Meet Your Mate (A Good Riders Romance Book 1) (18 page)

“Fatso?” Roger’s
voice floated down from the rooftop like an offended archangel.

Max jerked his head to the left. A
long-bladed knife sliced through the sensitive skin beneath his ear. Ignoring
the sharp sting, he shoved an elbow backward into the mushy gut of a black-clad
villain and hotfooted it down the alley. Out of the corner of his eye, he
spotted another criminal slithering up the fire escape with the ease of a
lizard.

“Take off,
Rog
!”
He hoped the cameraman had an escape route he could handle across the damp
roofs, but concern for Annabel crowded out every other thought. Max heard the
thud of footsteps behind him as his own assailant rebounded from his tumble and
rounded the corner.

She wasn’t visible in the alcove
she’d melted into earlier. He hoped she had the sense to stay out of sight. If
not, his best bet was to lead the scoundrel as far away from her as possible.

Max had combed the area carefully
in the past week, preparing for just such an unlikely event as this. If he
picked up some speed and made it around the next corner before his tail caught
up with him, he could disappear into an old storm sewer while
Swifty
passed him by, then get a jump on him from behind.
Maybe... Probably... Hopefully.

Swifty’s
breath turned into a labored huff and puff. His pursuit flagged. The corner
loomed ahead of Max. He made the turn and ran flat into Annabel... An Annabel
holding a three-foot-long two-by-four over her head like an avenging angel.

Without slowing, he took her hand
and pulled her along with him, desperately trying to come up with a Plan B. A
brick wall up ahead sported an opening with a rusty, but unlocked metal gate.
Pushing through it, he left the gate ajar and sent Annabel to one side while he
positioned himself on the other. He motioned for her to crouch down. Pulling
her stocking from his pocket, he gave her one end and gestured for her to hold
it to the ground.

Seconds later,
Swifty
came lumbering through, wheezing like an asthmatic fish. Max and Annabel raised
the stocking six inches from the ground, tripped the thief, and sent him
lurching into a face full of mud and gravel. Max leapt forward and stomped on
the hand with the knife, kicking the blade free.

The creep made a grab for Max’s
ankle, but Annabel whacked him on the back of the head with the two-by-four,
knocking him right out. Tossing the board aside, she dropped down and rammed
her knees into the middle of the jerk’s back, forcing the breath from his
lungs. She straddled him like a bareback rider, providing Max with an eyeful of
thigh.

Terrified by the thought of Annabel
so close to harm’s way, Max dropped down next to her and yanked the twitching
and groaning thug’s hands behind his back. “Hold still, slime ball,” he
ordered. “Get off him, Annabel.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” Roughly, he bound
Swifty’s
wrists with the stocking. “Get off him,” he
repeated as she remained in place.

Gripped by adrenalin and anger at Annabel
for intentionally throwing herself into danger surged up inside him, his hands
began to shake. He could only risk sidelong glances in her direction for fear
he’d lose it completely and throttle her instead of the prone miscreant.

“Give me the belt off your
raincoat,” he demanded through clenched teeth.

She looked soaked, bedraggled,
beautiful, and delicious, and he was sporting wood again. All he wanted to do
was drag her off somewhere and wrap himself around her. But now was
not
the
time. Jeez, he was farther gone over her than he thought.

“I need your belt to bind his
feet.” He gestured for her to hurry.

She moved to do so, but stopped
with her hands hovering over the buckle. Sirens wailed in the distance, drawing
closer by the second, and he heaved a sigh of relief. Roger must have managed
to call for help.

“The thing is...”  She drew
his attention to her long, bare legs as she shifted position. Unfastening the
belt, the coat dropped open, and he knew what
the thing
was.

Even in the dark alley, under an
overcast and dark sky, with very little ambient light, his mouth watered over
the gleam of creamy skin. Her shiny purple panties and tank top darkened and
glued to her skin as the rain cascaded down.

“You came out to get yourself into
you didn’t know what kind of trouble dressed like every adolescent’s wet
dream?” He quickly secured
Swifty’s
feet and helped
Annabel stand.

“Adolescents dream about trench
coats?” She lifted her chin defiantly, but he could have sworn if the light
were better that he would have seen her blush.

“Covering nothing but your
smokin
’ hot body and sexy silk underwear? You
betcha
.” He didn’t want to hang onto his anger and terror,
but worried that if he let go of it, his sense of relief would catapult him
into hysterical laughter. Or unwise declarations. “Why didn’t you get dressed
first?”

“There wasn’t time! When your
caller hung up, I grabbed my coat, shoes, and keys to take off after you.”

That was either the bravest or the
stupidest thing he’d ever known anyone to do. And she’d done it for him.
Amazing.

He hugged her tight and kissed her,
too, soaking up the relief of having her safe. And having her near. “I think I
liked you better when you were afraid of your own shadow.”

“No, you didn’t.” Her voice muffled
against his shoulder.

No, he hadn’t. He shook his head,
unable to realign the image of the boring, predictable Annabel he’d known for
the last three years with this new-and-improved, more tantalizing, determined
version she’d morphed into in the last two weeks.

“No, but it was better for my
heart.” A whole lot better. And safer. This daring balls-to-the-wall Annabel
posed a definite threat to life as he knew it. He took her by the shoulders and
stepped back, torn between shaking her and holding onto her forever. “In the future,
you’ll have to land somewhere in the middle of timid and intrepid, okay? You
scared me half to death.”

