Janice Johnson - Lost Cause

Great. Wonderful. She was stuck on the shoulder of the freeway halfway between Lynnwood and Edmonds, traffic whizzing by. Thank God for cell phones. Hers had sunk to the bottom of her purse, but she found it and called information, asking for a nearby towing company.

“Fifteen, twenty minutes,” the dispatcher promised.

Now she’d have to cancel the home visit at the Coopers. Rebecca opened her briefcase and pulled out their file. The phone number was in here…. She found it and pushed the keys. Before she completed the number, the roar of a motorcycle brought her head up.

A huge Harley-type bike was easing to a stop behind her car. Her adrenaline surged again. As she hit the lock button on her door, images of rape and murder flashed through her mind. Forget the fact that it was broad daylight and they were in plain sight of busy freeway traffic. She wouldn’t even crack the window, she’d just give her head an emphatic shake no.

The driver, in jeans, boots and a black leather jacket, set the stand and took off his helmet, revealing long dark hair and a face she recognized. She’d met him, she knew she had.

Her mind raced as she peered in the rearview mirror. Where did she know him from?

Suzanne Chauvin’s. That was it. He was the long-lost brother. The one whose mouth had curled ever so slightly when he said, “Ms. Wilson.”

Why had he stopped? Did Good Samaritans come in the form of bikers in black leather?

He swung his leg over the seat, hung the helmet on the handlebar and strolled toward her passenger door. A semi thundered by in the outside lane, whipping his hair, but he didn’t even glance sideways.

When he reached the car, she hesitated, then unlocked it. He opened the door and bent to look in. “Ms. Wilson.”

Damn, he was handsome. Chocolate-brown eyes and a narrow face with spectacular cheekbones might have made him movie-star sexy, but a mouth that didn’t seem to be made for smiling erased any hope of charm.

“Mr. Lindstrom.” Now, why had his name popped into her head so easily? she wondered with surprise. Usually, she had an awful time remembering names.

“Flat tire?”

She shook her head.

“I was driving and my car just…died.”

His heavy brows rose. “Power steering?”

She nodded and realized she still felt shaky.

“Have you tried to start it again?”

“Yes, but it won’t even turn over.”

“Then it’s not likely to be anything I can take care of here.”

“I’ve called for a tow truck. I’m just waiting for it.”

His gaze flicked to her plum-colored blazer and skirt. “Working?”

“Yes, I had a home visit scheduled.” She lifted her cell phone. “I was about to call and cancel.”

“Where do they live?”

“Mountlake Terrace.” She could see the exit up ahead. So close.

“I could give you a lift,” Gary Lindstrom suggested.

She was embarrassed by the knowledge that her eyes had widened. “On your motorcycle?”

The very corner of his mouth lifted in the sketchiest smile she’d ever seen. “You can wear the helmet.”

“The tow truck…”

“Call them back. Tell them you’re leaving your key.”

She did hate to cancel. She knew how eager couples were at this stage, how long they’d yearned for a child, how much time they probably spent getting their house to a point of perfection whether they’d deny it or not. Still, to arrive, windblown, on the back of a Harley-Davidson, her arms wrapped around the waist of a perfect stranger who happened to be dark, sexy and a little scary…

Oh, heck. It was a fantasy come true.

“If you mean it,” she capitulated. “I can call a taxi to take me home…”

“I mean it.”

While he waited, she phoned and arranged to leave her key under the driver’s side floor mat. There wasn’t anything in the car to steal, and unless they could throw it over one shoulder and carry it, no one would be taking her Tercel today.

A moment later, carrying her purse and briefcase, she followed him to his motorcycle.

“You don’t have to give me the helmet.”

Even though his mouth had only that faint crook, his eyes narrowed in amusement. “You’re prepared to risk life and limb?”

“It’s not very far to Mountlake Terrace.”

“Wear the helmet anyway. You’ll feel safer.” He unhooked it from the handlebar, brushed her hair back from her face and settled the helmet on her head. She clutched her briefcase to her bosom and stood like a child being dressed as he matter-of-factly fastened the chin strap and then stepped back. “You may have to hike your skirt a little to get on.”

A dignified, professional woman wouldn’t be nodding obediently and letting him stow her briefcase in a leather bag that was strapped to the motorcycle carriage. He climbed on and watched as she lifted her snug skirt, first a little, then more. Cheeks hot, she finally freed her leg enough to get on with all the grace of a newborn colt trying to stand for the first time.

“Hold on,” he said, and started the engine with a roar that made her jump.

Her first grip at his waist was tentative, but as the motorcycle started to move, she grabbed hold tight while still trying to keep some distance between them. By the time he reached freeway speed, she was plastered to his back, her cheek pressed to him and her arms locked around him.

She’d no sooner dared open her eyes than the bike headed onto the exit and began to slow.

At a red light, she loosened her grip and pulled back.

“Doing okay?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Fine,” Rebecca said, as if she rode one of these every day instead of never. Her mother would have a heart attack if she could see her.

“Good. Hold on,” he warned, as the light changed.

She grabbed tight again as he accelerated. For a moment they proceeded sedately, but then he swerved and shot through a gap that seemed frighteningly small to her to pass the car in front of them.

“Where are we going?” he shouted.

She yelled directions at the back of his head, and he nodded. Half a dozen turns, and he drove slowly down a winding street lined with modest but well-cared-for houses. Lawns were neat, and jack-o’-lanterns, scarecrows and dried cornstalks decorated doorsteps. The Coopers didn’t make a great deal of money, she knew; the husband drove a bus for Snohomish County Transit and the wife was a hairdresser. Neither was especially articulate, but she’d liked their answers on the questionnaire in the file. They sounded like good people.

Fortunately, she’d memorized the street address, and he pulled to a stop on the gravel strip in front of a white-painted rail fence. He turned the engine off.

“Safe and sound.”

She felt the rumble of his words in her hands, locked around him. She let go and straightened. “Thank you. This was really nice of you….”

He turned, eyes narrowed and the skin crinkled at the corners in what she thought was a smile of sorts. “Want me to give you a lift back to the office or home, too?”

In the act of lifting the helmet off, she stared at him. “You’d wait for me?”

“Come back,” he corrected. “I have a cell phone. You can call.”

“I can get a taxi.”

His voice was sexy, too, husky and tempting. “But they’re not nearly as much fun.”

No. They weren’t.

“You’re serious?”

“I don’t have anything better to do,” he pointed out. “I can’t do much for Suzanne at her knitting shop.”

A tiny giggle rose in her throat at the image of him sitting with a circle of ladies, demonstrating the purl stitch. “No, I guess you can’t.”

“So, what do you say?” One brow rose. Of course he was the kind of man who actually could lift one eyebrow.