The Devil and Ms. Moody (5 page)

S
OME MEN LOVED
the adrenaline rush that came from mastering the road on a powerful machine. Some men loved the horsepower. Diablo loved the freedom. The sensual purr of the motorcycle beneath him, the wind whipping his hair as he careened toward a bend in the road that led to parts unknown—he never got enough of it. Freedom was the drug that altered his consciousness and stirred his blood. Nothing else came close ... unless you counted sex.

They were southbound along the coast, he and the woman, and the August sun was splashing down into the ocean like a space capsule on reentry. Blazing reds and oranges bathed the twilight horizon as he arced into an ascending curve that would take them into the hills. She let out a soft cry and held him tighter. At least she wasn’t screaming. Things were improving.

It had been a long time since he’d had a woman behind him, nestled right up against his butt, her hands soft on his body. He’d forgotten how good it could feel. Warmth stirred deep in his groin, and his hungry thoughts quickly took the sensation to its logical physical conclusion. A hard man, a soft woman, and some tender sex. Tautening muscles reminded him how long it had been. And how righteously good it could be.

He hit the throttle and gassed it, spinning the bike onto a remote canyon road. Wind bit at his face, forcing him to rein in his bike and his fantasies. Just as well, he thought. Despite her valentine-heart mouth, the woman clinging to him like Saran Wrap was as uptight as they came, probably a virgin, for God’s sake. Guilt twanged inside him, sharp and sweet as a country-western guitar chord. Maybe he should have told her what he had in mind for tonight?

Some fifteen minutes later they reached the area where Diablo planned to set up camp for the night. It was secluded enough that they wouldn’t be disturbed and isolated enough to give her a taste of what the Rosarita Beach run with the Warlords would be like. She didn’t know it yet, but she wasn’t going to be meeting the biker gang until tomorrow.

He pulled the bike to a stop and dismounted, resisting the urge to help her as he set the kickstand. No self-respecting Warlord helped his woman off the bike. Any poor sucker who tried would probably get his hand bitten off for his trouble, Diablo thought wryly. A biker’s woman was tough as carpet tacks.

“That was fun,” Edwina said, surprising him as she swung her leg over the bike and smiled. She didn’t look as though she needed help of any kind. In fact, with her windstung lips and hair blown blond and curly all over her head, she looked like a cross between Madonna and a fallen angel. Now that’s sexy, he thought.

Almost involuntarily he made a quick inventory of her other assets—legs, breasts, and big brown eyes—and realized he’d created a mantrap. Sexy? She was
dangerous
, though he doubted she would believe him if he told her. Another awareness hit him as pried his eyes from the T-shirt that clung to her breasts. The Warlords would never recognize her as the woman who’d created a riot in Blackie’s that afternoon. He wouldn’t have recognized her himself. A smile crossed his lips. Maybe this was going to work out after all.

“So? Where are the Warlords?” she asked, squinting into the darkness beyond him.

“Later,” he said dismissively. “You’re going to need a little more work before I spring you on the gang.”

“ ‘Work’?” It was a soft, surprised question that made her look even more adorable.

On impulse, he caught hold of her by the waist and lifted her away from the bike, aware of the delicate shiver of her breasts and the sleek line of her thighs. His palms slid up her midriff, and his thumbs nestled into the creamy drift of her breasts as he set her on the ground. Lord, but she was soft, he thought, letting his hands linger on her body as he stared into her copper-flecked eyes. Dappled with rust and gold, they were closer to russet than brown. Odd on a fair-skinned woman. Odd and beautiful.

“There are a couple of things you need to know,” he said.

“ ‘Things’? What things?”

The smile never left her lips, but a strange sparkle of energy lit her expression. Fear, excitement? He couldn’t tell, but her heart was beating out of control. He could feel it near his thumb. Blond tendrils of hair were caught in the dampness at her temple. It gave her a wild, flushed look that a man could take for panic ... or for sexual desire.

“You’re too soft, Princess,” he said, his voice husking. “We’ve got to toughen you up some. “

“Bikers don’t like women soft?”

He would have laughed if she hadn’t seemed so serious. Bikers’ women were tanned and toughened from so much time riding under the open sky. Bikers’ women were street-smart. This one was as fair and tender as a high school freshman.

