favor of others, a lifetime of self-sacrifice. The attraction between them might even be the first glimpse she’d had of something for herself, all for herself. Her family wouldn’t approve, of course, and that would make it an act of rebellion, a break from the past. Exactly what she wanted, even if she didn’t know it yet.
“It’s okay, Princess,” he said, touching her cheek, testing its downy softness. He wanted to be that man, the one who could set her free. But he didn’t know how without hurting her. And he would hurt her. Women like Edwina Moody were born to be hurt by men who didn’t have names, men who tore up the asphalt and went wherever the next turn in the road took them. Men who couldn’t love anything but their own freedom.
She nuzzled into his hand like a kitten who wanted to be caressed. Diablo felt the hard clutch of desire in his groin. He wouldn’t make love to her. He couldn’t take her this way, not and live with himself. But how the hell did he stop? She was so needy for everything a man could give her. And he wasn’t in a whole lot better condition himself. Lord, he’d been without so damn long.
She pressed her mouth to his fingers and closed her eyes, an irresistibly aroused woman.
“We’ve got a deal,” he said, jaw muscles knotting.
She looked at him, limpid-eyed. “I don’t care about that.”
“I do. I can’t afford to have you asking questions, hassling the Warlords, almost getting us kicked out again.”
“I won’t.” She stood back from him, her voice tightening. “I can handle myself.”
He purposely let his eyes drift to her breasts and linger there. “You couldn’t prove that by me, Ed.”
Edwina slept by the fire that night. She refused the sleeping bag, even when Diablo offered to let her have it all to herself. Finally he zipped the bags apart, and they slept on opposite sides of the smoldering coals.
Dreams flitted through Edwina’s mind, subliminal flashes that left her exhausted because they were so hauntingly real. She tossed fitfully, unable to release herself from the explicit fantasies or from the yearnings that ached through her body.
The first light of dawn awoke her. The dew was still thick on the ground, and it was much too chilly to leave the sleeping bag, so she curled up for warmth and contemplated the man across the campsite from her. Mr. Easy Rider slept on, oblivious to her wakefulness, and Edwina wanted to thump him for it.
His speech from the night before resonated in her mind. She could have recited it word for word. It wasn’t so much that he’d done the ‘right thing’. A part of her had always known that he was more complicated than he pretended. It was his sensitivity that had surprised her. A hell-for-leather biker with a conscience, she thought ruefully. Maybe even a streak of nobility.
She sighed, bemused, as she thought about what his sudden nobility had done to her. Her body was still thrumming with unrequited urges. She ought to have been worrying about what they’d done last night. Instead, she was obsessed with what they hadn’t done. He’d given her an irresistible taste of the drugging pleasure he could bring her, and then he’d cut her off. Just enough to get good and hooked, she thought, sighing.
She could only imagine what his nobility must have cost him. It had to be agonizing for a man to reach a state of total physical arousal and not act on it. And he had reached that state with her, several times. She’d felt the physical proof of it. What she didn’t understand was why he fought it.
He shifted in the sleeping bag, his hair falling across his face as he turned toward her. He was a mystery, she thought, and mysteries had always attracted her. There were occasions when she had watched him grow silent and distant, as though drifting somewhere else, an unmoored boat. She wondered where he went when his eyes were far away....
“Welcome to the living,” she said when he finally roused. She had
“It’s okay, Princess,” he said, touching her cheek, testing its downy softness. He wanted to be that man, the one who could set her free. But he didn’t know how without hurting her. And he would hurt her. Women like Edwina Moody were born to be hurt by men who didn’t have names, men who tore up the asphalt and went wherever the next turn in the road took them. Men who couldn’t love anything but their own freedom.
She nuzzled into his hand like a kitten who wanted to be caressed. Diablo felt the hard clutch of desire in his groin. He wouldn’t make love to her. He couldn’t take her this way, not and live with himself. But how the hell did he stop? She was so needy for everything a man could give her. And he wasn’t in a whole lot better condition himself. Lord, he’d been without so damn long.
She pressed her mouth to his fingers and closed her eyes, an irresistibly aroused woman.
“We’ve got a deal,” he said, jaw muscles knotting.
She looked at him, limpid-eyed. “I don’t care about that.”
“I do. I can’t afford to have you asking questions, hassling the Warlords, almost getting us kicked out again.”
“I won’t.” She stood back from him, her voice tightening. “I can handle myself.”
He purposely let his eyes drift to her breasts and linger there. “You couldn’t prove that by me, Ed.”
Edwina slept by the fire that night. She refused the sleeping bag, even when Diablo offered to let her have it all to herself. Finally he zipped the bags apart, and they slept on opposite sides of the smoldering coals.
Dreams flitted through Edwina’s mind, subliminal flashes that left her exhausted because they were so hauntingly real. She tossed fitfully, unable to release herself from the explicit fantasies or from the yearnings that ached through her body.
The first light of dawn awoke her. The dew was still thick on the ground, and it was much too chilly to leave the sleeping bag, so she curled up for warmth and contemplated the man across the campsite from her. Mr. Easy Rider slept on, oblivious to her wakefulness, and Edwina wanted to thump him for it.
His speech from the night before resonated in her mind. She could have recited it word for word. It wasn’t so much that he’d done the ‘right thing’. A part of her had always known that he was more complicated than he pretended. It was his sensitivity that had surprised her. A hell-for-leather biker with a conscience, she thought ruefully. Maybe even a streak of nobility.
She sighed, bemused, as she thought about what his sudden nobility had done to her. Her body was still thrumming with unrequited urges. She ought to have been worrying about what they’d done last night. Instead, she was obsessed with what they hadn’t done. He’d given her an irresistible taste of the drugging pleasure he could bring her, and then he’d cut her off. Just enough to get good and hooked, she thought, sighing.
She could only imagine what his nobility must have cost him. It had to be agonizing for a man to reach a state of total physical arousal and not act on it. And he had reached that state with her, several times. She’d felt the physical proof of it. What she didn’t understand was why he fought it.
He shifted in the sleeping bag, his hair falling across his face as he turned toward her. He was a mystery, she thought, and mysteries had always attracted her. There were occasions when she had watched him grow silent and distant, as though drifting somewhere else, an unmoored boat. She wondered where he went when his eyes were far away....
“Welcome to the living,” she said when he finally roused. She had
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