by the way the fragrance chased through his senses. He forced his legs into motion.
“You told me you didn’t have problems getting dates,” she said. “You said you went to the wedding alone because of me.”
“I lied.”
Tipping her head back, she lifted those big blue eyes to his. “Really? So you don’t want to sleep with me?”
Steering her past the buffet, he angled his mouth close to her ear and whispered, “There’s no want. I intend to sleep with you as soon as I can convince you to get naked.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, I get it now. You’re desperate. You could have picked an easier mark, Gerard.”
“True, but I don’t want easy. I want you.”
He couldn’t have explained and didn’t bother trying, not when bracing himself for her comeback. But to his surprise, she only gave an exasperated huff and kept walking.
Mac took advantage of the moment and buried his smile in her sweet-smelling hair. Alcohol might not outwardly impair her much but it certainly made her chatty.
Guiding her toward the door, he told the doorman, “Nigel, please get word to Josh Eastman that I was called away.”
“I’ll take care of it, Mr. Gerard.”
He led Harley onto the floor where hundreds of slot machines flashed and beeped for attention. She blinked against the sudden glare.
“Sure you want to run off?” he asked. “It’s still early.”
Glancing at the slots, she said, “The night’s over for me.”
A cryptic remark from a woman who lived to be blunt? Mac suspected here was yet another clue that all was not well, although the fact she’d been drinking already confirmed it. The teamwork training session they’d attended had lasted a full five days, and during that time she’d declined even a sip of wine at dinner. He’d assumed her devotion to the martial arts meant she didn’t drink alcohol—an assumption reinforced at the wedding when she’d toasted the bride and groom with lime-laced water.
He should have known not to assume.
A doorman swung the door wide in the front lobby and Mac led Harley to the valet. “Where’s your ticket?”
She rummaged through her purse, bracing herself against him for support, before handing over her ticket.
The feel of her body pressed close did amazing things to his. He felt each smooth curve as a promise, the clothing separating them a reminder of the bare skin below. Pressing another smile into her hair, he treated himself to a breath filled with her faintly spicy scent, enjoyed a calm moment with a woman with whom calm didn’t usually factor into the equation.
She finally tipped her head back, and those blue eyes searched his, the color of midnight in the glare of artificial lighting that threw the night-dark city into shadows beyond. She must not have liked what she saw because she pulled out of his arms and said, “Will you stop—”
The rapid-fire rumble of a motorcycle’s engine drowned out her protest.
“Would you look at that,” Mac said, admiring the Harley-Davidson chopper the valet pulled into the driveway. Sleek lines of highly polished chrome showcased a bright red body and a low-slung front wheel that was much sparser in design than any hog built today. A very well-maintained classic.
The valet left the bike to idle and slid off in front of them. He must have noticed Mac’s interest because he shot him a smile and said, “It’s awesome.”
Mac watched in surprise as he handed the helmet to Harley. She accepted it, tipped the guy and turned to him.
“Harley on a Harley. That’s just priceless, Price.”
She ignored him, so he grabbed her hand. “I’ll drive.”
“It’s a one-butt ride.”
“It’s a two-butt ride unless you’ve decided to spend the night in this casino.” He brushed her aside, slid onto the smooth leather saddle and couldn’t stop a low whistle. “I had no idea you were a closet biker. My opinion of you has just jumped several notches.”
“Don’t let it go to your head. I’m only baby-sitting it for a friend. He’ll kill me if you ding his paint.”
He’ll kill me.
Well, here was unexpected info that fitted another piece of the puzzle into place. “I won’t hurt the bike.”
“You’re not driving the chopper, Gerard.”
“Neither are you, Harley.”
The valet shifted his attention between them, understanding finally dawning. Mac had to give the kid a lot of credit when he faced down a scowling Harley and asked, “Miss, would you like me to call a cab?”
She exhaled sharply, obviously not alcohol-impaired enough to miss that she’d lost this battle.
“No, thanks. Looks like I’ve got a chauffeur.”
The valet retreated and Mac kept his mouth shut as she tugged on the helmet and climbed behind him. His pulse kicked when she slipped her thighs against his and threaded her arms around his waist. He put the bike into gear, leaned into the throttle and steered onto the street.
Well, here was another perk to broadening his horizons. Mac hadn’t ridden a bike since college. And never a ride as sweet as this or with a girl so tempting. He wiggled backward to make her spread her thighs wider.
Mmm-hmm. The heat of her body contrasted nicely with the cooling night air. The bike maneuvered silkily, tires chewing up the road beneath a steady rough-velvet roar of engine. Mac maneuvered through the streets toward the Garden District, enjoying the whip of the wind, the way it snapped his clothes against his skin.
The only negative tonight was learning there was someone who might interfere with his plans for Harley.
He’ll kill me.
Who was he? Mac knew Harley wasn’t married. They’d worked together closely for the past five months and he hadn’t heard anything about a boyfriend or any sort of companion. He’d assumed Harley wasn’t involved.
Another reminder never to assume with this woman. But he was finding out more about her tonight than he had since they’d first met and he wasn’t about to retreat now. Not with a chance to find out what might be holding her back from a fling.
“Which house?” he yelled over the roar of the engine when he’d turned onto her street.
She directed him down several blocks then into the driveway of a mansion, only dimly lit in the glow of antique ironwork post lamps. Mac took in the pristine white facade, the huge classical pillars of the portico, tried to see if the mansion had been divided into apartments—the unfortunate fate of so many Garden District homes.
“Let me off,” she said, and he brought the bike to a stop in the driveway. “I’ll get the garage door.”
She
