Night Game by Christine Feehan

lighted street, and up three blocks until she gained the relative safety of the park. She slowed immediately, not wanting to give away her exact location by stepping on crisp leaves or dried twigs. She crouched low in the shadows and controlled her breathing. Sounds carried at night, even harsh breathing and more than once she’d slid past guards, knowing exactly where they were only by their ragged breath coming in short gasps after exertion. Flame used her psychic ability to keep any sound she might make from traveling.
    She stayed low, moving with slow caution, taking care not to allow movement to draw the eye as she worked her way across the park. Nearing her motorcycle, she was dismayed to see a man sitting on it, casually swinging one leg back and forth while he waited. He didn’t have a gun in his hands; in fact, when she looked closer she noticed he’d been busy trying to steal her bike. There was a small piece of metal attached to her ignition.
    Her motorcycle was her baby, one of the few items she bought wholly for herself and she’d made certain it wouldn’t be all that easy to steal, locking up the ignition and housing for the wires with a secondary lock needing a password. He’d evidently managed to either bypass the lock or found her password.
    Anger swept through her and she stepped forward. “Get the hell off my bike.”
    He whistled softly. “Woman, you have a foul temper.”
    The way he drawled out “woman” did something funny to the pit of her stomach. His dark hair curled every which way and his generous mouth curved with amusement. His shoulders were broad and she could see the strength in his arms and upper chest. The man was built and he looked like he’d be good in a fight—or in bed. The unbidden thought pushed her temper up a notch.
    “Get. Off. My. Bike.”
    “And you’re stubborn too. I like that in a woman. Never have gone for the submissive type.” He winked at her. “I like a tigress in my bed.”
    “Oh shut up.” This wasn’t going anything like she’d thought it would and he was throwing her off-kilter with obvious flirtation. “I certainly don’t care about your sexual preferences. Who are you anyway?”
    He put a hand over his heart. “You wound me, cher . I thought we were going to get along so well.”
    Flame put one hand on her hip and studied his face. It as a strong face with a very intriguing mouth that laughed often—if one could believe it, which she didn’t. She believed in the eyes, and his eyes didn’t laugh at all. They were focused and hard and moved ceaselessly, taking in every detail about her and the surrounding area.
    Who are you?”
    My friends call me Gator.”
    Her eyebrow shot up. “I’ll just bet they do. I’ll just bet you got that name from wrestling alligators when you were a kid like every other boy in the bayou.”
    “Ouch. That one struck home. Don’ be like that, cher . I’m famille , a GhostWalker, same as you.”
    “You’re not my family. And you’re wasting your charm on me. Get off my bike.” She took an aggressive step forward, hoping he would meet her advance with one of his own.
    He grinned at her, just sitting there, swinging his leg as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “So you noticed right away how truly charmin’ I am.”
    “I noticed you have an ego the size of Texas. And you’re still sitting on my bike.” She lowered her pack to the lawn. He was a solid man, heavy muscle, but she had the feeling he’d be fast—maybe even as fast as she was.
    “I’m comfortable, thank you.”
    “You’re not going to be comfortable in another minute. What is that thing on my motorcycle?” She indicated the small piece of metal attached to the ignition.
    “You stole whatever you’ve got in that bag of yours. Maybe we have something in common. I like vehicles.”
    She shifted position slightly, giving less targets, making herself more mobile. “You’re such a liar. Whitney sent you after me, didn’t