“I like women soft.” Lord, what an understatement. He nestled his thumbs into the silky curves of her breasts and felt his groin muscles tighten as though on cue. He’d give his right lung to have her sweet naked body all to himself, his to command for a couple of hours. The need to feel that kind of tenderness pressing up against him, pressing in
around
him, was almost painful.

“Well, that’s a relief,” she said, her voice breathy.

Her russet eyes were dreamy and a little drugged. They were whispering the very things that a hungry man wanted to hear—that she was susceptible and a little off-balance. That she was slightly drunk on rpm’s and conquered fear. That she was feeling the blood rush hot in her veins, perhaps for the first time. That she liked it and wanted more.

One part of him didn’t give a damn for anything but getting her flat on her back and making love to her warm, delectable body until dawn. Her parted lips and droopy lashes were telling him everything he needed to know. She had the same thing on her mind that he did. The problem was, he couldn’t help wondering how long it had been since she’d been with a man. Maybe because until this very moment she hadn’t looked like a woman who had
ever
slept with a man.

What’s with this innocent? he wondered. Drugged or not, didn’t she know she was supposed to run screaming from a guy who wore black leather and rode a monster motorcycle?

“I mean,” she added, “if you didn’t like soft, that would be a problem, wouldn’t it? Since I’m clearly ... soft.”

Diablo felt muscles swell and harden at the base of his body. Blood surged through his heart. Clearly,
he
had a choice. And there was going to be a price to pay either way, he realized grimly. He could take her now, tonight. And to hell with their bargain. If she wasn’t completely willing, he was damn sure she could readily be persuaded. However innocent, any woman who gazed at a man the way she was gazing could be persuaded.

Or ... he could play it safe.

He couldn’t believe he was even considering the latter, but in her case it just didn’t feel right. She was homespun, sort of “nice.” And he knew only too well what nice women did after you made love to them. They got weird. They had second thoughts. They got clingy or weepy, and he couldn’t afford either. She was his ticket in, but she could also screw up his plans royally if she got emotional and unpredictable.

No mercy, he thought, referring as much to himself as to her. Steeling himself against the violent protest of his own body, he stared into the dreamy amber depths of her eyes, and broke the spell. “Where the hell did you get the name Edwina?” he asked, his voice still husky. “It’s got to go.”

Her eyes turned coppery, and she stiffened under his touch. “It’s my grandmother’s name,” she said, obviously affronted. “Edwina Dickerson, on my mother’s side. We called her Binky.”

‘Binky’? He was thinking of making hot, sweaty love to a woman who called her grandmother Binky?

She shoved his hands away and twisted out of the tight space between him and the bike. “I suppose you could call me Ed,” she said abruptly, “or Ejay. That’s what my sorority sisters in Delta Gamma Phi called me.”

“I’ve got some bad news for you, Ed. The Warlords aren’t into Greek. They’ve got two rules and two rules only: Don’t mess with a man’s bike, or his woman.”

“Really? In that order?”

“That depends on the woman.” He pointed to the crest on his bike and the words painted across the gas tank: PROPERTY OF DIABLO. “That’s my mark. Whatever I put it on belongs to me: my bike, my clothes ... my woman.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re not serious?”

He gave her that slow nod again. “ ’Fraid so, Princess. Without my mark, you’re fair game. You want to risk it, it’s up to you. But I can tell you right now, I’m not going to feel like dragging Mad Dog off your body every time I turn around.”

Edwina crossed her arms over her chest like a shield. “A mark of ownership? That’s barbaric.”

“I don’t make the rules.”

“What am I supposed to do, slap a
Post-it
note on my tank top that says Diablo’s Woman?”

“Not exactly.”

“Well, thank goodness. I’ve never heard of anything so primitive—or sexist.”

“The mark goes on your person, Ed.”

“What?”

“Most of the women have tattoos on their—”

“Don’t tell me!” Edwina staggered backward, prepared to make the sign of the cross if he came near her. “Nobody’s tattooing my person anywhere!”

“Sorry, that’s the way it’s got to be, Ed—”

“No! No tattoos! My mother is not a well woman, and that would kill her. I could never go home again.”

He walked to the bike, unzipped a section of his gearbag, and pulled out a packet. “Relax. I’m going to use this.”

