didn’t go for the skinny women who looked more like boys, and no one would mistake Liza Enders for a boy.
She might be a great reporter, but he was better at a far more dangerous game. He knew from long experience how to cover his butt. And there was entirely too much at stake to let a reporter blow it.
His life, for one thing. And the lives of other innocents, too. Not to mention if he let anyone close to him, they could get caught in the cross fire.
He had to find a way to keep her distant.
He closed his eyes. At least it was safe to fantasize about her. It would never be more than that, but he’d been living on fantasies for a long time.
One more surely wouldn’t hurt.
Growing hot and heavy, he imagined removing the clothes from Liza’s curvy body.
Nope, it couldn’t hurt.
He awoke in a cold sweat and sat bolt upright with his heart pounding. The room was dark except for a nervous strip of blinking red neon light that crept between the curtains.
For an instant he couldn’t remember where he was. For an instant he wondered if someone had entered the room while he slept.
Reaching out, he found the pistol on his bedside table and thumbed off the safety. Was someone in the room with him? He listened, but heard nothing except the whine of truck tires on the state highway outside.
At last he flipped on the bedside light. Empty. Shoving himself off the bed he checked the tiny bathroom. He was all alone, the door still locked.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, pistol still in hand, he waited for the adrenaline to wash away. Nightmares. He’d had a few of them in his time.
Dimly he remembered some of it. They’d found him. Yes, that was it. They’d found him. They surrounded him and threatened him and kept demanding his real name.
He hadn’t been able to remember it. And each time he failed, they hit him again. It may have been a dream, but his head and stomach felt as if those blows had been real.
And Liza. She’d been there, too, demanding his identity.
As if he had one anymore.
Crap. He thumbed the safety on again and put the pistol on the table. Now he felt cold from the sweat drenching. He needed a shower, but didn’t feel safe enough to take one. Not yet.
That damn reporter was going to be a problem. He had to get rid of her somehow.
This might look like a game to her, but for him it was life or death.
Chapter 2
By morning, Liza’s curiosity had only grown. Max McKenny had indeed graduated from the University of Michigan and Stetson College of Law, both with high honors. Beyond that, she hadn’t found a thing, even when she searched Michigan newspapers for his name, thinking he might have been on a case that had gotten some publicity.
But responding cops seldom made the news unless something spectacular came down. Unless a cop was involved in a shoot-out or something equally serious, only the Public Information Officer talked to the press, rarely mentioning the specific cops involved. Very often the names of the first responders never rose to the surface of awareness. So Max might just have had a dull career.
The lack of information wasn’t terribly surprising, except that there was no record at all of any Maxwell McKennys in Michigan. It wasn’t a common name, and that should have made her job easier. Instead, her search was giving her a blank wall.
The American Bar Association had proved opaque. If it had a public membership directory, it wasn’t available online. Checking state licensing boards, as she’d learned long ago, was a total wash if you didn’t get the name exactly right. Maxwell McKenny, if listed as Maxwell D. McKenny, would never show up in a search.
Ah, well.
She tried to force her attention back to the day’s work ahead and forget she’d awakened from a dream that morning about a gorgeous hunk of manhood who resembled Max. Not entirely, but close enough that she couldn’t fool her waking brain into thinking it had just been a generalized dream.
Maybe part of her problem was that it had been way too long since she’d had a boyfriend, something which had everything to do with her former career. There were just so many times you could break a date before a guy went looking elsewhere. Which pretty much meant she had to date other reporters who would understand her schedule, except most of the single men in her newsroom just hadn’t appealed to her. There had been one guy—but she cut that thought off with a scythe. She was not going there.
So maybe she was just focusing on Max because a hunk had walked into view. Maybe this was all some kind of female reaction and not her nose for news at all.
A Harley roared by her as she strode down the sidewalk toward campus, and even from the back she could see it was Max, helmet notwithstanding. Of course. He would have a Harley, big and black, a machine that throbbed with energy and a deep-throated roar. It fit.
Hadn’t she read somewhere that motorcycle cops had thrown fits in some state when officials had wanted to replace their Harleys with something less expensive? Apparently other motorcycles just didn’t sound as good.
Or something. That had been a long time ago, and she couldn’t even remember where she’d read it. Maybe Max had been a motorcycle cop. That would have made his life more boring than most, though handing out traffic tickets was one of the most dangerous jobs cops faced. Even so, most motorcycle cops never ran into any real trouble.
And almost none of them made the news.
She shook her head at herself, deciding she was probably making a mountain out of a molehill. It wasn’t as if her instincts were infallible. She could be very wrong about this.
Much to her amazement, the Harley stopped at the corner and pulled a U-turn, coming back to idle beside her. “Want a lift?” Max asked as he raised the smoky visor that concealed his face.
She was tempted to tell him no, that she enjoyed walking on such a lovely morning, and that would have been true. But equally true was the fact that she hadn’t been on a motorcycle since her college days, and she’d liked it back then. It was tempting.
Even more tempting was wrapping her arms around his waist and discovering if his stomach was as hard and flat as it had looked in that T-shirt. Having her legs extended around his.
Was she losing her mind? Common sense reared. “Thanks,” she said, “but no helmet.”
He flipped open a steel compartment on the side of the hog and pulled one out. “I always carry an extra.” Reaching out, he strapped it to her head, securing it beneath her chin. “You done this before?”
“A long, long time ago.” Part of her wanted to rebel at the way he was taking charge, but another, stronger part of her really wanted to ride behind him on that bike.
So he guided her onto the seat behind him, warning her about the exhaust pipes, and helped her place her feet properly.
“Lean with me,” he reminded her, and then she was sailing
