Jennifer Blake - Garden Of Scandal

“I don’t think so!” She hovered between amazement, doubt and anger, and was uncertain which was uppermost in her mind.

“Why? Afraid I’ll overturn you?”

“No, but—”

“There’re no buts about it. Either you trust me or you don’t. What’s the big deal?”

“You don’t understand,” she said a little desperately.

He didn’t budge an inch. “So make me.”

“I don’t like motorcycles.” She glanced away, past his shoulder, as she spoke.

“You don’t have to like them. Just ride on one.”

Her lips tightened. “This is ridiculous. I don’t have to give you a reason. I’m just not going.”

“You’re chicken,” he said softly.

She snapped her gaze back to his. “You have no right to say such a thing. You don’t know what it’s like when I leave here. You just don’t know!”

“What makes you so sure? You’re not the only one with problems,” he said with a swift gesture of one hand. “At least I know one thing, which is that you have some kind of phobia about your Ivywild. If you don’t get out of it, you’re going to wind up locked inside with no way to leave. Ever.”

She bit the side of her lip. In a voice almost too low to hear, she asked, “Would that be so bad?”

“It would be criminal,” he answered without hesitation. “You have too much living left in you. Will you let it all slip away? Will you let fear dictate what you can and can’t do?”

It was a novel thought. She wasn’t sure she had any life—or courage—left, not that it made any difference. “Look,” she began.

“No, you look,” he countered, setting his fists on his hipbones. “It’s just a little bike ride. All you have to do is hold on. I won’t go fast, I won’t overturn you, and you can choose the route. What more do you want?”

“To be left alone?” she said sweetly.

“Not a chance,” he replied with a grim smile. “Not if you want that fountain.”

She stared at him, wondering if she had imagined the threat behind his words. Could he really mean that he wouldn’t tackle the fountain project if she didn’t help him with this part of it? It was just possible he could be that stubborn, that determined to have his way.

She didn’t want to put it to the test, and that was both irritating and depressing. “Oh, all right,” she told him, bending to snatch up her gloves he had dropped. “When do you want to go?”

“Now?” he said promptly.

He obviously thought she would back out if they waited. It was possible he was right, although the last thing she would do was admit it. “Let me tell Maisie, then.”

“I already told her,” he said and had the nerve to grin. Turning, he walked away toward where his Harley stood in the driveway.

She watched him go; watched the easy, confident swing of his long legs, the way his jeans clung to the tight, lean lines of his backside, the natural way he moved his arms as if he were comfortable with his body, comfortable in it. He expected her to follow, was supremely certain she would.

Of all the conceited, know-it-all, macho schemers she had ever seen, he took the prize. She would be damned if she would trot along behind him like some blushing Indian maiden, all hot and bothered because he wanted her company.

He turned, his smile warm, almost caressing, a little challenging as he held out his hand. “Coming?”

She went. She didn’t know why, but she did. It was better than being called chicken.

Alec didn’t give Laurel a chance to balk, but led her straight to the bike. He swung his leg over it, then held it steady with his feet on the ground either side while he helped her climb on behind. As she settled in place, he put her hand at his waist as a suggestion. She took it away the minute he released it, and he had to duck his head to hide his disappointment.

“It’s bigger than I thought,” she said, her voice a little breathless.

“You’ve never done this before?” he asked, grinning a little to himself at the private double entendre.

“Never.”

“First time for everything. Ready to get it on—the road?”

“Just do it and stop talking about it,” she said through her teeth.

He flung her a quick glance over his shoulder, wondering if she could possibly tell what was going on in his head. But no, her face was tight and she certainly wasn’t laughing. He turned the key, let the bike roar, then put it in gear.

She was holding on to the seat, but it wasn’t enough to keep her steady for his fast takeoff. With a small yelp, she grabbed for his waist, wrapping her arms around him and meshing her fingers over his solar plexus. He could feel her breasts pressed to his backbone—a lovely, warm softness. Her cheek fit between his shoulder blades. Perfect, he thought, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Just perfect.

He settled back a little and decreased his speed. His passenger would like it better, no doubt. Besides, it would make for a longer ride. After a moment, he turned his head to yell, “Am I going too fast for you?”

“No, it’s fine,” she replied above the engine noise, but she didn’t sound too sure.

Still, he was good, the soul of restraint. He spun along the blacktop roads, took the turn onto the dirt-and-gravel track she indicated without a murmur or hesitation. He didn’t show off, held the bike dead straight. The only time he stopped was to look at the creek where it passed through culverts or under bridges in its winding passage toward Ivywild.

It was a decent-size stream, fed along its route by a number of springs, which kept the water fresh and clean. Several dry washes fed into it, which, he guessed, must run fairly high during spring and winter rains. It also carried the runoff from a series of low ridges that twisted and turned for quite a few miles. Dams had been built along its course for a pond or two, but they hadn’t slowed it down a great deal.

The creek would be fine for his purpose; he saw that much in short order. Tapping it for a fountain should not cause a problem with either landowners or environmentalists. And it certainly wasn’t as if Louisiana had any shortage of water. If the state could only find some way to pump it out west, it would be rich.

“I’ve seen enough,” he said as they idled beside a rusting iron culvert. “What shall we do now?”

“Go home,” she replied, the words definite.

He gave a slow nod. “Right. But first, I’d like to see where this road comes out.”

She said something in protest, he thought, but just then he gunned the bike into motion so he didn’t quite catch it.

It was a dirt road, a hard-beaten, sandy track that meandered through the woods. There were a few big old trees standing on nearly every rise, as if it had once been lined with houses. All this land had been farms back before the turn of the century, with pastures and fields stretching over the rolling hills as far as the eye could see. That was according to Grannie Callie, anyway. She could still remember a lot of the family names, could tell him who gave up and moved to town to work in the mill, who took off to Texas, who went away to the big war, World War II, and never came back. It was strange to think about all those people living and working, having children and dying here, and leaving nothing behind except the trees that had sheltered their lives.

“Turn around!” Laurel yelled into his ear. “We’ve got to go back!”

He nodded his understanding, but didn’t do it. Zipping around the tight curves of the unimproved road, passing from bright sun to dark tree shadow and into the sun again, he felt free and happy and lucky to be alive. He wouldn’t mind riding on forever. He couldn’t think when was the last time he had enjoyed anything so much as roaring along this back road with Laurel Bancroft clinging to him, bouncing against him as they hit the ruts, tethered together now and then by a long strand of her hair that wrapped around his arm like a fine, silken rope.