his hand and inspected a row of deep teeth-marks in the pad of flesh just below his thumb.
Riley’s wrist still tingled from his hold, but she could see no sign of the remembered strength of his fingers, not even a slight redness. “No,” she admitted.
“I’m sure we can sort it out from here.” He nodded affably to her two heroes. “Can’t we?” he asked her pointedly. “Thanks, though,” he added to the knights errant, making Riley’s already simmering blood almost boil over.
“Good luck, bro.” Bulldog-shirt grinned.
“Women drivers, eh?” Dreadlocks commented as they turned away. He rolled a look at Riley and laughed.
Riley gritted her teeth. “I was going to drive back into the parking space,” she told the man still standing by her window, and added distinctly, “before I left you my name and address. We are in the way here.”
In her rearview mirror she saw another car coming slowly toward them. “See?” she insisted as he looked up and behind her.
“Be my guest.” He stepped away to allow her room, and she carefully reparked.
When she got out he was standing between their two cars with a pen in his right hand and a small notebook in his left. He scribbled something on a white business card and handed it to her.
Before she could read it he offered her the notebook, opened at a blank page, and the slim gold pen. “Name, address, insurance company,” he said tersely. “Mine’s all on the card.”
She shoved it into the back pocket of her jeans, taking the pen and notebook.
Hemmed into the space between the cars with him, she could smell his expensive suiting, and a hint of soap or aftershave. Something sort of woodsy, with an undertone of spice. And an over-priced brand name, no doubt.
She lowered her head, pushing back the strands of hair escaping her carelessly fastened ponytail.
“I suppose you do have a license?” he said.
About to write down her insurance company’s name, she looked up. “Of course I have!”
“You scarcely look old enough,” he said skeptically. “Is the car yours or your parents’?”
“I’m twenty-four,” she snapped. “And the car’s mine!”
His dispassionate gaze swooped from her dead-straight, too-fine hair escaping in hanks from its ponytail, to her ancient trainers, on the way taking in the baggy bottle-green T-shirt that concealed small but quite decently shaped breasts, and the comfortable, wash-softened jeans.
When she’d dressed, the jeans had seemed perfectly respectable. Now she was acutely conscious of the fading, thinned fabric at the knees—and the tear, barely perceptible this morning, that had widened when she’d bent to pick up a child who’d taken a tumble at the day care center where she worked.
Still, that was no reason for this stranger to eye her with what she strongly suspected was scorn. Her head instinctively went up in defiance. It was about level with his chin, which meant that he was under six feet by some inches. But the breadth of his shoulders and an unmistakable air of assurance more than made up for the height he didn’t have.
Riley was used to literally looking up to people, but not many of them made her feel this intimidated. He was too big, too damned close, and she had no way of escape. “Don’t crowd me,” she said fiercely as his eyes swept up again to hers.
He stepped back, doubling the space between them to a meter or so. “Are you paranoid or something?”
“I don’t have to be paranoid to be wary of strange men. Especially men who go round abusing innocent women.” She handed back the notebook and pen, unflinchingly standing her ground as he came closer again to take it.
“I don’t.” His gaze this time lingered rather thoughtfully on her as he pushed his hands into his pockets, sweeping back the sides of his jacket. “You’re very small. I suppose you would feel—”
“You’re not exactly Arnold Schwarzenegger yourself, are you?” Riley didn’t like being reminded of her deficient height.
With deliberate insolence she returned the look he’d given her, contemptuously examining the solid chest behind the pristine shirting, the black leather belt fastened about a taut waist above lean hips and what looked like rather well-muscled thighs encased in trousers so nicely fitted they must have been tailor-made.
Reaching his polished leather shoes—Italian, at a guess—she brought her gaze back to his, glad that she didn’t have to get a crick in her neck to do so. She wasn’t actually keen on very tall men—they made her feel her own lack of inches too acutely.
Surprisingly, his mouth twitched, and a spark of laughter lit his eyes. “Do you want to look like Arnie?” he asked her.
“Of course I don’t—”
“Neither do I,” he cut in. “Luckily.”
So he was quite happy as he was. Self-satisfied jerk.
He took his hands out of his pockets and looked down at the one she’d bitten.
“I’m sorry about that,” Riley said uncomfortably. “How bad is it?” Instinctively, as she would have done with a hurt child at the day care center, she took his hand to inspect the wound.
His palm was broad, his fingers long and blunt-ended with clean, short-cut nails. An expanding strap held the stainless steel watch on his wrist. She’d have expected gold.
Again that subtle scent tantalized her. She turned his wrist and paused, momentarily fascinated by the tiny pulse beating under the skin. There was no blood although the marks of her teeth were hideously clear.
“You really thought I was attacking you,” he said to the top of her head.
“Yes.” Riley released him.
“I didn’t mean to terrify you.”
Riley’s head jerked up. “I wasn’t terrified. I was furious.”
He grinned suddenly, a grin of pure amusement. She’d been right about his mouth—it was rather nice really. And his teeth were white and straight.
Capped, most likely. He looked the type who could afford it. She ran her tongue over her own slightly crooked left canine, a habit she’d had since childhood, making her lips involuntarily part.
“So was I,” he said.
“I was going to stop and leave my name and number,” she insisted. “You didn’t have to jump on me like that.”
“The way you raced back to your car, it looked as though you were making a fast getaway,” he pointed out.
“If I was going to cut and run I wouldn’t have stopped to check what I’d done,” she argued. Her gaze going to the ugly scrape on his car, she muttered gloomily, “I don’t suppose the repair bill will be less than the no claims discount on my policy.” Not on a BMW. They’d probably have to
