The Devil and Ms. Moody (6 page)

Absurd, she thought, turning away.
Impossible
. She was a full-grown woman and certainly the authority on her own needs and desires. And yet the encounter had frightened her. Her heart was thundering against the fist she’d pressed to her chest. Threatened, she thought, that was the word. In the split second that their eyes had met, he’d threatened her, almost at some bodily level, and it had scared her half to death. Her drawn-in breath shook as she waited for him to break the silence that surrounded them.

“Let’s set up camp,” he said finally. He returned the tattoo packet to his gearbag, and when he turned back to her, his expression was unreadable.

There was very little else said between them as they prepared to settle in for the night. He built a fire and got some water from a nearby stream. She did her best with a freeze-dried envelope of beef Stroganoff, but the sauce never truly dissolved beyond pea-size lumps.

They ate for a time in silence until he decided he should begin to prepare her. “The Warlords are rugged individualists, which shouldn’t surprise you,” he told her. “They like to live off the land when they’re on a run. They buy only what they can’t hunt or trap. “

Edwina suppressed a physical shudder as Diablo continued. Her revulsion for trapping wild animals sprang from earliest childhood. Her father had taken her for a walk in the woods near their home one Christmas morning, and they’d come across a half-dead snowshoe rabbit that had nearly chewed off its foot trying to get free. It was one of the most heartrending sights Edwina had ever seen.

Quelling another tremor, she debated whether to mention the incident, and then she remembered something from her research on Holt. It was one of the odd bits of information she’d picked up from his high school yearbook, something about his having been in the Animal Conservation Corps in his freshman year. If Holt was an animal lover, she reasoned, it was possible that he shared some of her feelings.

Diablo had moved on to the Warlords’ emphasis on club loyalty and brotherhood when Edwina interrupted him. “You don’t mean they actually kill wild animals?” she said. “Rabbits and defenseless creatures like that?”

“Only what they eat.”

His tone suggested he thought it was an entirely reasonable proposition.

“But that’s no excuse,” she said earnestly. “There are plenty of animals in the grocery stores that are dead already. Cows, chickens. Couldn’t they eat those?”

“It’s not the same, Edwina.”

“You too, then? You hunt down rabbits and squirrels?”

“Edwina—”

Not only was he using her full name, but his voice held a distinct warning. Drop the subject, it said. What he didn’t know was that this was a subject she couldn’t just drop. She wasn’t an animal activist or anything, but she couldn’t stand to see anyone or anything hurt. She felt the pain as keenly as if it were her own. Beyond that, there was the possibility of connecting with Chris Holt in some way.

“Let’s call it a night,” Diablo said, pointedly changing the subject. He went to get the two sleeping bags he’d lashed to the back of the motorcycle, and once he had them unrolled, he zipped them together.

“Where do you sleep?” she inquired cautiously.

“Same place you do.” He held up the double bag. “Coming to bed?”

She curled her legs up against her chest. “You go ahead. I think I’ll sit here for a while. The fire’s nice.”

“Suit yourself.” He rose and stripped off his vest. When he unsnapped his jeans and began to pull them off too, Edwina swallowed a little sound of despair and looked heavenward. She wasn’t getting in that sleeping bag with him, even if wolves tried to drag her off into the night.

He stretched out in the bag and yawned elaborately. Edwina tucked herself into a cocoon, wrapping her arms around her legs for warmth and to avoid the man she’d made an uneasy alliance with. She stared into the fire and tried to concentrate on what she’d come to California for—finding Holt.

It seemed only moments before Diablo’s breathing turned steady and deep, and Edwina was immensely grateful. As the fire burned down and the chill increased, she thought longingly of the cardigan sweater she’d packed in his gearbag, but she was reluctant to move for fear of waking him. Undoubtedly the safest plan would be to curl up right where she was next to the fire and try to sleep.

Lulled by the chirping of crickets, she rested her head against her knees and drifted off.

Edwina’s eyes flew open and she jerked awake, her nerves nearly jumping out of her skin. She’d heard a rustling sound, the kind that sent the hair on her neck skittering for cover. Having no idea how long she’d been asleep, she scanned the silent darkness and saw eyes everywhere. The fire was nearly dead, and Diablo was still sleeping like a bear in hibernation. She considered waking him. Instead, she scooted a little closer to his sleeping bag and huddled up again for warmth.

