to meet his. His eyes evaluated and challenged—then, in the next instant, went all hot and vibrant.
The man radiated attitude. Attitude and steaming masculinity. Even though she could see only his eyes, she could easily understand Morgan’s attraction. Her baby sister had always been susceptible to the reckless physical side of life.
And Rhys Gannon might as well have had DANGEROUS emblazoned in fire-engine-red neon across his broad chest.
But it was Morgan who found that element attractive, not her. Morgan had always been more daring than Whitney—and more needy.
“Actually, I was passing through Phoenix when I heard Estrade might be a good place to do some research. I was told Bruce Springsteen came here once with his entourage,” she said, remembering the photo shoot she’d done with the singer a couple years ago.
Gannon laughed, a rich baritone from deep within. “Lady, you’ve come to the right place, but you’re a couple years too late.”
“What do you mean? Too late for what?”
“Used to be a biker bar here.” He motioned down the street toward the place where he’d gone inside before. “It’s just a parts shop now.”
“But those riders…?”
“Passing through.”
Whitney frowned, torn between the need to keep him talking so she could get information about her niece and the rush of panic that made her want to run like hell. But he hadn’t recognized the name, so she was okay there. And if she didn’t keep him talking…
“Oh,” she said. “Well, that’s disappointing. Uhm…well, maybe you could tell me something about your motorcycle?” She narrowed her eyes to examine the vehicle more closely.
He glanced at his watch, which Whitney noticed was a high-tech stainless-steel digital, definitely not the kind a typical gang member would wear. Spikes on black leather would be more fitting.
“Nope,” he said, steering his bike around to head in the other direction. “I’ve got an appointment. C’mon round tomorrow morning if you want.” He paused, adding seconds later, “I might be back then.” He gunned the motor.
Right. And I might be Peter Pan. Damn! If he left now, what was the likelihood he’d come back tomorrow?
And what would she do in the meantime? Sleep in her car? She hadn’t seen a single hotel or motel in the small town.
Glancing around, she sighed heavily.
She’d flown in from New York this morning, rented a car, driven two hours on twisting mountain roads and then waited another two hours for Gannon to show up at the shop. She’d had a hard time even finding him, and if it wasn’t for the name “Rhys” on his license plate, she might still be looking.
Her shoulder muscles ached, and from habit, she rolled them to get out the kinks.
As he turned to leave, she said, “Do you know if there’s a hotel or motel around? I didn’t see anything coming through.” If he knew she was staying overnight, maybe he’d feel some compunction to come back.
Gannon studied her, speculation in his eyes. He reached out a hand. “Get on,” he said, his words a command rising over the engine’s noise.
She stiffened, yanked the camera bag over her shoulder, and hedged back a step.
The last thing in the world she wanted was to get on a motorcycle with a drug-dealing kidnapper.
He nodded toward the road. “I’ll show you where to stay.”
Oddly, his tone sounded understanding. Was he really offering help or was there more to it? Morgan had said he was smooth. She’d also said he was cruel, dangerous, and as volatile as nitroglycerin.
Whitney had no reason to doubt it.
His hand remained outstretched.
She pointed to the white sedan she’d rented in Phoenix. “I have a car. Tell me where the hotel is and I’ll drive there,” she answered, praying she sounded more confident than she felt.
He glanced at the car, then withdrew his hand.
“I’ll follow you,” she added quickly.
“You ever been on a bike before?”
Drawing her bottom lip between her
The man radiated attitude. Attitude and steaming masculinity. Even though she could see only his eyes, she could easily understand Morgan’s attraction. Her baby sister had always been susceptible to the reckless physical side of life.
And Rhys Gannon might as well have had DANGEROUS emblazoned in fire-engine-red neon across his broad chest.
But it was Morgan who found that element attractive, not her. Morgan had always been more daring than Whitney—and more needy.
“Actually, I was passing through Phoenix when I heard Estrade might be a good place to do some research. I was told Bruce Springsteen came here once with his entourage,” she said, remembering the photo shoot she’d done with the singer a couple years ago.
Gannon laughed, a rich baritone from deep within. “Lady, you’ve come to the right place, but you’re a couple years too late.”
“What do you mean? Too late for what?”
“Used to be a biker bar here.” He motioned down the street toward the place where he’d gone inside before. “It’s just a parts shop now.”
“But those riders…?”
“Passing through.”
Whitney frowned, torn between the need to keep him talking so she could get information about her niece and the rush of panic that made her want to run like hell. But he hadn’t recognized the name, so she was okay there. And if she didn’t keep him talking…
“Oh,” she said. “Well, that’s disappointing. Uhm…well, maybe you could tell me something about your motorcycle?” She narrowed her eyes to examine the vehicle more closely.
He glanced at his watch, which Whitney noticed was a high-tech stainless-steel digital, definitely not the kind a typical gang member would wear. Spikes on black leather would be more fitting.
“Nope,” he said, steering his bike around to head in the other direction. “I’ve got an appointment. C’mon round tomorrow morning if you want.” He paused, adding seconds later, “I might be back then.” He gunned the motor.
Right. And I might be Peter Pan. Damn! If he left now, what was the likelihood he’d come back tomorrow?
And what would she do in the meantime? Sleep in her car? She hadn’t seen a single hotel or motel in the small town.
Glancing around, she sighed heavily.
She’d flown in from New York this morning, rented a car, driven two hours on twisting mountain roads and then waited another two hours for Gannon to show up at the shop. She’d had a hard time even finding him, and if it wasn’t for the name “Rhys” on his license plate, she might still be looking.
Her shoulder muscles ached, and from habit, she rolled them to get out the kinks.
As he turned to leave, she said, “Do you know if there’s a hotel or motel around? I didn’t see anything coming through.” If he knew she was staying overnight, maybe he’d feel some compunction to come back.
Gannon studied her, speculation in his eyes. He reached out a hand. “Get on,” he said, his words a command rising over the engine’s noise.
She stiffened, yanked the camera bag over her shoulder, and hedged back a step.
The last thing in the world she wanted was to get on a motorcycle with a drug-dealing kidnapper.
He nodded toward the road. “I’ll show you where to stay.”
Oddly, his tone sounded understanding. Was he really offering help or was there more to it? Morgan had said he was smooth. She’d also said he was cruel, dangerous, and as volatile as nitroglycerin.
Whitney had no reason to doubt it.
His hand remained outstretched.
She pointed to the white sedan she’d rented in Phoenix. “I have a car. Tell me where the hotel is and I’ll drive there,” she answered, praying she sounded more confident than she felt.
He glanced at the car, then withdrew his hand.
“I’ll follow you,” she added quickly.
“You ever been on a bike before?”
Drawing her bottom lip between her
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