The Borrowed Bride. Susan Wiggs

are you doing here?”

      He gave her the old cocky grin, the expression that used to make her go weak in the knees.

      It still worked.

      His looks had attracted her in the first place. She had been drawn to his aura of seductive danger, the faint sulkiness of his full lips, the powerful body as well tuned as his Harley. The long hair so thick and gleaming that she yearned to run her fingers through it.

      The direction her thoughts had taken ignited a blush in her cheeks. “This really isn’t a good time.”

      “There never was a good time for saying the things we should have said to each other,” he said with that lazy, Sunday-morning, stay-in-bed-all-day drawl. “But I figure it’s now or never.”

      Her blush intensified. “Maybe you could come back later, after…” She let her voice trail off. Her mouth was dry, her thoughts scattered.

      “Nope, Isabel, won’t work. We’ve got some unfinished business.” He hooked a thumb into the top of his black jeans and shifted his weight to one leg. “I figure you’d rather settle things in private, so you’d better come with me.”

      With a force of will, she was able to drag her gaze from him. “Connie, this is Dan Black Horse.”

      “Perfect,” Connie whispered helpfully. “Just perfect.” She sent Dan an adoring look. “I have all of your albums. I’ve been a fan for years. Too bad you’ve quit.”

      “Pleasure to meet you,” Dan said with effortless gallantry.

      Connie gave Isabel’s shoulder a nudge. “Go ahead,” she said with sisterly wisdom. “If you’ve got something to settle with this guy, take care of it now, because next week it’ll be too late.” She lowered her voice and said, “If you weren’t my friend, I’d kill you for not telling me you knew Dan Black Horse.”

      Isabel stooped to pick up her woven straw purse. “I won’t be long.” She forced her lips into a smile. “I’ll be all right, really.”

      Dan Black Horse pivoted on a boot heel and led the way down the garden path. When they reached his bike, he eased it off the kickstand and held out a black, slightly battered helmet.

      “No way,” she said, stiffening her spine. “I’ll follow you in my car.”

      “Nope.” He plunked the helmet on her head and fastened the strap. “Where we’re going, you don’t want a car.”

      She clenched her jaw to keep from screaming. Priorities, Isabel, she reminded herself. Keep the priorities straight. The most important thing was to avoid making a scene.

      She heaved a sigh, hitched back her cotton skirt and got on the bike.

      “Way to go, girl,” Connie murmured, not far behind her.

      “We’ll go to the Streamliner Diner,” she told Dan tautly. “And I mean to be back by—”

      The thunder of the large engine swallowed her words. He rolled forward, then opened the throttle. The bike jerked into motion.

      Instinctively, her hands clutched low on his hips. A feeling of the forbidden seized her. She gritted her teeth, moved her hands to the cargo bar behind her and held on for dear life.

      He wasn’t wearing a helmet, she observed as they turned onto the narrow wooded highway that bisected Bainbridge Island. Maybe a cop would pull them over.

      Officer, I’ve been kidnapped by a man I swore I’d never see again.

      But as they roared southward toward the quaint little township of Winslow, even the stoplights turned green, conspiring against her.

      Craning her neck around his bulky shoulder, she saw the diner up ahead, looming closer…and then farther away as they veered past it, down the hill toward the ferry terminal.

      “Hey,” she shouted in his ear. “You said we’d have our little talk at the diner.”

      “You said that, sweetheart.” He tossed the words carelessly over his shoulder and passed the tollbooth.

      The last straggling cars were pulling onto the ferry. A female attendant wearing a bright orange smock was about to cordon off the loading platform.

      Dan thumbed the horn. It emitted a chirpy beep. The attendant grinned and waved him through. He drove up the ramp and parked. Immediately, a horn blew. Too late to get off.

      As the ferry eased away from the terminal, he turned around to face her. “Damn, Isabel,” he said, “you’re one hard woman to find.”

      The second he killed the engine, Isabel struggled off the bike. “You’re crazy,” she said, “but I suppose you know that.”

      “Maybe.” He favored her with a look she remembered well, the one of sleepy arousal that used to make her happy to dive back into bed with him for long, languid weekend mornings.

      “This is ridiculous,” she said in exasperation—both at him and at her wayward memory. She braced her hand on the iron wall to steady herself as the ferry headed for downtown Seattle.

      When Dan didn’t reply, she turned and stomped up the stairs to the lounge. The spacious waiting room, flooded with April sunshine, was crowded with islanders heading to the city for shopping or an evening on the town. She spotted a familiar face here and there and managed to nod a greeting.

      Great, she thought. All she needed was for the bank clerk or the hardware store owner to see her going to Seattle with a sinfully good-looking man.

      She went out on deck, where the wind caught at her skirt and hair. Gulls wheeled and sailed along beside the ferry. In the distance, a sea lion splashed in Puget Sound.

      It didn’t take Dan long to find her. Within minutes, he joined her on the open-air deck. “Here.” He pushed a paper cup of café latte into her hand. “Skim milk, one sugar packet, right?”

      She took the cup and sank to a bolted-down bench. “I hope you know you’ve ruined the afternoon for me.”

      He sat beside her, resting his lanky wrists on his knees. A dark fire smoldered in his eyes, and she sensed a tension about him, a coiled heat that disturbed and fascinated her. “Couldn’t be helped. Besides, it’s better than ruining the rest of your life.”

      She almost choked on a mouthful of hot coffee. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

      He reached forward and caught a drop of latte with a napkin before it stained her India-print skirt. “You can’t marry him, Isabel.” His voice, with the unforgettable low rumble of masculine passion that had filled the airwaves for two years, was harsh. “You can’t marry Anthony Cossa.”

      “Since when do I need your permission?” she retorted. The breeze plucked at her hair. Her permed curls were now a deep chestnut color, thanks to an expensive salon job. She pushed a thick lock behind her ear and glared at him. “How did you find me, anyway?”

      He sent her a hard-edged grin. “Through Anthony.”

      “Oh, God.” She set down her cup and folded her arms across her middle. “What did you do to Anthony?”

      Dan stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankles. He leaned his head back against the wall. The movement and pose were graceful, vaguely feline, subtly dangerous. “I don’t remember you being this suspicious.”

      “I’m generally suspicious of men who kidnap me from my own wedding shower.”

      “Fair enough. I had business with Anthony. And what do I see when I get to his office? Your smiling face in a silver frame on his desk.”

      She tried to picture it. Dan, all in rebel black, with his long hair and earring, facing Anthony, immaculate and trying hard to look laid-back in his Banana Republic chinos.

      “He’s a good guy, Isabel,” Dan said expansively. “He’s