Moonlight, motorcycles and bad boys Read online

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTERTWENTY-FOUR

  “Reiner, it’s…” She craned her neck,

  checked the clock on her nightstand.

  “It’s almost midnight.”

  “So?”

  She just stared at him.

  “Live dangerously, Katie Sara. Come play with me.”

  She laughed, and he thought for sure he’d died and gone straight to Heaven. The sound wrapped around him, inside him, zipped south, and left him hurting and hungry.

  This woman was a much greater threat than the girl who’d ridden out of town with his heart. “I want to show you somethin’.”

  “I’ll just bet you do.”

  Sweat popped on his brow. He swiped at it. “I—”

  “I’m not dressed.”

  “In that case, let me come up. You can do the showin’, and I’ll do the lookin’.” Even separated by two-stories, he felt the heat.

  Then she stood. Holy crow! Her nightgown looked like something out of those old Westerns. Like that dress she’d had on last night, which should have been the benchmark for modesty. For strait-laced. But somehow on her, hadn’t been.

  Neither was this nightgown. The moon turned the fabric practically transparent. Outlined every curve, every line of that delicious body. Made him want to get down on all fours and howl.

  Praise and Awards for Lynnette Hallberg

  “Don’t miss the ride in the moonlight on a motorcycle with this sexy hero, as Hallberg takes you down the back roads to find the love of this bad boy’s life.”

  ~Joyce Henderson, multi-published author

  Lynnette Hallberg’s books have been finalists in:

  RWA’s Golden Heart Contest,

  PASIC’s Book of Your Heart Contest,

  and Georgia Romance Writer’s Maggie Awards.

  Moonlight,

  Motorcycles

  and

  Bad Boys

  by

  Lynnette Hallberg

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Moonlight, Motorcycles and Bad Boys

  COPYRIGHT Ó 2009 by Lynnette Hallberg

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Nicola Martinez

  The Wild Rose Press

  PO Box 706

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Champagne Rose Edition, 2010

  Print ISBN 1-60154-650-5

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  First and foremost,

  to the memory of my beautiful son Aaron.

  What joy you brought into my life!

  To Dave for always believing in me and loving me.

  To the Waffle Wednesday girls—Jo Hiner,

  Patti Spicer, Sylvia Eastman, and Maria Jones—

  and my critique partners

  Diane O’Key and Joyce Henderson.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Chapter One

  Paradox City Limits

  Please Drive Carefully

  Population 3,934

  Nervous as a hooker in church, Katie Sara McMichaels swerved off the country road. The small U-Haul fishtailed as she bumped along the shoulder, spewing fine red dust and gravel. Car and trailer ground almost belligerently to a stop, nose-to-nose with the town’s sign.

  Accepting its challenge? Or issuing one of their own?

  Last time she’d seen that sign, she was a teary-eyed seventeen-year-old curled up in a miserable ball on the backseat of her mother’s Oldsmobile. Midnight. May second. Eleven years ago.

  She’d watched in the car’s side mirror as darkness swallowed Paradox. Obliterated it both from her view and her life. She’d been convinced she’d never return.

  That was one month before high school graduation. Two months after…

  “Well.” She wiped sweaty palms over her jeans. “Just goes to show. Never say never.”

  A quick check in today’s mirror showed no traffic. Big surprise. Who in his right mind would be out here in the middle of nowhere at five in the morning? But instead of pulling onto the road, she thumped her head on the steering wheel.

  “What am I doing, Chia?”

  The large white Persian curled on the seat beside her grumbled low as if to say, “Your decision. You cope with it.”

  The onion rings and chocolate malt, such a great idea an hour ago at the truck stop, started talking to her. Great. Now she could hurl in the front yard of one of Paradox’s fine citizens her first morning back. Give them something else to talk about.

  As much as she’d like to place the blame for her churning stomach on grease or lactose-intolerance, she couldn’t. History was responsible for that. Or maybe the future…

  She rolled her head to the side to face the cat. Tucking two fingers beneath his fluffy chin, she tipped his head. Two clear blue eyes blinked at her. “Chia, what made me think for one single minute I could teach PE and Sex Ed to the high school kids of Paradox, Georgia? I must’ve been crazy as a peach-orchard pig to even consider this. Whew!”

  But she’d suck it up like any self-respecting general headed into battle—Custer at the Little BigHorn, Lee at Gettysburg, Napoleon at Waterloo—Gosh, they’d all lost, hadn’t they? But only their last battle.

  Okay. Deep breath. She slid the metallic blue Mustang into gear and eased onto the winding two-lane. The U-Haul tugged once, clunked, then followed like an ill-trained, whining soldier. God, she hated towing the thing. But she hadn’t been able to part with a single knickknack or piece of furniture. Since the moving companies wanted the price of one of Queen Elizabeth’s tiaras to move her few possessions, here she was tethered to a mobile Rubik’s cube.

  On the outskirts of town, early morning mist shrouded the trees and the red-clay fields. Faith Hill’s newest song came on. With a happy sigh, Katie Sara turned up the volume and sang along. Tempted to drop the convertible’s top, she contented herself with rolling down the windows. Cool morning air rushed in.

