The Midnight Rider Takes A Bride

When she stopped blowing and looked at him again, Jed Ryder had shoved his hands into the pockets of his tight, worn-out jeans. He’d turned his head away, toward the parking lot. And he was actually shuffling his feet in their heavy, black biker boots.

Why, I’ve made him nervous, she thought.

Adora swiped once more at her nose with a dry corner of the tissue—and hid a smile. To the bikers who sometimes hung out over at the local tavern, Jed was nothing short of a legend. They called him the Midnight Rider. He was a loner and a maverick, even among their kind. A man to be shown respect, a force to be reckoned with.

But he obviously didn’t have a clue about how to handle a crying woman.

Adora found the thought that she made him uncomfortable reassuring. It occurred to her that there was no reason in the world why they had to stand here with the door open to talk. She should let him in.

In response to that idea, she heard her mother’s voice, clear as a bell, chiming inside her head: Adora Sharleen, don’t you dare let that Hell’s Angel inside your home.

Adora tucked the tissue away and got a firm grip on the neck of the champagne bottle. Then she stepped back. “Come on in, why don’t you?”

At first he didn’t move, except to cant his head sideways as if smelling a trap. She felt certain he would refuse her invitation. But then he shrugged and crossed the threshold. Once inside, he stood looking around cautiously, like a wild animal that had been brought indoors—a careful wild animal, one who suspected he’d made an error to let himself be confined in so small a space.

Adora shut the door, then gestured at her Country French oak table and the four matching chairs around it. “Have a seat.”

He shook his head. “I’m just looking for Ma, that’s all. I thought maybe you’d know where she is.”

“No, I haven’t seen her since around one.” Adora slid around him and went to a cupboard near the sink. “We had nothing booked for the rest of the day, so I just sent her on home.” She spoke over her shoulder as she brought down that other champagne flute, which she filled from the bottle in her hand. Then, feeling naughty, daring and defiant, she turned and held the flute out to him. “Champagne?”

He stood very still. Since the shades masked his eyes and the rest of his face bore no discernable expression, she hadn’t a clue as to what he might be thinking. He just looked at her. Or at least, she assumed he was looking at her. For a very long time.

In the end she couldn’t stand the silence. Her lip started quivering. She bit it to make it be still and thrust the glass in his direction once more. “Please. Take it.”

“Why?”

“We’ll have a toast.”

One black eyebrow arched up a fraction from behind the mask of the sunglasses. “To what?”

“To...the single life.”

He grunted. “What’s so great about bein’ single?”

The feeling of naughty defiance had evaporated as swiftly as it had come. Now she felt lousy again, about her life and herself—about everything. She also felt just reckless enough to tell him the truth.

“There is nothing great about being single. But maybe if I make a toast to it, I can convince myself not to hate it so much.”

His full-lipped mouth, which was surrounded by a well-trimmed and rather soft-looking beard, quirked up just a little at both corners. He peeled off his shades and hooked them on one of the pockets of the black leather vest he wore.

For what seemed like the first time, she met his eyes. They were a beautiful silvery-gray, and startling in contrast to his raven black hair.

He was definitely smiling now. “Bad day, huh?”

The laugh that escaped her came perilously close to being a sob. “Bad isn’t a strong enough word.”

His smile faded. He just waited—for her to go on, she supposed.

So she did. “It’s my birthday.”

“How old?”

This time her laugh was more of a snort. “Is that any kind of question to ask a woman?”

He started to smile again. “Probably not. As I remember it, you were a few years ahead of me in school.”

“Oh. right. Rub it in.”

“How old?”

She gave in and confessed, “Thirty-five.”

He continued to study her.

She glanced down at the flute she still held. “Look. If you’re not going to drink this—”

“Hell.” In two steps he stood just inches away. He lifted the glass from her hand.

She blinked and stared up at him. He really was an imposing man, especially this close up. His shoulders went on for days. And from the torn-off sleeves of his denim shirt, his massive arms emerged thick and hard as slabs of granite. Over the shirt, he wore that black leather vest with a thousand zippers and pockets on it. His belt and his boots were of black leather, too. And he also wore fingerless black leather riding gloves. Adora thought she could smell all that leather—which was odd. A moment ago she couldn’t have smelled anything; her nose had been plugged solid due to her birthday crying jag.

But Jed Ryder seemed to be the kind of guy who could clear out a woman’s sinuses just by stepping up good and close.

A silver cross gleamed on the wedge of sculpted chest between the top two buttons of his shirt. Adora stared at that cross, thinking that she should probably be frightened, here alone with him in her apartment. But he didn’t scare her. Maybe because she knew his mother so well, and knew how Lola loved him and counted on him. Or maybe because of Tiffany, his much-younger half-sister. Tiff adored Jed.

Really, who could say why he didn’t scare her? He just didn’t. Not at all.

He watched her look at him. Then he held out the champagne he’d just taken from her. “Where’s yours?” She gestured toward the table behind him. He turned around and scooped up her flute. After handing it to her, he raised his high. “Here’s to you. Happy damn birthday, Adora Beaudine.”

“Thank you, Jed Ryder.” They drank at the same time, not stopping until both of their glasses were empty.

He held out his glass to her, and Adora obligingly refilled it all the way to the rim. Then she poured more for herself as well.

He proposed a second toast. “And here’s to you find-in’ whatever you’re looking for.” He waited for her to drink with him.

She decided to provide a few specifics first. “A good-looking, upscale kind of guy with a friendly attitude, a steady job and marriage on his mind would be nice.”

He actually chuckled at that. They drank again, to the bottom of their glasses, as they had before. She raised the bottle, offering another refill.

But when she tipped it over his glass, only a few drops came out. She made a small sound of regret, then suggested, “I think I have some brandy under the sink.”

He shook his head and backed up enough to set his glass on the table. “I gotta go.”

She made a tsking sound and shook her head. “Why did I know you’d say that?”

He looked at her in that studied, patient way of his.

She mentally counted to five, giving him a chance to say something. He didn’t, so she answered her own question. “I knew you would say that because it’s what men are always saying to me. ‘I gotta go.’ Or, ‘I really do have to go.’ Or, ‘Adora. Back off. I said I’m going now.’”