Beyond Ordinary

When a pickup truck flew past, its rush of air pushed her toward the bike. Farther down the road, it slowed.

Whoever you are, keep moving. I don’t need you meddling.

Striking a wooden match on the tight denim across her thigh, she threw it onto the bike and the lighter fluid ignited with a satisfying whoosh.

It crackled and whispered, spoke of things best laid to rest, smoked like a demon and obliterated the scratches and dents on the nearly new bike.

Neil, baby, this is for you.

The heat rising off the burning bike distorted the horizon in shimmering waves.

The pickup reversed down the road and came to a stop ten feet away. A man exited the vehicle with a fire extinguisher in his hand.

“No,” Angel screamed, and tried to head him off, but he scooted around her.

He sprayed the bike and the fire sputtered, the flames hissed then died. Acrid smoke swirled into the air, choking her.

“Stop.” She threw herself at the man and sent him staggering. His finger slid off the trigger, but not before he sprayed both of them.

Angel coughed. Her eyes watered.

“You want this to burn?” he asked. She didn’t recognize him, or care who he was.

“Go away,” she cried. “Mind your own business.”

“I can’t.”

“Leave,” she ordered. “I have to do this.”

“The county’s under a fire ban.” He pressed the trigger to spray the bike and Angel launched herself at him again. She scratched his neck above the collar of his shirt and slapped his face.

He pushed her away, but she attacked again. His arms busy with her, he dropped the extinguisher and it rolled into the ditch.

It could rot there.

“What the hell? Back off, woman.”

“You back off,” she cried. “You’re ruining everything.”

“You haven’t changed a bit, have you? Still as self-centered as ever.”

He knew her?

He grabbed her arms, wrapped them across her body and hauled her back against his chest. Her struggles were useless. The guy was stronger than he looked.

“Listen to me,” he said close to her ear. “We’re in the middle of a heat wave.”

He thought she didn’t know that, with sweat dripping down her back?

“I don’t care why you need to burn a perfectly good bike,” he said, “but we’re under a fire ban. You think the ranchers want you starting a wildfire, burning up their crops and their homes?”

He was right, damn him. She’d come close to screwing up again.

She’d failed.

TIMM FRANCK HAD ALWAYS dreamed of holding Angel Donovan, but not like this. Not with anger and frustration. Not as though they were wrestling.

She breathed hard.

The full breasts that probably half the men in town had had wet dreams about at one time or another rested on his forearm where he’d wrapped it across her ribs to hold her still. The other hand cupped her stomach and held her steady against him. On her abdomen, above her jeans, his thumb touched a strip of bare skin that felt like velvet.

She squirmed. Air hissed between his teeth. “Stop it.”

An erection threatened. Thirty-one-year-old men weren’t supposed to behave like randy teenagers. He wasn’t a trigger-happy guy. But then, this was Angel.

When enough of the fight left her that he thought he could let her go, he eased his grip and stepped away. There was only so much he could take.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you home. I assume you’re heading to your mother’s?”

She nodded, her attention on the foam-covered bike.

For a minute, Timm could only stare.

Disheveled dark hair fell to her waist. Red spots rode on her cheeks. One pale blue vein at her temple beat beneath her translucent skin. The deep V of her black leather top showcased a mile-long neck and the sweetest cleavage this side of the Rockies.

She had always been too pretty for her own good, or for the good of his peace of mind. Damn, she’d been away for four years and he still had it bad.

He reached a hand to her face and she pulled back. “Hold still.” He wiped a spot of foam from the corner of her lip. Her peach-soft skin burned beneath his thumb.

There wasn’t a square inch of her body he hadn’t fantasized about touching over the years. She was even softer than he’d imagined and an urge rose in him—to stake his claim on the playground of her body like the worst neighborhood bully.

He shook his head, snapping out of the daze Angel always inspired, disappointed that his reaction to her hadn’t changed.

He was supposed to be a smart man. He owned and edited the largest newspaper for miles around. But it seemed that when it came to Angel Donovan, he was as brain-dead as every other man in Ordinary.

Assuming she would want the saddlebags lying on the side of the road, he picked them up and led her to his truck with a hand under her elbow.

“Neil,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.” He glanced at her to make sure she hadn’t mistaken him for someone else, but she was talking to herself. What was driving her to burn what looked to be a fairly new bike? Any bike, for that matter?

As they approached the truck, she stiffened and resisted his hold.

“Who are you?”

Not one trace of recognition shone in those brilliant eyes. He might as well have been a stranger.

It shouldn’t bother him.

It did.