Free Grounds to Believe by Shelley Bates Page B

philosophy alive as a protective measure.
    She was looking at the passenger seat and the fringed saddle bags. He had a sudden brilliant idea, something that would counteract her attempt to separate them in her mind.
    “Did you drive down?”
    “I walked. I just live up the hill.” She gestured vaguely to the east.
    “Want to go for a spin? I’ll drop you off at home.”
    With a whirl of skirts, she twisted away from him and wound up with her back against the screen of bushes. “I can’t do that.”
    He could hardly see her in the shadows, but he could hear her agitated breathing in the silence. “Why not? I promise I won’t kidnap you. You can tell Melchizedek my intentions are completely honorable.”
    Humor didn’t have the least effect on her instant denial. “I can’t. It’s not…Thank you, but I can’t.”
    “It’s not what? Not proper? What?”
    He could sense her misery from where he stood. “Something like that,” she said at last, very reluctantly.
    “At least you’re honest.” A rare quality, in his experience. She belongs to a cult, he reminded himself. You can’t trust anything she says. “But I’ll tell you straight, I’m not going to let you walk all the way home by yourself. It’s—” he checked the luminous dial of his watch “—almost ten-thirty. And I’m not going to leave the bike here to get stolen while I go with you. So you’re going to have to stay here and make meaningless conversation with me until you let me take you home.”
    She stepped out of the dark and looked at him uncertainly, obviously weakening. He held his jacket out again. “Put it on. You’ll need it. The temperature is always lower when you’re moving.”
    “I don’t know….”
    She wanted to go, and they both knew it. He released the spare helmet from the locking ring on the back of the bike and handed it to her. She fitted it awkwardly over her hair. When she held the chin strap, obviously at a loss as to what to do with it, he took it out of her hand. The skin of her throat felt soft and warm against the backs of his fingers, a delicate pulse fluttering beneath it.
    “Okay?” She nodded, like a little girl having her buttons done up. Her face was tilted toward his, her lips parted slightly. His hands felt heavy as they fell away from her skin.
    He turned the key and touched the starter switch. The motorcycle fired up with a smooth roar, and he put his own helmet on. Swinging his leg over the seat, he braced his feet on the ground and pushed the kickstand up with one heel.
    He looked at her over his shoulder and gently revved the engine. “Hop on.”

Chapter Seven
    H is jacket still held his body heat. Julia pushed her arms into the sleeves, and the heavy leather settled onto her shoulders. The faint scent of his cologne drifted out of the lining and past her nostrils. She still felt the brush of his fingers on her throat.
    She must be out of her mind.
    “What do I do?” she asked, her voice nearly a shout over the engine. The helmet felt strange, thick, damping her hearing.
    “Ever mounted a horse?”
    “Yes.”
    “Same way. Put your foot on this peg. You can brace a hand on my shoulder if you want.”
    At least the saddle on a motorcycle was closer to the ground. She set her left foot on the peg, and her left hand on his shoulder. His warmth burned her fingers right through his cotton T-shirt. Rattled, she swung herright leg over, felt the other peg under her instep more by luck than aim, and fell into the seat behind him.
    “Whoa. You okay?”
    No, she wasn’t okay. She wanted to wriggle backward and close her legs. The machine vibrated under her. Ross’s body was warm and solid. She didn’t know what to do with her hands.
    “Next time wear jeans,” he suggested over his shoulder.
    She didn’t even own a pair of jeans. Women didn’t wear men’s clothing. And there wasn’t going to be a next time. Her dress bunched up between them in what seemed like a huge wad of fabric. If