Carolyn McSparren - Mr. Miracle

He’d heard, all right. She could tell that from the way he cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “I’m a careful driver. I won’t turn us over.”

Her head seemed to be swinging out of her control. She felt her pulse race and that awful strangling sensation at the base of her throat. Not now, Lord, she thought. It’s just a stupid motorcycle, not a hydrogen bomb!

He reached her in two strides, grasped her upper arm with his good hand and shoved her head forward with the other. “Breathe,” he instructed. “Is there a paper bag handy?”

Beneath the pressure of his palm she shook her head. “I’m okay,” she choked. “Let me up, dammit!”

He released her head, but not her arm.

She met his eyes and hers were blazing. “How dare you!”

“Hell, woman, I know a panic attack when I see one.”

“I don’t have panic attacks.”

“Well, you just did.” He released her arm, but stood too close to her. His eyes were precisely level with hers. He grinned and stepped back. “I know because I had them for six months after this.” He raised his gloved hand. “Couldn’t even stand near the damn tractor. Not very practical on a farm.” He turned away from her, shoved his hands in his pockets and ambled back in the direction of the motorcycle. He was whistling softly under his breath.

She sucked in a single breath and willed her pulse to slow. “What did you do about it?”

“Climbed onto it at two in the morning when nobody was around to watch me and sat there shaking like a leaf until sunrise.” He shrugged. “Threw up twice. Spent all morning cutting the yearling pasture. Must have lost twenty pounds from the sweat.” He looked at her and leaned one hand on the seat of the motorcycle. “Worked for me.” He raised a hand in invitation. “It’ll work for you, too. Come on. You can’t spend your life being afraid.”

She felt the surge of fear again.

“Look at me,” he said softly. “My eyes to your eyes. Your hand in my hand.”

She took a step toward him. His eyes burned into her. He took her hand gently. She seemed to have lost the strength to draw it away. He nodded. “Up you go.”

She backed off a step.

His grip on her hand tightened. “It’s only a machine.”

“My point exactly. It doesn’t care whether it kills us or not.”

“Ah, but I do. Now get on.”

“You first.” Her brain screamed at her in disgust. Surely she couldn’t actually plan to do as he said, could she?

He swung his leg over the seat without letting go of her hand. “Now you. You promised.”

She was astride the pillion and he was pulling her hands around his waist before she said indignantly, “I did no such thing.”

“Your eyes did. Now put your feet behind mine and hang on tight.”

She closed her eyes, gripped his waist and leaned her head so that her cheek lay against his shoulder blade. She smelled the leather of his jacket and felt the crazy quilt of cracks against her face.

The engine sounded like a 747 coming in for a landing.

They were off up the gravel drive.

She barely had time to register the feel of taut ridges of muscle that ran along his rib cage before he stopped the bike.

She only realized she’d had her eyes closed when she opened them. They were right in front of her cottage.

“This is your house, I presume?”

She gurgled something affirmative. Her stomach churned. Please, God, don’t let me throw up on him.

“Told you I wouldn’t kill us,” he said.

Her fingers seemed locked together in some sort of muscle spasm. He whispered over his shoulder. “You can let go now if you like.”

“Oh, God,” she breathed, and released him.

“It’s pleasant to have you plastered against my back, but it might make walking difficult.” He swung his leg forward over the handlebars, twisted and slipped his hands under her elbows. “Dismount the way you’d get off a horse.”

Obediently she swung off. He held her for a moment at arm’s length. “There, that’s one down. I’ve an idea we’ve a few more to go.”

“A few what?”

“Barriers.”

CHAPTER THREE

A TUBBY BASSET HOUND and a Labrador retriever with a gray muzzle met Vic at her front door with evident delight. Jamey hunkered down instantly and fondled them both. “Aren’t you the lovely boys, then?” he said. The dogs nearly wagged their bodies in two.

Vic stepped around dogs and man and walked into the living room. She was still shaking from the ride on Jamey’s motorcycle. She’d been scared, but elated, too.

“My niece, Liz, took the two Jack Russell terriers with her to Florida,” she said, “and a friend is keeping her parrot. He’s not fond of me.”

“Can’t imagine any creature not being fond of you.”

“Unfortunately my cat views the parrot as an entrée.”

“Cat? Where?”

“You probably won’t see him. He used to be a barn cat until he got an ear torn off in a fight. Now he’s a house cat, but he’s peculiar. Hides from strangers.”

“Does he really?”

Vic turned and saw Jamey—still squatting on the floor—with a large one-eared gray tabby climbing up his shirtfront to butt him in the chin.

“Oh.”

“Have names, do they?”

“The basset is Max, the Labrador is Sam and the cat is Stripes. We don’t go in for fancy names much around here.”

“We don’t at home, either.” He stood with the cat in his arms. Vic heard the purr from across the room. Surely a man so good with animals couldn’t be Jack the Ripper, could he?

“Going to call Marshall Dunn now? Check on me?”

His ability to read her mind was disconcerting. “It’s almost four in the morning in England, isn’t it? Marshall would kill me if I woke him now.”

“He probably would. But he’ll be up by six to watch the lads ride his Thoroughbreds across the Downs. You can call him before you go to bed.” He grinned over the cat’s head. “And push a chair under your door if you’re nervous.”

Vic felt her face flush. She’d been thinking of doing precisely that. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “Come on upstairs. I’ll show you your room.”

“Let me bring in my kit from the bike first.”

“Sure. I’m amazed you can carry a saddle on a motorcycle.”

“Easy. Set the roll bar up in back and strap the saddle to it. I can carry as much in the side holders as you can in the trunk of your average car.”

She watched him open the various holders, extract a pair of duffel bags and bring them in.

“Now I’m ready for that shower,” he said. “Then I’ll make you an omelette fit for a queen.”

“I’m a perfectly adequate cook, thank you.”

“You may be the world’s greatest chef, but I owe you for the job and the bed. Sit. I’ll find my way. You put your feet up.”

Instead of following his advice, she went to the refrigerator, checked to see that she had plenty of eggs and “a bit of cheese,” as well as English muffins. She poured herself a glass of white zinfandel, set another glass on the counter for Jamey and headed for her bedroom.

She’d moved her enormous old bedroom furniture down from the big house. Other than unpacking enough of her clothes to work in, she’d done precious little else. There was not a picture on the wall nor a knickknack on a table. Cardboard boxes sat stacked in every corner. The bed was made up with sheets, pillowcases and quilts, but she hadn’t bothered to put on the dust ruffle. There didn’t seem to be time these days for more than eating, sleeping and working horses.

She sat down on the bed, pulled off her paddock boots and her heavy socks, wiggled her toes, sipped her wine and lay back on the bed for just a moment.

“YOUR DINNER’S READY, lass,” a soft voice said.