Kiss The Cook

He shook his head. 'No thanks. We need to leave. It'll be dark soon.'

'So?'

'So, I want to get where we're going before there's no light left. Let's go.'

Melanie ran inside long enough to put her rose in water, then grabbed her purse and locked the door. She was halfway down the porch when she halted. 'Where's your car?'

He grabbed her hand and tugged her along. 'Home.'

'Home?' Allowing him to lead her, they walked past her Dodge, which sat in the driveway. When she saw what was parked behind the Dodge, she halted.

She peered at the huge black and chrome machine and felt her stomach roll down to her feet. 'Wha… what's that?'

'What does it look like?'

She stared, slack-jawed. Uh-oh. This smelled like big trouble. 'It looks like a motorcycle.'

'Not just a motorcycle,' he said with a wide grin. 'A Harley Davidson.'

'This is yours?'

'Sure is. Had it ever since college.' He slapped a shiny black helmet into her hands and swung one leg over the leather seat. 'Let's go.'

She gaped at him, then at the monstrous gleaming steel machine nestled between his long legs. Sweat popped out on her forehead.

'Go?' she asked in a weak voice.

'Yeah. Go. You know, the open road, the wind in your hair, the asphalt beneath your feet.'

Melanie puckered her lips. It really irked her when someone tossed her own words back at her. And verbatim, no less. What did he have, a photographic memory?

She plastered a false smile on her face. 'As appealing as that sounds, I, ah, I'm afraid I can't. Maybe some other time. Why don't we take the Dodge?' She handed him back the helmet. He leaned over and plopped it on her head.

'Better buckle that up.' He chucked her under the chin and grinned. 'It's the law.'

Melanie stood rooted to the spot and watched with mounting trepidation as he released the kickstand and backed the motorcycle down to the street. He strapped on his helmet, then turned to where she still stood on the driveway.

'Hey, you're lookin' kinda green, Mel Gibson. What's up?'

With as much dignity as she could muster, Melanie walked over to him. So she'd lied. So what. Lying wasn't a crime. She stood next to the motorcycle. Holy smokes. He looked totally sexy sitting astride all that steel and chrome. She almost swallowed her tongue.

'I'm not green,' she reported in her haughtiest, queen of England demeanor. 'I simply don't want to ride on that… thing.'

He raised his brows. 'Why not?'

'I'll, uh, get helmet hair. Bugs in my teeth. A sore butt. Besides, I try to avoid things with a negative fun/risk ratio. You know, three minutes on a motorcycle, eight months in the hospital.'

His smile grew broader. 'Chicken.'

Melanie drew herself up. 'I am not chicken.'

He leaned forward until they were nose-to-nose. 'Then prove it, Miss I-don't-want-a-boring-accountant-I- want-a-motorcycle-kind-of-guy. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe your exact words were 'My motto is-it's either motorcycle guys or no guys.''

She shot him a dirty look. 'Hasn't anybody ever told you it's impolite to throw people's words back at them? You might piss someone off.'

'Hasn't anybody ever told you to be careful what you wish for? You might just get it.'

Yeah, she'd heard it. Blah, blah, blah. She'd always hoped it would apply to winning the lottery. She made one last desperate attempt to save herself. 'Nana would be worried sick if she knew I was on that… thing.'

'Ha. Ten bucks says Nana would love to go for ride on this 'thing.''

Darn it, he was right. A lump of real fear lodged in Melanie's throat. She'd never even been close to a motorcycle before. No doors, no seat belts, no nothin'. It gave her the willies.

'Look,' she said, giving up all pretense at bravery, 'I lied. I don't want a motorcycle guy. Wind in my hair gives me split ends and I'm allergic to asphalt.' She swallowed the rest of her pride. 'I just can't get on that thing. I'm not ready to die. There are too many things I still want to do.'

He leaned his forearms on the handlebars and regarded her with interest. 'Such as?'

'Such as… go canoeing. Play in a tennis tournament. Teach a cooking class. Try a martini. Bake the chocolate cake I found the recipe for in yesterday's newspaper. Skinny-dip. Lots of stuff.'

'Great. I'll help you with five out of six. Let's go.'

'Five out of six?'

'I'll take you canoeing, be your partner in a tennis match, and you can teach me how to cook something. I make a great martini and'-his grin turned wolfish-'I'll arrange for the skinny-dipping any time you say. You're on your own with the cake.'

Melanie couldn't smother the laugh that escaped her. She shook her finger at him. 'If Nana knew how you were talking to me, she'd take a rolling pin to you.'

'Good. We'll use it to make your cake. Now I'm six for six.' He held out his hand. 'C'mon, Melanie. Climb on. Take a chance. Do something wild.'

'Hey, I do plenty of wild things. Lots of 'em. Wild is my middle name.'

He crossed his arms over his chest and regarded her with amusement. 'Oh, really? What's the last wild thing you did?'

She shuffled her feet. 'Uh, well, yesterday I hand-washed a rayon shirt that said dry clean only.'

He hooted out a laugh. 'You're a regular Evel Knevel.'

'Ha, ha, ha. I once put bubble bath in the Jacuzzi-'

'Now that's more like it.'

She sent him a withering look. 'I was twelve.'

He made a tsking sound and shook his head. 'That's pathetic. Absolutely pitiful. Boy, are you lucky I came along to save your sorry butt.'

'It's my sorry butt I'm attempting to save by not getting on that thing.'

A warm, teasing, utterly sexy expression entered his eyes. Melanie felt the pull of that look and groaned. 'Don't look at me like that,' she protested, knowing she was going down for the third time with no lifeboat in sight. 'Time out. No fair.'

'C'mon, Mel. Ride with me.' He leaned forward and brushed his mouth over hers. Their helmets bumped. 'I promise you'll like it.'

Riding on a Harley with the sexiest guy east of the Rockies, arms wrapped around him, pressed into his body. Oh, yeah. She'd probably like it no end.

That was exactly what she was afraid of. And if the motorcycle didn't kill her, the overdose of potent male sexuality no doubt would.

She took a deep breath.

Oh, well. What the heck.

Everybody's gotta go sometime.

Chapter 9

They'd been on the road for a good fifteen minutes before Chris felt the death grip she had around his waist loosen a bit. The sun was just slipping beneath the horizon, bathing the sky with a palette of pinks and oranges. He cruised down the road, feeling the tension of the past several hectic weeks ease from his body and mind. There was nothing like a motorcycle ride to relax a person.