An hour later, she was still wide awake, freezing and jumping out of her skin on a regular basis. The nightsounds were torturously loud now—yelps and hoots and screeches. And, of course, that slithery rustling. She glared at Diablo in the sleeping bag, wondering how he could sleep so peacefully. Didn’t he know they were surrounded by demon dogs and succubi?

She wasn’t sure when it was that she heard him call out her name. Well, not her name exactly.

“Princess,” he said, “come here.”

Shivering with cold, she looked up and saw him opening the bag for her, making a place in the warmth next to him. “Princess.” He hadn’t called her that in a very long time, it seemed. She rather liked the sound of it. And she was freezing.

“I’m not taking my clothes off,” she said.

“Get over here.”

Male body heat, Edwina decided as she crawled into the warm bag—they ought to bottle it. She curled up carefully, facing away from him, but she couldn’t stop herself from shuddering and sighing with relief. If she hadn’t been so frozen, she might have worried when he draped an arm around her middle and pulled her up against him. As it was, she reveled in the heat and strength of him. Next to her icy skin and frozen limbs, he was toasty hot and rock solid.

She could feel the hair on his legs and the muscles of his thighs pressed up against her backside. And when she snuggled into him, she felt the protective cradle of his arm against the underside of her breasts. Shouldn’t be doing this, she thought drowsily, but it was lovely. So lovely.

Edwina woke slowly with the fuzzy awareness that she wasn’t alone. Someone was touching her. Intimately. Even more intimately than the body molded to the curves of her back, a hand was molded to the curve of her breast. All this she knew without even opening her eyes.

The hand moved, massaging gently, rhythmically, long male fingers moving against naked female flesh. The combination of heat and slow languid motion were unbelievably sensual. Edwina felt a thrill that ran the length of her body. Her eyes snapped open, and she glanced down, horrified to see the outline of Diablo’s hand under her T-shirt, blissfully cupping her breast.

“What are you doing?” she said, her voice a hoarse squeak.

“Hmmmm?” His index finger leisurely traced the aureole of her nipple, sending another forbidden thrill through Edwina.

“Stop that!”

The finger stopped tracing. “Say what?”

“Your hand—”

He mumbled and shifted slightly, as though coming to wakefulness, and it was only then that Edwina realized she had an even larger problem. He was aroused! Fully aroused if the solid object pressing against the back of her thigh was any indication. She froze in the grip of his intimate embrace, afraid to move for fear of triggering some uncontrollable animal response in him.

Men suffered from an excess of hormones in the morning. She’d read that somewhere. If she could remain still for a few more hours, it might wear off. Lord, she wished she had a better track record with this sort of thing. Her only experience in college had been quick, furtive, and unsatisfying, done more to relieve the supposed stigma of virginity than to satisfy any deep desires. It was a mistake she still regretted, an unfortunate first experience with sex that had undoubtedly colored her perceptions ever since. Especially since she’d never done it since.

I don’t like this
, she thought, glancing down at the hand that had resumed its erotic inclinations. Damn him, anyway. If the other part of him started moving, she was going to scream her head off.

“Princess?” His voice was rusty and low, a man who had sex—and plenty of it—on his mind.

“I’m getting out of this bag,” she declared.

The next thing she knew, she was being pulled around to face him. His eyes were half-lidded with sleep and fringed with dark lashes she’d never realized were so thick. “What’s going on?” he said.

“You tell me, mister. I’m not the one in a state of engorged animal lust. Get a grip on yourself, for heaven’s sake.” As soon as she’d said the words, she realized their double meaning and blushed wildly.

Diablo swore softly, fighting a grin. “It might be best if you did get out.”

“With pleasure.” She jabbed him more than once with elbows and knees as she scrambled. Once she was out, Diablo pushed to a sitting position and wrapped the bag around him. He looked tousled and sexy, his long dark hair falling in casual disarray around his tanned shoulders.

Edwina hugged herself in the brisk morning air. “You touched me, you know.”