  This would be okay. It would.

  Then her traitorous mind veered to forbidden territory. Paradox’s bad boy extraordinaire. Argh!

  Reiner Broderick, with his long hair and Harley, his total disrespect for rules, was the Big Bad Wolf mothers warned their daughters about since the beginning of time. The fact that he’d even noticed her, Little Miss Goody Two-Shoes, had kissed her… She’d fallen ringing-bells and rush-of-angel-wings in love with him.

  Could he at least have had the good grace to ride quietly off into the sunset? No! The quarterback who’d signed the biggest contract in NFL history ruled the universe. The man’s mug was plastered everywhere!

  Even permanently sidelined by a shoulder injury, his face, that sexy-as-sin smile, that incredible, rock-hard body, still sold merchandise. And so he continued to smile at her from every magazine rack in every store in every city, every small town, and every gas station and convenience store. He winked at her from billboards strategically placed along the highways advertising God-only-knew-what. She could never get beyond those eyes, that mouth. Could never catch her breath in time to read the message on the board.

  At eighteen, Bad B
oy Reiner had been irresistible. The man he’d grown into—mind-blowing Grade A, and the stuff of fantasies! Eyes the color of her grandmother’s cobalt vase when the sun shone through it, dark curly hair outrageously tousled and just a little too long, that strong, square chin with the deep cleft and the five o’clock shadow that almost hid the small scar Kip had put there in third grade.

  Well, at least he was off somewhere playing with a pigskin, or smiling into a camera, making another quadrillion dollars. Since he’d left for college, the sport god had returned just once according to her friend Rhonda, and then only so the town could throw a tickertape parade and bow down to worship at his size-twelve feet. And because of that, Katie Sara could return home.

  Reiner Broderick. Riding the crest of the wave.

  And herself? She’d taken a steep plunge from the top, the fall hard, its impact cataclysmic.

  “I’m safe, Chia. Reiner’s forgotten this little town even exists.”

  ****

  The answering machine picked up. Just as well.

  “Auntie Belham? Reiner here. The decorator called. She says the house is finished and ready to go. I’ve just about got things wrapped up on this end, so expect me Tuesday.” He hesitated, then grimaced. “Tell Felicity she can bring the rat with her. But in a cage. One with a good latch. A really good latch.”

  He hung up and flopped along the length of the leather sofa in his quiet bachelor condo. Scrubbed his hands over his face. Talk about going to hell in a hand basket. ’Bout summed up his life at the moment.

  Paradox.

  When he’d left there for the University of Georgia, he sure hadn’t let the door hit him in the butt. No, sirree! The prettiest sight he’d ever seen had been the city limits sign in his rearview mirror. He’d needed to get away. Tucking that football under his arm, he’d been top Dawg at UG and then right on into the pros. Problem was, no matter how fast or how far he ran on those fields, he couldn’t outrun the memories.

  Bounding off the couch, Reiner moved to the sliders, stepped onto the deck, and gazed out over the Atlantic. A stiff sea breeze ruffled his hair. God, he was going to miss his beach house here on Hilton Head. Planting his hands on the rail, he stared past the dunes, watched as little trails of sand curled out to sea with the waves.

  Once he graduated, his folks, footloose and fancy-free, sold the house he’d grown up in to become globe-trotting, archeological-dig junkies. So he really didn’t have any reason to head back to Paradox.

  He had gone home once. Kind of a professional obligation—a hometown-kid-makes-good thing that had embarrassed the hell out of him. But now… Jeez. As of three weeks ago, he actually owned a house there! And thing was, he basically had no choice.

  Reiner swore he heard that city limits sign way up in Paradox sticking out its tongue, taunting him. “Nah-nah, nah-nah, nah, nah.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Chapter Two

  Katie Sara could hardly believe she’d been gone almost as long as she’d lived here. Her disgrace might have started with her father…but it had ended with her.

  And now, relying on her memory of the two-story cottage from when the Larsons lived there, she’d bought a house.

  “Call me stupid, Chia.”

  Wanting to slip into town as quietly as she’d sneaked out, she’d driven through the night, timing her arrival while most folks would still be in bed. She signaled and turned left, then left again onto Wedgwood Way. Her new street.

  During morning coffee and donuts at the Egg Basket, in line at Piggly Wiggly, and over after-work drinks at the Hole in the Wall, Paradoxians undoubtedly speculated on where the money came from to buy it. Money her dad had stashed away before they caught him?

  Truth was, Grandma Beatrice had left her a small trust fund. Truth was, she’d much rather have Grandma.

  For a long while, Katie Sara sat at the curb studying the house. Whimsical. A new paint job, the palest of yellow, with muted green shutters and a lavender tin roof. The white porch stretched the length of the front, crying out for rockers and a swing, some potted geraniums. And the white picket fence… The last owners had done it proud.

  The realtor, Jennie Mae Benson’s mother, told her the new people—from New York City, no less—dumped a ton of money into it. They’d wanted a cute little get-away. Used it two weeks the first year, less than that the second. Now, the Yanks had decided to unload it.

  “Thank you, thank you,” Katie Sara whispered. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Karma.

