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one.
    He saw the bike first. Shane bit back a groan as he surveyed the crushed front wheel, the twisted forks, the broken gauges, and the cracked windscreen. Even if the frame wasn’t bent, he’d have a major repair job on his hands—and genuine parts for a bike as old as this one were scarcer than diamonds and almost as pricey. He swore silently. Given a choice, he’d rather have broken his leg. At least bones could heal themselves.
    “It was an accident. I’m sorry.” The tremulous voice was smoky-sweet, like a swig of home-brewed peach brandy.
    “ ‘Sorry’? Isn’t it a little late for that?” Shane glowered down at her. She was petite, five-three at most, with short, strawberry blond curls and wide bluebonnet eyes. She wasn’t a local—he’d have noticed her before now if she had been. Something about her did look vaguely familiar. But never mind. Experience had taught him that it was easier to be mad at a pretty woman than at a plain one. And he was mad as hell.
    “Why didn’t you look where you were going?” he growled. “Those rearview mirrors aren’t just for putting on your lipstick.”
    Her posture stiffened. Her eyes flashed. “How can you say that? You don’t even know what happened.”
    “I can see what happened.” Shane knew he’d crossed a line, but he was in no mood to apologize. The vintage Harley had been his pride and joy. Now the front end of it was a twisted mess. He didn’t even have a way back to his ranch.
    “Fine,” she snapped. “We can have a civilized conversation about this or you can deal with my insurance company. Your choice. Here’s my card. If you want to copy the information, I can lend you a pen.”
    Shane took the printed yellow card and scanned it till his eyes found what he was looking for—her name.
    KYLIE SUMMERFIELD WAYNE.
    He felt a jarring sensation, like getting kicked in the rump by a steer. Shane bit back a curse. No wonder she’d looked familiar. He’d shared schoolrooms with snooty little Kylie Summerfield since the year they were in Miss Maccabee’s kindergarten class.
    “I’ll be damned,” he said.
    Her blue eyes narrowed. “Nice to see you again, too, Shane.”
     
     
    Kylie had recognized him the moment he came charging out of the store. Shane Taggart, the town bad boy, who’d been suspended twice in ninth grade for smoking in the boys’ lavatory. Shane Taggart who’d been tearing around on that motorcycle, with or without a license, since his legs got long enough to reach the foot pedals.
    Now he loomed above her, all lean, hard six-foot-four of him. Warring emotions flickered across his movie-star face. Years of sun and wind had burnished his chiseled features like fine leather, deepening the set of his dark, hooded eyes and adding a glint of silver to the stubble that shadowed his jaw. Dressed in jeans, muddy cowboy boots, and a black leather jacket, he looked every inch the troublemaker he’d been in high school.
    He had to be Aunt Muriel’s so-called cowboy. No wonder he made her seventy-nine-year-old pulse flutter. Shane had always been a heartbreaker. One of the hearts he’d broken had been Kylie’s—and he didn’t even know it.
    His gaze had returned to the smashed motorcycle. Kylie recognized it now. It was the same machine he’d had as a teenage hellion. It looked meticulously cared for. Probably worth a lot of money now. Kylie had had enough experience with insurance companies to know they weren’t inclined to pay much for vintage items. And on top of that, the sentimental value . . . Heaven save her, why hadn’t she backed into something that could just be paid for and fixed—like maybe a brand-new BMW?
    “I’ll do anything I can to help,” she said, trying to sound upbeat. “But first, we need a way out of this parking lot.”
    She eyed the worsening traffic snarl. The old man in the pickup had taken advantage of the melee to pull into the parking place and walk into the store, leaving Kylie trapped between