Whisper Falls by Toni Blake Page B

here. Of course, they would know it if they’d heard an amazingly loud motorcycle come rumbling up the hill to Lucky’s place after dark last night. But she tried not to think about that—about the type of people he might hang out with . . . or the type of person he himself might be. Rachel’s words echoed in Tessa’s mind. Mike said he’s dangerous.
    Maybe it was stupid to be coming up here, acting like he was any other guy, ready to take him on as a client, ready to spend time working in his home. And maybe it was even stupider that she hadn’t changed clothes after leaving the bookstore. She glanced down at herself—she wore one of her favorite long, colorful, bohemian-inspired skirts with a couple of coordinated, layered tanks, belted just below the waist. There wasn’t anything wrong with what she’d worn, but she realized now that maybe she’d left it on because she’d wanted to look pretty when he saw her. Even if, realistically, the braless Hot Stuff top was probably more his style.
    Yikes. What did this mean? Was she hoping something would happen? Between them? That his sexy little flirtations would go further?
    She’d decided it was doubtful a woman lived here with him or he would have mentioned it by now. And he probably wouldn’t have so openly spied on her in her bikini and wouldn’t keep calling her “hot stuff.” Unless he was a jerk, of course. Which, now that she thought about it, was entirely possible. But whether he had a woman or not, was she seriously hoping to fool around with Lucky Romo?
    She sucked in her breath when the very question made her feel tingly all over. Lord, was that really what she wanted? Sex—or something similar—with a big, scary guy she really knew nothing about?
    Then she bit her lip. Oh God. Maybe it was.
    But stop it already. You’re thinking too far ahead. You’re here to evaluate his decorating needs , not get naked with him. Just do your job. And act normal. As normal as you can , anyway. So far, acting normal hadn’t exactly been her strong suit with Lucky. But maybe this was her chance to redeem herself.
    She was about to knock on his front door when she caught the faint sound of music coming from the large garage to one side of the house. Walking in that direction, she could hear it better—something in the Southern rock vein.
    Rounding the corner to peek into the open garage, she found Lucky bent over part of a motorcycle, spraying something onto it from some kind of nozzle. Peering closer, she realized it was a small airbrushing gun, with which he was creating an intricate design. Ah, that was what his shirt had said that first day they’d met—he painted motorcycles. And it looked like wherever his business had been, now it was here.
    Twisting the gun this way and that, he used his free hand to hold various flat, shaped objects—oh, wait, they were templates—at different angles as he worked to create curves and angles as he sprayed. He did it all so quickly and fluidly that she couldn’t help thinking it was like a flowing . . . ballet of the hands. Not that Lucky Romo would probably appreciate anything he did being compared with ballet, but within seconds, she was captivated by watching him. It took a minute before she understood he was crafting flames—yellow and orange on a dark red background. Apparently flames were big in the biker world, be it on skin or motorcycles.
    As he worked, the muscles in his arms flexed—the chain tattooed around his biceps appeared to tighten, then loosen, then tighten again. Like the other day, he wore a black bandana around his head, and he appeared completely absorbed in his task, his art. She hadn’t thought about what “custom bike painting” would be like when she’d seen it on the back of his shirt—heck, she hadn’t even remembered exactly what it was he did—but she never would have expected it to be this: art .
    Around him stood six other motorcycles, all in various states of being