  Chia hopped out of the car with her and padded daintily up the sidewalk, sniffing pansies and verbena along the way.

  Just as Katie Sara unlocked the door, the cat sneezed. “See? Always sticking your nose in things. Come on, Sneezy. Let’s take a peek inside our new home.”

  She stepped into the foyer and squealed. “Yes, yes, yes!”

  Gleaming wooden floors scattered in all directions. Running a hand over the stair banister, she imagined it at Christmas, decorated with holly and white lights.

  “Home. At last.”

  Chia wove between her ankles in agreement, and she knelt to rub the cat’s head. “It may not be easy, though, baby. Some people won’t be very happy to see us.”

  When she stepped into the U-shaped kitchen, she hugged herself. The area melted into a breakfast nook with a bay window, then on into the great room. A brick fireplace anchored the far wall. French doors, leading out to the yard, flooded the room with early morning light. Opening them, she tossed her head back delightedly when a gentle breeze carried the scent of the gardens inside. What more could anyone want?

  Chia tried to slink out, but two steps past the door, he sneezed again.

  “Get back in here, mister. What if there’s a big, scary dog next door? Hmmm? Come on. Inside.”

  The cat skulked back into the house and moved on to sniff the baseboards. Leaving him to check out the living room, she wandered upstairs to two small bedrooms and a master suite to die for that opened onto a small balcony overlooking the backyard. Pure heaven.

  Downstairs again, she migrated to the backyard…just as she remembered it. Mrs. Larson’s hollyhocks splashed color along the side fence; sunflowers, wisteria, and lilacs clustered in the rear, and the magnolia still shaded the far edge of the yard. Ivy nearly covered a detached one-car garage.

  She sighed. It was a yard made for a family, for children. But since she’d been on exactly two dates in the last eleven months… Couldn’t have one without the other, could you? Well, you could, actually, but she wasn’t ready to throw in the towel on the conventional method—not just yet.

  Rubbing her arms, she returned to her car and removed the urn. “I kept my promise, Daddy,” she whispered. “Brought you home to be buried.”

  Hot tears tracked down her face. “The only thing in the world that could have coerced me back to Paradox. I just can’t leave you here all alone.”

  ****

  Across the street, Philomena Passarelli and Marge Fisher drew aside the curtain in Philomena’s kitchen.

  “Lord, girl must’ve driven all night,” Marge said. “Barely daybreak.”

  “Ask me, she’s slinkin’ back into town like a thief…or a cat burglar.” Philomena eyed the Persian trailing Katie Sara.

  “Now, Phil, that was her daddy. That little girl didn’t do anything wrong, and you know it. Her mama got her out of here and away from people like you who wouldn’t let it go. And rightly so.” Marge dropped the curtain back in place and sipped her coffee.

  The two were up early, hoping to catch a glimpse of the nasty no-gooder who’d taken to driving down their quiet street every morning at precisely six, radio blaring, waking everyone on the street. It had to stop. Today, they were ready, camera in hand, to record both car and license plate. And so, of course, he hadn’t shown up. Murphy’s Law at work.

  But tomorrow was another day. And, oh, they would get him. After all, true Southern women never gave in.

  Instead, they’d witnessed Ka
tie Sara McMichaels’ return.

  “Didn’t bring much with her, did she?” Philomena asked.

  “Nope, sure didn’t. Unlike some that are movin’ back. Course, don’t guess, he’ll actually bring much with him, either,” Marge said. “You know, he’s not even stepped foot in the place, yet?”

  “That fancy designer from Hotlanta sure has. Meetin’ delivery trucks practically every day. My nephew Arlo was in there. Says it’s not very homey lookin’. All neutral, you know? The new color.” She snorted. “No color.”

  “Well, my guess is he met with the designer and told her what he wants.”

  “Wouldn’t you think he’d be curious, though? Want a peek?”

  “Oh, yeah. If that honey of a house were mine, I’d be on it like stars on Old Glory. But…it’s not. Maybe once you’ve got a Super Bowl ring you don’t have time for unimportant things like homes and families.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Chapter Three

  The morning breeze tousled Katie Sara’s hair; her feet pounded the pavement. Sweat trickled down her back as she finished the second mile of her early morning run. Past manicured yards with glossy-leafed rhododendrons. Past porches with flower boxes of bright begonias and marigolds and petunias.

  The best time of day. Foggy mornings were her favorite, when the mist settled over the world, cocooning her, wrapping her in cotton swaddling and protecting her. Then, little by little, it lifted, revealing the world as if presenting a grand and wonderful gift.

  This morning, though, was crystal clear, silent except for bird song and the occasional dog’s bark. Lights blinked on in a few of the houses scattered up and down the street. The smell of bacon frying, cinnamon rolls baking, and coffee brewing wafted from open kitchen windows.

  Memories surfaced with almost every house she passed. Some pleasant, others splinters to be painfully extracted.

  Oh, no! Speaking of splinters and pains in the butt. Katie Sara stopped, ran in place, her mind racing. Jeez. There had to be…what?…twenty, thirty streets in town. And she’d picked this one to turn down.