“Imagine how I feel.” Her fingers
grazed the skin below his ear. “You’re the one bleeding.”

“It’s just a scratch.” He hoped.
“Don’t worry about it.”

As a cop car pulled into the alley
with lights flashing, duty called. He released her and drew the edges of her
coat together.

“Button that thing up. Do you want
to stay and run the risk of being mistaken for a hooker, or do you want to slip
away now?”

Annabel let herself into her house
slightly before dawn. Thank heavens she hadn’t been arrested for prostitution.
It was a close thing until Max’s biker friend, Detective Dan Kirby, arrived on
the scene.

He’d begun to question her about
the night’s events, but after a few whispered words from Max, the detective let
her go. When last she saw Max, he and Roger were recording a piece in front of
the warehouse. Good to know Roger had managed to escape unharmed. Apparently,
she’d walked into an ongoing investigation that would headline tomorrow’s news
and result in some high-ranking political arrests.

Her pride in the role she played
diminished now that she entered her empty house. She found everything there as
she had left it. Silently mocking her, as if nothing special had happened.

And everything had happened.

Sex, crime, adventure. Love...
maybe. Maybe not.

On autopilot, she drifted into the kitchen.
But somewhere along the way her obsession with tidiness deserted her. With a
sweeping glance at the mess she’d let Max make—helped him make, really—her
heart flipped over.

Every dribble, every crumb, every
splatter became proof of the incredible hours they’d spent together. Unwilling
to erase the tiniest bit of tangible evidence, she turned off the light and
trudged upstairs.

The scene in her bedroom depressed
her more than the kitchen. The smell of sex clung to the room like a musky
perfume. Damp and discouraged, she threw herself across the rumpled sheets and
inhaled deeply.

Max had wallowed over every square
inch of this bed, and she breathed deeply of the masculine scent. Closing her
eyes, she absorbed his essence through every pore.

She’d take a shower then sleep in
the guest room, after she soaked up a little bit more of him. In just a minute.
Spreading her arms wide, she savored her body’s unfamiliar hum of bone-deep
sexual satisfaction and adrenaline aftermath.

Mad Max Williams, a man of practically
legendary lovemaking skills, had taken her to a level of sensuality she’d never
experienced. His influence had spurred her to a new appreciation of sex and
adventure. She should thank him for both. Were there Mylar balloons designed
for such an occasion?

In lieu of a card or balloons,
letting him go without demanding a commitment from him was the least she could
do to show her gratitude. Max probably hated clingy, overly grateful women
unable to keep a couple of explosive orgasm in the proper perspective as much
as he hated celibacy.

The evening had been fun for both
of them. Nothing more than sex as usual for Max.

She needed to remember that.

She could never let herself think
the evening meant more than it had. Letting herself consider being in love with
him caused her major palpitations.

Because he was leaving.

Soon.

And thinking she was in love with
him would transform her from merely boring and lonely to downright pathetic.
Easy prey for the first man who’d shown her any attention in three years. The
first man who’d looked at her and seen something beneath the uptight persona
and baggy clothes, something inside her that wanted to be so much more than a
former wife, an almost mother, and a part-time documentarian.

She wanted no more half measures in
her life.

If Max had been astute enough to
see beneath the disguise, to see the woman she wanted to be, then someone
else—someone who wanted to stick around—would be able to see that, too. Now
that she knew the truth about herself, she could be the person Max had seen.
Freer, softer, more flexible.

More
fun
, to use one of
Max’s favorite words.

But that someone wouldn’t be Max,
and Max was the one she loved.

Well, damn.

She tossed a pillow across the
room. She hadn’t meant to admit that. Even to herself.

Seeing him leave would hurt, but
she was glad she hadn’t let him wander in and out of her life as another lost
opportunity. The time she’d spent with him thrilled her all the way down to her
toes.
So, why the tears?

Covering her face with her hands,
she cried wet, selfish tears, harder than she’d cried since she was eighteen
and found out she couldn’t go to film school in New York. She wanted to rail
against life and injustice, unfair responsibilities and lost chances, but
decided it would take too much effort.

She banished the drama, wiped her
eyes on a sheet corner and recognized a vague, disconnected feeling.
What
next?
Sleep seemed out of the question. Might as well drown her misery and
plan her future in a long tub soak.

Before she summoned the energy to get
up, a cold splash dampened her toes. And then a drip-drop of water soon turned
into a trickle. She jerked her feet aside, peering upward.

Damn. A leaking roof.

Right over her bed.

“Great.”

She went in search of a bucket,
giving serious thought to the idea of selling the house. It was paid for, sure,
but the upkeep comprised a pretty hefty amount each year. Carl had bought the
house the year Carly was born, and Annabel didn’t know what the girl would
think about giving up the only home she’d ever known. While Carl’s life
insurance would pay for her four years at The Ohio University, the sale of the
house would go a long way toward covering her medical school fees. That was
probably another ticklish conversation they needed to have soon.

Annabel sighed. No point in adding
one more thing to tonight’s worry list.

She’d lost an award, a lover, and
part of her roof all in one evening. If this kind of luck held true, next,
she’d lose her job.