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“Is it a truce?” he said brusquely. “Or are we just waiting for the start of round two?”

Bianca hesitated. She’d heard people speak of warning bells ringing in their heads and if asked, she’d have said the notion was laughable.

But warning bells were ringing in her head right now.

Not bells exactly. This was more like a tiny voice whispering Bianca, Bianca, don’t be foolish. Walk away. Turn around, phone for a taxi. Walk away.

And that would be even more foolish.

This man was her sister’s husband’s best friend. And, in ways that had been impressive—even if she’d never admit it to him—he had helped save her sister’s life.

Besides, what was one evening? What could possibly happen in a few short hours?

“Truce,” she said.

She put her hand in his…

And felt the heat of his touch, the heat of him, sear its way straight down to her toes.

CHAPTER THREE

The parking lot, a sea of pickup trucks and low, lean sports cars, was dimly lighted. Bianca jerked away when Chay reached for her elbow.

“The light’s bad,” he said, “and the lot’s uneven. They’ve been talking about resurfacing it for years, but they still haven’t done it.”

“I’m fine.”

He lifted his hands in surrender. “Suit yourself.”

He had a long stride. Matching it wasn’t easy. Did he know she was taking two steps to his one? Was it deliberate? And he was right about the lot. It was a muddle of dips and broken concrete, but she could manage. She could—

“Oof!”

Her heel caught in something. He grabbed her arm before she went down.

“Dammit,” he growled, “what’s the big deal about accepting my help?”

What, indeed? He was right. His hand on her elbow was meaningless. It was a simple act of courtesy and there was no sense in making more of it than it deserved.

Besides, surely they’d be at his vehicle soon. Would it be a truck with oversized tires or a car that looked fast even standing still? Either would suit him. She’d taken a fascinating course. Psychology of Marketing 101. A man like this would—

He stopped walking. She all but fell into him.

“Here we are,” he said.

Here they were, where? Bianca almost said, because they were standing before a motorcycle.

A huge, black, shiny motorcycle.

“A motorcycle?” she said, her voice rising in disbelief.

So much for that marketing course. Of course, Chay Olivieri would ride a motorcycle. How come she hadn’t thought of that?

“A ’91 Harley Davidson FXDB Sturgis.”

He offered the name in much the same way she’d

have offered the title of her dissertation, with a detached coolness that you could tell masked a sense of pride.