lavender, yellow, and white frangipani blossomed everywhere, and the garden was fragrant with the sweet scent of gardenia.
She’d never expected Max Wilde to live in a veritable Garden of Eden. Then again, she looked at the rings in his ears, the mustache and goatee, and the thick black wavy hair that nearly brushed the collar of his T-shirt, and couldn’t picture him living anywhere but in an untamed jungle.
What different worlds they came from.
Max planted both boots on the pavement and steadied the bike as she scrambled off—far too fast. Her legs quivered, and she had the horrid feeling they were going to give out beneath her. But then she felt a pair of big, supportive hands clutch her arms.
“Next time you ride,” Max said, grinning lightly, “try to relax.”
That was impossible, especially now, with him touching her. “I was completely relaxed,” she fibbed.
“You forget how close we were. I could feel every tense muscle in your body.”
She hadn’t forgotten how close they were. She’d felt the heat of his skin, the seams of his jeans against her thighs, his leather belt rubbing back and forth, up and down against her stomach, not to mention the hard planes of his back colliding with her breasts. Those were the things that had made her tense once she’d gotten over her fear of riding. Those were things best kept to herself. “Maybe I was a bit tense, but I didn’t want to fall.”
His fingers grazed over her arms, her shoulders, and his knuckles brushed lightly along her neck. Maybe he had put that long-ago incident out of his mind. Then, again, maybe he was teasing her, paying her back for what he had mistakenly thought she’d done to him. Either way, his touch made her feel dreadfully hot, made her wonder—with too much anticipation—what he planned to do next.
Releasing the chin strap, he slipped the helmet off her head. A hint of warmth softened his intense brown eyes. “In spite of what you might think, I wouldn’t have let you fall.”
All too quickly he let her go, and she thought she would crumble—a ridiculous thing to feel, especially with a man who didn’t particularly like her.
She smoothed her silk top and pants, fluffed her hair, and pulled her wits together, repeating to herself again and again, “This is business, nothing more.”
“You have a nice home,” she said, following Max to the door and trying to sound calm, col lected, and in control, as she took in the sights of his backyard grotto, where a free-form, boulder-rimmed swimming pool sat amidst a tangle of brightly flowering bougainvillea, plumeria, and fern. “It’s a far cry from the neighborhood around the corner, although I must admit, you’ve got a very interesting gentleman living next door.”
“Mr. Hansen’s ninety-three,” he said, not bothering to look at her as he unlocked the door. “He lost his wife last year, his only son the year before that, and now he’s slowly losing touch with reality.”
Max said the words so matter-of-factly that if she hadn’t been listening closely, she might have thought it was no big deal. But she could hear a trace of sadness in his voice, which seemed out of character for a motorcycle-riding brute who liked to torture women.
“Can anything be done to help him?” she asked. “Medicine? Therapy?”
“His doctors say no. In fact, they think he should be in a nursing home.” Max chuckled, an unexpected sound that touched her heart. “Mr. Hansen won’t have anything to do with being shut away. He loves his garden and his neighbors, and we take turns watching out for him. The neighborhood wouldn’t be the same if he went away.”
Max looked like a man who thrived on having fun, living hard, fast, and dangerous. He definitely didn’t look like the caregiver type, but she was rapidly finding out that Max didn’t fit any mold. He was the exact opposite of the men she was used to, who, more than likely, wouldn’t watch out for a ninety-three-year-old
She’d never expected Max Wilde to live in a veritable Garden of Eden. Then again, she looked at the rings in his ears, the mustache and goatee, and the thick black wavy hair that nearly brushed the collar of his T-shirt, and couldn’t picture him living anywhere but in an untamed jungle.
What different worlds they came from.
Max planted both boots on the pavement and steadied the bike as she scrambled off—far too fast. Her legs quivered, and she had the horrid feeling they were going to give out beneath her. But then she felt a pair of big, supportive hands clutch her arms.
“Next time you ride,” Max said, grinning lightly, “try to relax.”
That was impossible, especially now, with him touching her. “I was completely relaxed,” she fibbed.
“You forget how close we were. I could feel every tense muscle in your body.”
She hadn’t forgotten how close they were. She’d felt the heat of his skin, the seams of his jeans against her thighs, his leather belt rubbing back and forth, up and down against her stomach, not to mention the hard planes of his back colliding with her breasts. Those were the things that had made her tense once she’d gotten over her fear of riding. Those were things best kept to herself. “Maybe I was a bit tense, but I didn’t want to fall.”
His fingers grazed over her arms, her shoulders, and his knuckles brushed lightly along her neck. Maybe he had put that long-ago incident out of his mind. Then, again, maybe he was teasing her, paying her back for what he had mistakenly thought she’d done to him. Either way, his touch made her feel dreadfully hot, made her wonder—with too much anticipation—what he planned to do next.
Releasing the chin strap, he slipped the helmet off her head. A hint of warmth softened his intense brown eyes. “In spite of what you might think, I wouldn’t have let you fall.”
All too quickly he let her go, and she thought she would crumble—a ridiculous thing to feel, especially with a man who didn’t particularly like her.
She smoothed her silk top and pants, fluffed her hair, and pulled her wits together, repeating to herself again and again, “This is business, nothing more.”
“You have a nice home,” she said, following Max to the door and trying to sound calm, col lected, and in control, as she took in the sights of his backyard grotto, where a free-form, boulder-rimmed swimming pool sat amidst a tangle of brightly flowering bougainvillea, plumeria, and fern. “It’s a far cry from the neighborhood around the corner, although I must admit, you’ve got a very interesting gentleman living next door.”
“Mr. Hansen’s ninety-three,” he said, not bothering to look at her as he unlocked the door. “He lost his wife last year, his only son the year before that, and now he’s slowly losing touch with reality.”
Max said the words so matter-of-factly that if she hadn’t been listening closely, she might have thought it was no big deal. But she could hear a trace of sadness in his voice, which seemed out of character for a motorcycle-riding brute who liked to torture women.
“Can anything be done to help him?” she asked. “Medicine? Therapy?”
“His doctors say no. In fact, they think he should be in a nursing home.” Max chuckled, an unexpected sound that touched her heart. “Mr. Hansen won’t have anything to do with being shut away. He loves his garden and his neighbors, and we take turns watching out for him. The neighborhood wouldn’t be the same if he went away.”
Max looked like a man who thrived on having fun, living hard, fast, and dangerous. He definitely didn’t look like the caregiver type, but she was rapidly finding out that Max didn’t fit any mold. He was the exact opposite of the men she was used to, who, more than likely, wouldn’t watch out for a ninety-three-year-old
Similar Books
