Maternity Bride. Maureen Child

pale blond brow lifted. “First, I don’t whine. Second, I don’t need anyone to rescue me from you, Mike Ryan. I can take care of myself.”

      She really was something else. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and grinned at her. “I remember.”

      “Good,” she said as she turned for the door. “It’ll be better for both of us, if you keep on remembering.”

      

      What do you wear to have dinner with a man who dresses like a B movie from the fifties and has far more self-confidence than any three people deserve?

      Denise stood in the foyer of her condo and checked her appearance in the full-length mirror one more time. Her navy blue dress looked perfect, she thought and swayed to watch the full skirt swirl around her legs.

      Nodding to herself, she said aloud, “You wear something that gives you confidence, naturally.”

      She smoothed her fingertips along the modestly cut neckline. Revealing just a glimpse of her collarbone, the long-sleeved dress looked demure, almost prudish, until one saw the back. Smiling to herself, Denise half turned and looked into the mirror over her shoulder. The deeply scooped back dipped sensuously low, coming to a stop just below her waist. The smooth expanse of flesh it displayed was evenly tanned a warm, golden brown.

      Denise fluffed her hair one last time, checked the hooks of her sapphire drop earrings, then reached into her tiny evening bag for her lipstick. Though the small, black leather envelope on a slim gold shoulder chain looked lovely, she did miss having her day purse.

      Leaning toward the mirror, she carefully lined her lips in a dark rose color, then dropped the tube back into the bag.

      “Well, I’m ready,” she told herself. “Where is he?”

      A quick glance at the clock behind her and she smiled ruefully. Only 7:20. Whatever was wrong with her? She hadn’t wanted to go on this... She refused to call it a date, even to herself. “So why am I ready and waiting ten minutes early?”

      She caught her own eye in the mirror and looked away again quickly. Denise wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer to that question.

      A rumble of thunder sounded outside and she winced. Looking heavenward, she muttered, “Give me a break, okay? No ram tonight?”

      But the thunder continued grumbling until it rolled up in front of her house and stopped.

      Frowning, she opened the door.

      “Good God.”

      Three

      Denise stepped onto the porch, pulling the front door closed behind her. She twisted the knob, making sure the lock had set, then started down the pansy-lined walk to the street.

      In the hazy, yellowish glow of a streetlight, Mike sat, straddling the biggest motorcycle she had ever seen. Painted bloodred and black, it would have looked intimidating had it been parked and silent. As it was, its engine rumbled like a growl coming from the chest of some jungle beast waiting to pounce.

      The word intimidating didn’t even come close to describing it.

      Mike pulled his shining black helmet off and set it on the seat in front of him and Denise took a moment to study him. Dressed entirely in black, he looked even more like a pirate than he had the night before. And was, if possible, even more dangerously attractive.

      His hair was pulled back into a ponytail at the base of his neck and, she noted nervously, he had shaved for the occasion. When he turned to look at her, his pale green eyes widened in appreciation, then narrowed thoughtfully.

      “It looks great,” he admitted. “But it’s not what you usually wear on a bike.”

      “I didn’t expect to be riding a bike,” she said, although why she hadn’t considered it, she didn’t know. “We could take my car,” she suggested.

      “No, thanks. I don’t do cars.” He reached behind him to the tall bar rising up at the end of the narrow seat. Quickly, he undid the elastic ropes, freeing a silver-and-black helmet, then turned around to hand it to her. “Here. You have to wear this.”

      “Mike, I...” Sighing, she pushed the helmet back at him. So much for her spectacular dress. “I’ll go change.”

      “No time,” he said. “We’re going to be late as it is.”

      “I can’t ride that...” she waved one hand at the motorcycle, then at her dress “...in this.”

      His lips twitched in what might have been a smile if given half a chance. But it was gone in the blink of an eye.

      “It’ll be all right,” he said. “Just stuff the skirt between your legs and mine. Keep it out of the spokes.”

      This was a first. She had never had a man tell her to stuff her skirt between her legs before. Lovely.

      “Can’t you just give me three minutes to change?” she asked.

      He snorted a muffled laugh. “There isn’t a female alive who can change clothes in three minutes, honey. And like I said, we’re already late.”

      His expression told her there was no sense debating the issue a minute longer.

      “For heaven’s sake,” she muttered and threw one last, longing glance at her condo, behind her.

      “Come on, honey,” he told her and pulled his own helmet on. “Just swing one of those gorgeous legs over the saddle and plop down.”

      Gorgeous?

      He released the kickstand and stood up, balancing the bike between his thighs. His hands twisted the grips on the handlebars and the powerful engine grumbled in response.

      She couldn’t help wondering what her neighbors were thinking at that moment. She could almost feel their interested gazes peering at her from behind the draperies. Well, what did she expect, going to dinner with a man who looked like he’d be back later that night to burgle houses?

      He revved the engine again to get her attention.

      Then something else occurred to her.

      “Hey,” Denise shouted over the rumbling engine, “wait a minute.”

      He looked up at her. “What?”

      “Where’s my stuff?” She wasn’t about to go through with this little deal of theirs if he hadn’t brought her things with him.

      Mike scowled, reached back and patted a dark red compartment hanging off the left rear fender. “It’s all there,” he assured her. “Now, get on.”

      Gamely, Denise balanced on her right foot and swung her left leg across the motorcycle. Scooting around until she was comfortable, she braced the toes of her Ferragamo pumps on the foot pedals provided and bunched her skirt into the V between her legs. Muttering under her breath, she pulled the helmet on, winced at just how heavy it felt, then secured the chin strap. She didn’t even want to think about what her hair was going to look like later.

      Then Mike sat down in front of her, easing her thighs farther apart with his black-denim-covered behind. She stuffed her skirt between them, hoping the pooled fabric would dull the heat arcing between their bodies.

      The engine beneath her shuddered and throbbed, and something deep in her core began to shake in response.

      “Hang on to my waist,” he said over his shoulder.

      She nodded before realizing he wasn’t looking at her. Rather than try to talk over the noise of the engine though, Denise wound her arms around his waist, pressing herself close to his back.

      He tossed a glance at her, then reached around and snapped her visor down. “You ready?” he shouted.

      She nodded again, but as they pulled away from the curb, she told herself she wasn’t ready.

      Not