Free The Good Daughter by Jane Porter

brain.
Dangerous,
she thought in a more logical part. He looked like trouble. Tough. Hard. Physical.
    Sexual.
    And then he started his bike. It sputtered once, twice, before roaring to life, low, rough, loud.
    God, her mother would hate the biker, the bike, the noise. Kit bit into her bottom lip even as the bike lurched forward and then did a quick spin, turning in the middle of the quiet street to come straight at her.
    She stumbled backward, thinking the rider had lost control, but then he stopped the bike mere inches from her ankle and tugged off his helmet.
    “You took a picture of me,” he said, looking into her eyes, his voice nearly as deep as the engine’s growl.
    She opened her mouth and then shut it.
    “Why?” he demanded.
    Her brows tugged, and her shoulders twisted. “I liked your bike. Thought it’d make an interesting picture.”
    His dark eyes narrowed and his head tilted, glossy black hair sliding over prominent cheekbones. “You a cop?”
    She nearly laughed. “No.”
    “What do you do, then?”
    “I’m a teacher.”
    “And what do you teach?”
    “High school English.”
    He sat back on his seat and placed the helmet between his thighs. “Then why are you taking pictures?”
    “It’s a hobby. Gives me something to do when I’m not grading papers.”
    He looked at her a long moment, expression shuttered and impossible to read. “How do I know you’re really a teacher?”
    “Why would I lie?”
    “People do all the time.”
    “Well, not me. I’m a
Catholic
schoolteacher,” she said, emphasizing
Catholic
. “I have to be moral. It’s my job.”
    He seemed to fight a smile. “You took a vow of morality to teach English?”
    She wondered about his background. He looked part Greek, orperhaps it was Armenian or possibly Native American. He was very dark, and hard, and altogether too intimidating. “No. But what kind of example would I set if I went through life lying, stealing, and cheating?”
    “I didn’t know women like you still existed.”
    “The world is full of good women,” she said crisply.
    “I haven’t met any.”
    “Then you’re hanging around with the wrong crowd.”
    “You don’t like me.”
    “I don’t know you.”
    “But you’re still forming opinions. Making judgments. You know you are.”
    Kit’s cheeks grew hot. “I’ve met men like you back when they were just boys in my classroom,” she said, trying to sound flippant but failing. “You go through life breaking hearts and causing trouble.”
    He smiled slowly, almost lazily, and the long dense lashes fringing his eyes lowered as he looked her up and down. “Left your wedding ring at home?”
    “Not married.”
    “Divorced?”
    “Never married.”
    “Too busy teaching the sacraments?”
    “Too busy teaching hoodlums to read.”
    He smiled again, knowing she was referring to him. “Where do you teach?”
    “Memorial High.”
    “The one in Oakland?”
    She nodded, pulled a tendril of hair from her mouth, and pushed it behind her ear. “I’ve taught there for years.”
    “So you don’t need the photos for anything.”
    “No.”
    “Can I see them?”
    It wasn’t a question, she thought. He expected her to hand over the camera. He was that confident, that controlled, that strong of a guy. “Are you going to delete them?”
    “Depends.”
    She looked up into his eyes. He was serious. And dangerous. She avoided men like him. Knew that there was no room in her life for rebels. Or trouble. Silently she handed him her camera, which had turned off while they talked, and he turned it on without fumbling and then pressed the review button and clicked through the photos she’d taken.
    The first one was a close-up of him on the bike, all long hair, intense dark eyes, and chiseled cheekbones. The second was a shot of his torso and denim-clad thighs against the orange of the bike. The third was the bike seat. The fourth, more bike, and then more bike. And more bike. And then a lone daffodil against