“Sorry. It must have been a dream.”

“Dream, my foot. You’ve had your eyes on my breasts since I met you.”

“Your breasts?” He smiled lazily, letting his gaze drift to her crossed arms. “Is that where I touched you?”

Edwina was glad she was covered. Even if she had believed him, she wouldn’t have accepted dreaming as an excuse. What if he dreamed he was making love to her? Was she going to wake up one of these fine mornings and find him doing that?

Diablo accepted Edwina’s skepticism stoically. He
had
been dreaming, an incredible dream about cradling a blond slip of a woman in his arms and fondling her soft spots. The dream had been so real, the woman so warm and delicious, it had put some starch in his underwear, so to speak. Stiff enough to pound nails, he thought wryly, aware once more of his condition. Now he knew why. He hadn’t been just dreaming it. He’d been doing it.

“I’m going to wash up,” Edwina told him, heading for the stream. “Please calm yourself down by the time I get back.”

Diablo watched her leave. “I’ll do my damnedest,” he called after her, “but it won’t be the same without you.”

Lots of natural talent, that one, he thought, watching her bounce as she walked. Probably more than she’d ever use. It was a shame to let a fine body like that go to waste, but he couldn’t afford to get distracted, not while he was awake, anyway. He had a plan to put into action when the time arose, and if his hunch was correct, things were going to get very interesting once the Warlords reached Rosarita Beach. In the meantime he still had some groundwork to do, leads to follow up on, people to check out.

He felt a twinge of guilt about the possibility of endangering Edwina and just as quickly dismissed it. She’d propositioned him, not the other way around. If he hadn’t taken her up on it, she would probably have made the same deal to some other biker, one who might not have other priorities. Anyway, he had no intention of letting her ride with him into Mexico, even if she hadn’t given up her search for Holt by then. Just as soon as he was initiated into the club, he was going to send the princess packing. For her own safety.

He sobered, wishing his glands would accept that he wasn’t going to get physical with Edwina Moody. He wasn’t sure how long he could keep his priorities in line if she kept snuggling up to him the way she had last night.

He was getting their gear together, completely calmed down, by the time she returned.

“I think we should go for a hike,” she said, looking fresh and perky as she gazed up into the sundrenched treetops where acorn woodpeckers were drilling their holes and squirrels were cavorting. Bordering the riverside behind her, wildflowers bloomed in profusion, and Monarch butterflies flitted with careless grace.

Diablo shook his head, thinking that she looked as artless as the butterflies. “Can’t do,” he said. “We’ve got a date with the Warlords.”

The Wild Bunch in Repose, Edwina thought as she peered through the trees at the motorcycle gang’s campsite. The gang had bedded down for the night in a picturesque meadow, and Diablo had stopped the bike on a hillside to give her a look at them before approaching.

“They don’t look so fierce,” she said, watching a couple of men throw a Frisbee back and forth. The smell of bacon and coffee drifted up to her, and she spotted women cooking over open fires at various campsites. There was a noticeable absence of children and pets, but otherwise the Warlords could have been having a potluck social.

Diablo pointed out a tall lean man with long hair and a bushy, graying beard. “That’s Squire, the leader. He’s the one you’ve got to impress. He’ll try to scare you, but don’t let him.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Ready?”

Edwina nodded, as ready as she would ever be.

They rolled through the camp slowly, Diablo revving his engine as individual members of the Warlords acknowledged him with a nod or a wave. Edwina was the object of some hot-eyed stares, but nobody seemed to recognize her from the day before. For that she was intensely thankful.

Diablo stopped the bike at Squire’s campsite, swung off, and strode up to the leader. They clasped hands like arm wrestlers, hooking thumbs and playing at throwing each other off-balance. Men and their silliness, Edwina thought. The Y chromosome strikes again.

In the meantime a crowd was gathering around her and Diablo’s motorcycle. Her impulse was to smile at the group, mostly women, but she thought better of it. Somehow “politeness” didn’t seem like an image they’d respect. She scratched at her arm and considered spitting on the ground. She might have done it if her throat hadn’t been so dry. Attitude, she thought, lay on the attitude. She settled for a look that she hoped was sullen and unapproachable.