she jumping out of the frying pan into the fire?
As they careered round the first corner, Mack suddenly nosed his bike into the kerb and brought it to a halt.
“What are you doing?” she cried as he eased himself out of her grasp and leapt off.
What he was doing, she realized, was peeling off his leather jacket. He had a plain black T-shirt underneath which emphasized the breadth of his muscled chest and exposed the impressive muscles of his tanned arms. She pursed her lips, wondering if he’d added workouts in the gym to his other leisure activities.
“Here. Slip your arms into this.” He helped her into his jacket, which was several sizes too large for her, but felt beautifully snug and warm. “It might protect you a bit.”
Surprised at his unexpected gallantry—but then, Mac had always been a man of surprises, good and bad—she showed her gratitude with a light, “Thanks, Mack. Now you’ll get wet through.”
“Never mind about me,” Mack muttered as he threw a sturdy thigh over his bike and settled back into his seat. There was an edge of mockery in his voice, as if to say, When have you ever minded about me? “Ready to go? Hold on, Suzie!” The big machine shot forward.
The rain was tumbling down. She could feel her wet curls clinging to her cheeks, her neck. She thought of Tristan and her mouth dipped. What would it matter now if she reverted to her natural curls and dropped her sophisticated, ladylike facade? Who was going to care now that her golden prince had turned into a tarnished frog?
Just as her dark prince had, three years ago.
She wondered bleakly if an honest, dependable man existed anymore.
She turned her face into the driving rain, as if that might wash them both out of her mind and out of her life. But it was pretty futile when she had her arms around the dark prince, his ring on her finger and would shortly be arriving at his home.
Chapter Three
As Mack swung his bike into the narrow driveway of his modest weatherboard home, which he’d inherited from his mother about five years ago, Suzie felt herself trembling again. Not with reaction this time, or even with cold—Mack’s jacket had saved her from catching a mortal chill—but with a shivery apprehension.
She’d been to Mack’s house a few times during the roller-coaster months they’d been together—or more accurately, seeing each other. They’d never actually been together in that sense, though it had come close a few times and would undoubtedly have happened if Mack hadn’t shattered her faith in him—albeit blind, rebellious faith—by showing that he possessed the same destructive traits that had wrecked her father’s life.
Her mother had mistrusted Mack from the start and warned her to keep right away from him. Suzie had known in her heart that Ruth was right about him, that he was the last man in the world she should be seeing, let alone falling for, but try as she might she hadn’t been able to keep away from him. Until that awful night three years ago—the night Mack had demonstrated, with painful clarity, that he was no different from her father.
Disillusioned, she’d refused to see him again, refused his phone calls, even refused to speak to him when he’d turned up at her father’s funeral a few months later. She’d wanted to make it clear to Mack that whatever they’d shared together was now dead, and that she was severing all connections with him.
“We’re here now, Suzie, you can let go of me,” Mack drawled, and she realized they’d pulled up near his front steps and that she was still clinging to him. She released him as if her hands were suddenly on fire, and scrambled off the big machine, groaning as she looked down at her mud-spattered ivory satin high heels and the soaked skirt of her elegant wedding gown.
“My dress and shoes are ruined!” she moaned. “Haven’t you ever thought of buying a car?”
“And give up my Harley?” Mack grinned at her through the rain. In the glow of his porch light, drops of water beaded his heavy eyebrows and thick lashes, giving his dark eyes a pearly sheen. “Come on inside, Suzie, out of this rain. We’ll have to get these things off. We’re both soaked.” His wet T-shirt clung to his muscled chest like a second skin.
We’ll have to get these things off? Alarm shot through her. “I’ll be fine,” she babbled, wondering why she’d ever agreed to come to his home with him. Was she mad? This wasn’t a real marriage, for heaven’s sake! They’d agreed it wasn’t going to last. “Your jacket has kept me nice and dry and warm,” she mumbled.
“Only the top half of you.” He was still grinning, damn him, as he surveyed her sodden gown and shoes. “But I can’t see your wedding dress surviving somehow. I hope you’re not having second thoughts about marrying Tristan when you’re both free again, assuming he ever gets his divorce, of course!”
She almost snapped back, “No, I’m not!” but she caught the words back, scowling instead. A bit of doubt on Mack’s part might be a good thing. As a protective device. Mack had supreme powers of persuasion, as he’d demonstrated before when she’d been determined to keep away from him. Until he’d shown his true colors on that last soul-destroying night, and she’d made it quite clear to him that he was out of her life for good.
But she still wasn’t immune to him, she realized in dismay. Not entirely immune. Having to keep her body pressed up against him all the way to his home, and her arms wrapped tightly around him, had shown her that. The feel of his taut muscles under her hands had sent her heartbeat haywire and her pulses soaring, and even now she could still feel her nerve endings twitching. She would have to be well and truly on her guard against him, every second she spent with him.
As Mack whisked her up the rickety front steps to the shelter of his small covered porch, she fingered her wet tangle of curls and wondered ruefully what Tristan would have thought of her smooth, sleek hair sprouting rebellious curls before his eyes. Would he have laughed, and loved her just as much? Or would he have sent her off to have her hair professionally, permanently, straightened?
She simply didn’t know. What madness had made her want to rush into marriage with a man she didn’t really know? A man she’d only known for three months?
It had been nothing but a dream. And dreams weren’t real. Fairy tales weren’t real.
She heard a thud, and then another, and realized that Mack was tugging off his boots. As he peeled off his socks, revealing dark-skinned bare feet, she gulped and looked away, kicking off her own mud-spattered satin shoes.
Mack unlocked his front door and waved her in. “I’m glad to see your curls are back, Suzie,” he commented as he led her into the front room—a combined sitting room and workroom—and switched on the overhead light. Only one of the three bulbs was working—typical of Mack Chaney, Suzie thought, glancing upward. On her past visits here, he’d often overlooked practical household basics, his mind too absorbed, no doubt, with the Internet and his latest brilliant idea.
But at least the lighting was softer than it would have been with all three bulbs working!
“What on earth did you do to your hair before?” Mack asked, fingering a stray damp curl. He was thinking how cute she looked with her wet curls clustered round her cheeks, and how dewy and moist and kissable her lips looked, and how she’d die if she knew she had mascara running down her face. “And why?”
Suzie
