A Self-Made Man by Kathleen O`Brien Page B

was having a little trouble with that, too. She slammed her heel down for the tenth time, including a one-syllable, four-letter special request under her breath for good measure.
    The gas caught briefly, lurching the bike forward, propelling it right toward a little red Austin Healy Sprite that had just pulled into the hotel parking lot.
    Then the damn thing stalled again. She tilted sideways, barely managing to avoid bouncing her helmeted head on the sidewalk like a beach ball. But not quite managing to avoid dinging the driver’s door of the Sprite with her handlebar.
    â€œOh, hell,” she muttered. This was going to be trouble. She knew how guys were about their cars. Darian, her late, unlamented boyfriend, had polished his hubcaps with a toothbrush. Twice a day. And her father—well, once he had darn near killed a valet who had left a fingerprint on the windshield.
    Bracing herself for the storm, she straddled the motorcycle defiantly and evaluated the guy who was unfolding himself from the sports car. Late twenties, maybe. Blond hair. Loose Hawaiian print shirt flapping in the summer breeze, lifting to show a pair of khakis that fit well over a neat bottom. Wow. It waskind of hard to see color and detail through her tinted visor, but darn, he was cute.
    He was coming her way. To her surprise, he was smiling. “You okay?”
    Was she okay? He asked about her before he checked the damage to his car? She tilted her head, wondering if he might be gay.
    She pried off her helmet to get a better look. As her curls tumbled free, his eyes widened. She knew that expression. He wasn’t gay.
    â€œYeah,” she said. “I’m fine. Sorry about the ding.”
    He didn’t even turn around to look. “Hey, no problem. A car without dents is like a face without laugh lines. It hasn’t really lived, you know?”
    She stared at him. Not gay, but maybe nuts? “I guess,” she said doubtfully. “But still. I’ll pay for the damage.” As soon as her next trust-fund check came through, she added mentally.
    He shook his head. “I wouldn’t dream of having it fixed. I’ll tell everybody how this gorgeous woman came roaring by one day and left her mark on me forever.” He held out a tanned hand. “Travis Rourke,” he said, grinning. “Nice bike.”
    She accepted his hand. “Gwen Morgan,” she said, her mouth forming an answering grin before her brain had given it permission. “Nice car.” She lifted one brow. “Except for the dent.”
    He liked that. He laughed, showing even white teeth. The sound was comfortable, as if he laughed often, not worrying whether it might be more sophisticated to be blasé. For a moment Gwen envied him.It was actually kind of exhausting to have to maintain an attitude twenty-four-seven.
    â€œAre you staying here, too?” He indicated the hotel, which was Pringle Island’s pride and joy—a four-star, gray-shingled resort with a thick, green golf course that overlooked the water.
    â€œFor the time being.” She really ought to go stay with the Stepwitch—she didn’t have enough room on her Visa for two hours at the hotel, much less two nights. But she didn’t feel up to facing Lacy just yet. Maybe tomorrow.
    Travis Rourke looked pleased. “That’s great. I’d love a ride on your bike—when you figure out how it works, that is.”
    She tilted her chin. He’d been nice about the ding, but that didn’t give him the right to mock her. “I just bought it, actually. It’s kind of a pain, and I may not be keeping it.”
    â€œOh, you’ll keep it,” he said. “Fifty bucks says you’re way too proud to let yourself be beaten by a pile of tin.”
    â€œReally.” She froze him with her most supercilious eyebrow arch. “I’m not sure a five-minute acquaintance quite authorizes you to make that call, does it? In