Free Born to Be Wild by Patti Berg Page A

shopping with friends and ducking into Café L’Europe for linguine and shrimp, a glass of wine, and good conversation, while a pianist played lightly in the background.
    Instead she sat on a motorcycle outside a biker hangout, where God knows what was going on inside.
    She looked at her watch. Four-thirty-two. If Max didn’t come outside by four-forty, she was going in after him. She drummed her fingers on the gas tank, right next to the painted mermaid. The green and gold scales on her tail shimmered in the sunlight. Her light brown hair flowed about her as if she were swimming far below the ocean’s surface, and delicate strands wisped over her chest like shredded silk, revealing hints of her firm, voluptuous breasts.
    What was Max’s fascination with mermaids? she wondered. How did he get interested in motorcycles, or becoming a chef?
    Why did he have long hair? Why did he wear a beard and earrings?
    Why was she thinking about him—again—and why on earth was he taking so long?
    She twisted the rearview mirror to check her makeup, dug into her silver clutch, found her lipstick, and applied it sparingly. Last but certainly not least, she fluffed some life into her hair. Frederico, her stylist, would have a fit if he saw the damage the helmet had done to her coif.
    “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” she whispered to herself as she climbed cautiously off the bike and smoothed the wrinkles in her silk trousers, but her words were drowned out by the roar of an engine echoing through the alley. Her eyes darted once more to the rearview mirror and caught sight of a red machine racing toward her, closer, closer, until it rumbled to a stop at her side. A muscle-bound man with a Fu Manchu stared at her, and she in turn gaped at his wide, hairless chest and the black leather vest that did little to hide his skin.
    When he climbed off the motorcycle he towered over her, an impressive feat for most anybody, especially when she was wearing heels. He continued to stare as he removed his helmet, revealing a red bandana tied about his head and glittering diamond studs in his ears.
    He folded burly arms over his brawny chest and smiled, flashing a set of amazingly straight, pearly-white teeth. “You must be a friend of Max’s.”
    “An acquaintance,” she answered, smiling weakly.
    He stuck out his hand. Instantly, Lauren looked at his fingernails, wondering how much grease was beneath them, but they were clean, his cuticles trimmed, each nail rounded and white as if he’d just had a manicure. “I’m Vince Domingo,” he said, “but my friends call me Bear.”
    Lauren hesitantly lifted her hand, and he clutched it in a viselike grip. “It’s nice to meet you ... Bear. I’m Lauren Remington,” she said, trying to sound cordial in spite of her anxiety. “Do you hang out here, too?”
    “Every chance I get, which isn’t often enough.” He pulled the bandana off his head—a totally bald head—and stuffed it into his helmet. “It’s cooler inside than out here,” he said, wiping a bead of perspiration from his temple. “Why don’t you come in with me and have a drink. Meet some of the guys.”
    Maybe she didn’t want to go inside after all.
    “I told Max I’d wait out here, but thank you for the offer.” She anxiously checked her watch. “He’ll be out any moment now.”
    Bear’s laugh rumbled through the alleyway, almost as loudly as his motorcycle’s engine. “It’s obvious you don’t know Max all that well. If he gets caught up in a game or something, he won’t be out for hours.”
    “A game?” So that’s the business Max had to take care of. “I didn’t realize there was gambling inside.”
    A wide grin spread across Bear’s face. “Why don’t I show you what’s inside.” He gripped her upper arm and ushered her toward the door. Part of her wanted to pull back, to tell him she had no intention of going inside, but she had the feeling no one ever said no to Bear.
    How could she possibly