didn’t say a thing. He just sat there, staring off into the
night. Waiting. Waiting for her just like he’d done before when he wanted her
to do something. This blasted man’s silence was different from others. His silence
whispered, “Come to me.” Worse, she watched him wait and felt him will her to
do his silent command.
Damn him.
The lights on the rooftop star
and steer snapped off. She needed a ride home. Marshall was always the first to
leave, so he’d be no help. “I’ll ask Gus to give me a ride in his truck.”
“He’s gone. Left before you
did. Think it might be for a woman, but don’t tell Keira.”
Keira was probably filling out
the alcohol log sheets for the BATF, a process her friend claimed was the bane
of her existence. While the current bane of her
existence sat silent on a rumbling Harley. Waiting.
“Won’t you need your helmet?”
She extended it to him.
He shook his head once. “Your
safety’s more important than mine. You use it.”
He was the strangest man she’d
ever met.
Well, hadn’t she been hoping
for a little adventure, something to change the everyday humdrum of her life?
And she did need a ride home.
She put on the helmet and took
it back off. “My pony tail won’t fit.”
Win’s hands rose to remove the
clip from her hair, his muscled legs holding the bike upright. His eyes locked
on hers as his fingers splayed in her tresses and fluffed them out.
“Your hair’s beautiful. I hate
to cover it up with this old brain bucket.”
Her insides did more of that
strange twitching she found very perplexing. No man ever complimented her
before, nor touched her hair. Not like he was doing, anyhow.
He took the helmet from her,
settled it on her head and made some adjustments so it fit her better.
When she hiked her skirt to get
on, his gaze followed her legs; she was sure she heard him groan. The man made
her yearn and fear at the same time.
“Wrap your arms around me.”
“No, I’ll hurt your back.”
“Wrap your arms around me,
Evie.”
“No.” She had no intentions of
touching him. If she did, she might like the feel of his hard, muscular frame
too much, and that just wouldn’t do. She was leaving here as soon as she saved
enough money.
Win coasted the bike backwards,
walking it along with his boots. The bike made its potato-potato-potato sound.
“Hold on or you’ll fall off.”
“No, I won’t.”
He gave the bike more gas and
released the clutch. It lurched forward—Evie jerked backwards. Her arms snapped
around his waist, and she snuggled close. Just as she feared, her arms around
him felt good, much too good.
She closed her eyes. Win
Fairchild could be trouble, trouble in black jeans and a Harley T-shirt.
Warm air rushed by as the bike
pierced the darkness like an arrow. A sense of freedom exhilarated her. Was it
the ride or the man that heightened her senses? Subtle changes in temperature
were noticeable as they rounded corners and took the gentle hills. Scents she
missed while riding in a car were now hers for the smelling—pine, honeysuckle,
wild flowers. The nighttime serenade by crickets, bullfrogs and the occasional
owl made her smile. Everything was more vivid. No wonder people fell in love
with riding motorcycles.
BUY LINKS:
If you’re an avid romance junkie like me, you know heroes
come in many yummy delicious packages. We all have our favorites. Mine is the darkly
sexy brooder - dear Lord, be still my heart. Seriously. Even as a teenager, my
ideal had dark hair and a five o’clock shadow. In fact, the only poster I ever
put on my wall was this life-sized pic of Clark Gable.
That doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the other types. I
mean, who among us can resist the charming and playful blond? And hey, a mature
hero with a smooth skull can be incredibly sexy. (I know this first hand. Mr. C.
has been follicly challenged for years.) 