“What is it?”

“A semipermanent tattoo. It washes off eventually, kind of like hair dye.” He waved the packet temptingly. “It comes with a very attractive skull and crossbones.”

Edwina didn’t like the idea, not one little bit, but she couldn’t see any way around it at the moment. She needed to get to that rodeo and track down Holt—and she certainly didn’t want to be fighting off Mad Dog at every turn. “Oh, all right,” she said finally, presenting her right arm to Diablo. “Hurry up. Get it over with.”

He pulled a plastic bottle from the gear and approached her. “Nice bicep, Ed,” he said, clearing his throat as though for emphasis, “but that’s not where the mark goes.”

“Where does it go?”

“Left breast or right buttock, take your pick. If you don’t like those choices, the inner thigh, either leg.” He grinned at her rapaciously. “Never say the Warlords aren’t flexible.”

“That’s disgusting, Mr. Easy Rider, just
disgusting
.”

After much glaring and muttering, she finally consented to being “marked” on the curve between her collarbone and shoulder, well above the left breast. Slipping the strap of her tank top off her shoulder, she closed her eyes and gave herself to the procedure. If she had to have her person violated, at least she didn’t have to see the damnable amusement in his green eyes as he did it.

He swabbed her skin first, much like a doctor preparing for surgery, and then he applied a solution that stung a little.

“Ouch,” she said, her eyes flying open. “You didn’t say this was going to hurt. What are you doing?”

“Making the skin receptive to the dye. If it takes, we won’t have to do this again,
capice
?”

She closed her eyes and clenched her jaw. Mother would love this, she thought. Katherine Moody’s devoted eldest daughter was being tattooed by a black-leather biker named Diablo who spoke Italian.

The remainder of the procedure was painless, physically speaking.

“That’s not my shoulder!” she squealed once as his hands strayed too near her breast. He apologized quickly, to her surprise, and was remarkably circumspect otherwise.

Diablo wasn’t a whole lot more thrilled with the ordeal than Edwina. The light was almost gone, and it was difficult to see. Beyond that, it was tricky to get the tattoo centered in the soft curve below her collarbone without touching something he wasn’t supposed to touch. Unfortunately he was aware of her body movements in the same way that a cat is aware of every quiver of a cornered mouse. It was tantalizing watching her breasts shimmy when she moved. Even when she breathed. It was hell. Sheer hell.

“Hold still,” he said as she opened her eyes again to see what he was doing. “This has to look real.”

“This is incredibly silly, don’t you think?” She released an impatient sigh. “Is the gang really that primitive?”

“Beyond your wildest dreams,” he said softly, putting the finishing flourishes on his design. “Voilà.”

French, too? A multilingual barbarian. Edwina craned her neck to see what the artist had wrought. “Good Lord,” she murmured. Her shoulder looked as though it were going up in flames. The black death’s-head was engulfed in a crimson blaze. It was beautiful, actually. And very macabre.

“I’m marked,” she said quietly, feeling very marked indeed. She felt the pull of his eyes on her and looked up slowly to meet his gaze. The intensity in his green irises pooled like liquid lightning, diffuse and cool.

The electricity inside Edwina was anything but cool. It crackled like the filaments of a megawatt light bulb. “I guess this means I’m safe now?”

Safe as a baby
, he thought.
From everyone but me.

Edwina felt a compelling urge to touch him. It confounded her, her willingness to take risks with this man, to surrender her guard. Perhaps it was some resistance she sensed in him that made her so reckless. Whatever it was, she was terrifying herself. What if she did touch him? And what if he took her up on it? Her heart went a little crazy at the prospect.

He tossed back his hair with a quick, graceful jerk of his head. His eyes brushed over the mark on her shoulder, and then he met her gaze again, quickly, illicitly, his green eyes sinking into hers as a stone plumbs deep, still water.

Edwina’s pulse began to labor. She felt paralyzed under his surveillance, as though somehow, in the laser precision of his glance, he was able to probe her most intimate thoughts. It was the briefest of connections, but it penetrated every defense she had. He had uncanny eyes. Eyes that took possession of whatever they touched. And right now they were touching her. It was almost as though he had the power to strip away her emotional safeguards with a look, to stir needs and desires that she was only subliminally aware of.