Free To Catch a Vampire by Jennifer Harlow Page A

fun you two,” but that’s it. The breath I hold escapes when the door shuts. At least it’s a nice, clear night. The temperature has gone down about twenty degrees, but considering it was a hundred before, that isn’t saying much. The still- hundred-percent humidity doesn’t help either. I don’t like eating soup, let alone having to walk around in it. Leather in the middle of summer is never a good idea. Get me in air conditioning fast.
    The door to the garage is unlocked. Even though Oliver walks in first, I’m the one who flicks the light switch by the wood door. Holy mackerel. It’s like James Bond’s garage in here. A black Porsche, a vintage green Aston Martin, a red BMW, and a silver Mercedes. How the other half live.
    “I am so driving. Give me the keys.”
    Oh, no. Grin Number Two surfaces. “You do not know how to operate our motor vehicle.”
    “What?”
    Oliver steps away from the Porsche he was leaning against. Instead, he walks over to the other side of the garage where the black BMW motorcycle with matching helmets rests. “Our chariot.”
    “You have got to be kidding me,” I say, hands instinctively moving to my hips. “I am not riding on that thing with you.”
    “It is a perfectly safe mode of transportation, I assure you.”
    “No way. Uh uh. I draw the line here.”
    “You do not trust me?”
    “No, I just see right through you. You chose this so I’d have to hold onto you on something that … vibrates.”
    Grin Number Two becomes grin Number One, the widest with fangs. “Would I do something as underhanded as that?”
    “Oliver, you are such a creep.”
    “It is too late now, unless you wish to go back inside and speak to Marianna.” He raises an eyebrow. “Alone.”
    It would take a nuclear explosion to get me back in that room. With a scowl, I push the button to open the garage. The motor above grinds to life. “Tomorrow we take the Aston. And I drive.”
    “I can live with that.”
    “You’re not alive,” I mutter.
    He climbs on first, kicking out the stand and leveling the bike. I put the helmet on. There goes my hair. Oliver puts his on too, flipping the tinted visor down over his eyes. I do the same. Now comes the tricky part. In the tight skirt, I can’t lift my leg up high. I try but almost topple in the stupid boots.
    I have no choice. I hike up the skirt so the world can practically see the control top of my pantyhose. I’ll be flashing my nether regions to all of Dallas tonight. Oh, joy. If people could die of embarrassment, I’d be a corpse right now. To his microscopic credit, Oliver doesn’t turn to get a look at the view. I manage to get my leg over this time and sit on the bike feet up on the metal rests. I swing my purse around to my back, and scoot up so my front touches Oliver’s back. I know he’s grinning even though I can’t see his face as I loop my arms around his torso, clutching onto my own wrists for dear life. Motorcycles have always made me nervous ever since April’s brother fell off one and was in a coma for two days.
    Oliver turns the key and kicks the starter. Like a bear, the bike growls to life then hums. The entire body shakes lightly to the hums. Hello. My unmentionable place jumps to life as well, drawing much more attention than I like to give it outside the privacy of my own room. Think unsexy thoughts. Baseball, doing the dishes, old Jack Palance. He so planned this. If I have an orgasm on the interstate, Bette will get a workout tonight.
    “Are you comfortable back there?” Oliver asks.
    You have no idea. “Let’s just go!”
    And we’re off. The bike jerks forward out of the garage and down the driveway. I hug Oliver tighter. If he could breathe, he’d be gasping right now. The gate opens as we approach. We pass through and he guns the engine, which roars louder than a chainsaw. I scream and darn near break Oliver’s ribs as we zoom down the quiet street. The possibility of becoming a road pancake sure does take my