Slow Ride. Carrie Alexander

      “You must know what that’s like. Mikki used to tell me stories about life at Emma Constable’s. There was a constant stream of foster kids coming and going, she said. Wasn’t Maureen Baxter even one of them?”

      “She wasn’t with us for long, but we’ve stayed in touch.” Rory glanced at the commingling singles, the set of her mouth betraying a trace of discomfort. “That’s why I’m here, to help get Baxter House up and running. Not to—” she waved a hand “—unlock the possibilities.”

      “I figured as much.” Tucker’s gaze lingered on a Britney clone baring her bikini wax in a pair of low-slung jeans. “You don’t seem like the type.”

      Rory blinked. “What type would that be?”

      “You know. On the make.”

      The brow inched upward again. She was going all high and mighty on him. “But you are, I take it?”

      He smiled. “I’m young, male and single.”

      “Of course.” She toyed with the locket around her neck, wrapping the delicate chain around the tip of one finger and swinging the suitcase charm back and forth. Her shawl had shifted, revealing the loose neckline of her dress and a hint of the shadowed hollow between her breasts.

      Full ones, he realized. Round and weighty, the kind of breasts a guy could roll and grip and squeeze and suck—Damn. Although it wasn’t unusual for him to have sexual thoughts about most any eligible woman he met, these lustful reveries were making him uneasy. Nolan was like a brother, which made Rory a…well, not a sister, but maybe a cousin. Not by blood, of course. Only by association. Still, it’d be less complicated if he didn’t have impure thoughts about her.

      Blame the swinging locket. No degree in psychology was necessary to deduce that she was offering him an invite, if only subconsciously.

      Insert your key, her amber eyes seemed to say. I’ll take you on an a wild ride you won’t forget.

      Tucker put his hand into his pocket, intending to withdraw the key. How could it hurt?

      Before he could follow through, a man came up and leaned over Rory’s chair, sliding his hands along her arms. He was big, muscled, bald, sporting a white button-down shirt with a loosened tie and an ostentatious platinum watch that must have weighed a couple of pounds. “Hello, lovely lady. Waiting for me?”

      Rory’s face tilted up. After a beat, she smiled provocatively. Tuck couldn’t tell if she knew the guy or not, but he was surprised at her willingness to flirt so openly.

      Maybe he should have acted faster.

      With an airy laugh, Rory offered the man her locket. “All packed and ready to go, as soon as I find the matching key.”

      The man tapped the suitcase charm. “Let’s see what you’ve got in there.”

      Rory swiveled on the stool and allowed Big Baldy to try his key on her necklace. It didn’t turn.

      “Just my luck,” the guy said.

      She dropped the necklace back into her cleavage and rearranged her shawl, crisscrossing it over one of the most magnificent pair of real breasts Tuck had ever hoped to see. “Maybe next time.”

      Big Baldy shot an assessing glance at Tucker before he addressed Rory again. “Want to come with me, anyway? I promise…” He lowered his face nearer to hers and whispered into her ear.

      She laughed, but with less playfulness. Her eyes went to Tucker. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

      Tuck cocked two fingers at the man, flicking them in a shooing gesture. “Okay, fella. You took your shot. Now you’re out of here.”

      The guy straightened. “The lady can make up her own mind.”

      “And she did.”

      There was a moment of challenging silence, then Big Baldy shrugged. “Her loss.” He faded into the crowd, smoothing a hand over his shining scalp as he went.

      Tuck waited until the joker was well away before he gripped the edge of the round table and leaned across it toward Rory. “What did he say to you?”

      Her lashes lowered. “Oh, just something about making himself fit.”

      Tuck saw red. He forced himself to pry his fingers from the table and tear off a hunk of the pastry. After he’d chewed as if the flaky crust had been composed of nail filings, he swallowed and was able to say almost casually, “Do you know him?”

      She shook her head. “Not really, though I’m fairly sure he’s been in my bakery a few times.” Her gaze on Tuck’s face was level. Frank. She didn’t seem to be a woman who played games. “It was nice to be asked. My only other option so far was a semifamous actor who was making the rounds earlier. Pint-size—I could have broken him like a twig.”

      Tuck was a solid five-eleven, one-eighty-five. Not bulky like the bald man, but he worked out. He would match up with Rory just fine. Maybe his imagination was tricking him, but he was beginning to sense a simmering heat beneath her cool exterior. She was an intriguing female.

      Unfortunately, after her remark about how nice it was to be asked, pulling out his key now would look like a pity attempt.

      Tuck popped the rest of the cream puff into his mouth. “You have a bakery?” Nolan may have mentioned that, now that he thought of it.

      “Several of them, all local. Lavender Field. Bread and sweets. That’s one of my pastries you’re gobbling.”

      He swallowed. “Good stuff.”

      “Thanks.”

      The music stopped. They looked at each other, finding nothing further to say.

      Tuck wiped his mouth with a napkin. He scanned the club from the etched-glass mirror behind the bar to the velvet curtains forming the private dining alcoves. Glass doors opened onto a deck with a sparkling view of the harbor. “Looks like Nolan went after Mikki.”

      “I saw her heading outside.”

      “What happened to your other friend?”

      “My sister—Lauren. She’s probably circulating, collecting quotes for a freelance article she’s researching.” Again, the direct gaze. “Did you want to go find her? I saw you looking.”

      “That’s okay.” Under the focus of Rory’s unblinking stare, Lauren’s face had faded from his memory.

      “She’s very pretty, isn’t she?”

      “Yeah, sure.”

      “Not as up-front as Mikki, but she’s single and available.” Rory shifted on the bar stool, the hem of her long cotton dress lifting to reveal a smooth firm calf as she recrossed her legs.

      “Are you trying to set us up?”

      “I can, if you’re interested.”

      “Not right now.” Suddenly his mouth was dry and the key was burning a hole in his pocket.

      After a momentary silence the music started up again. Should he ask her to dance? The tempo was fast; the dancers were rocking. There was no doubt in his mind that Rory Constable was strictly a slow-dance woman.

      “You’re fidgeting,” she said. “It’s all right if you want to leave.” Another hand wave. “Go. Circulate. Search for cute locks.” She gave him a doting smile. “You know you want to.”

      “No.” He drained his beer in one long pull. “What I want is a dance. Are you game?”

      She pressed a hand to her chest and batted her lashes, putting on, just a bit. “Me?”

      “Yes.” He held out his hand. “You. Come on.”

      Her hand fit snugly in his and she swung off the stool, giving him a peep down the neckline of her dress to the locket