Since she wanted to stay that way, she ordered herself to steer the car fully onto the shoulder until the shaking stopped. Someone else could come along and broadside her.

The best she could manage was a thumping limp.

Flat tire, she thought and closed her eyes. Perfect.

Grabbing her fold-up umbrella from the glove box, she got out to survey the damage.

“Oh, not a flat,” she muttered. “A flat’s just not good enough.

Two. Two goddamn shredded tires.” She rolled her eyes to the heavens, which, she noted bitterly, were already clearing.

She found the faint shimmer of a rainbow arching in a miserly glint of sun personally insulting under the circumstances.

She would, almost certainly, be late for the consult, but she wouldn’t arrive soaking wet.

Bright side.

She climbed back in, called for roadside assistance. Because her hands still shook, she opted to wait another few minutes before calling home.

She’d just say she had a flat, she decided, and was waiting for the guy to come change it. She could damn well have changed a flat tire if she’d had to, she mused. But she only had one spare.

Pressing a hand on her jumpy belly, she thumbed a Tums out of the roll in her purse.

Probably thirty minutes for the tow truck, if she was lucky, then she’d have to ask the driver to take her home, or call a cab. She wasn’t going to call home and ask one of her partners to come get her and let them see the car.

Not before a consult.

A cab, she decided. If she called a cab it would be on its way here along with the tow truck. More efficient that way. If she’d just stop shaking, she could get everything in order again. Deal with the situation.

She heard the roar of an engine, and her gaze flew to the rear-view mirror. Already slowing down, she realized as she let air out again.A motorcycle, which certainly had more than enough room to get around her.

Instead, it pulled up behind.

Good Samaritan, she thought. Not everyone was a negligent ass like the other driver had been. She pushed her door open to tell the biker she’d already called for help, and stepped out.

And saw Malcolm Kavanaugh pull off the black helmet.

It just got better and better, she thought. Now she was being “rescued” by her brother’s friend, their current mechanic, a man who irritated her more often than not.

She watched him survey the situation while the thinning rain dampened his black, unkempt hair. His jeans were ripped at the knee, stained with oil on the thighs. The black shirt and leather jacket added to the image of sexy bad boy with a build for sin.

And eyes, she thought as they met hers, that challenged a woman to commit one. More than one.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

He gave her a long look as if deciding for himself.“Your airbag didn’t deploy.”

“I wasn’t going that fast. I didn’t hit anything. I avoided getting hit by a moron who swerved to avoid a dog, then kept coming at me. I had to cut toward the shoulder and—”

“Where is he? The other driver?”

“He just kept going. Who does that? How can anyone do that?”

Saying nothing, he reached by her, pulled her bottle of water out of the cup holder. “Sit down. Drink some water.”

“I’m okay. I’m just angry. I’m really, really angry.”

He gave her a little poke, and she sat sideways on the front seat. “How’s your spare?”

“It’s never been used. It’s new. I got all new tires last winter. Damn it.”

“You’re going to need a couple new ones now.” He crouched for a moment so those sharp green eyes were level with hers.

It took her a moment to realize the movement, and the matter-of-fact tone of his voice, were probably designed to keep her calm. Since it seemed to be working, she had to appreciate it.

“We’ll match them with what you’ve got,” he continued. “I want to check the car out while I’m at it.”

“Yes, fine, okay.” She drank, realizing her throat was raw. “Thanks. I’m just—”

“Really, really angry,” he finished as he straightened. “I don’t blame you.”

“And I’m going to be late. I hate being late. I’ve got a consult at home in, oh hell, twenty minutes. I need to call a cab.”

“No, you don’t.” He looked back down the road at the approaching tow truck.

“That was fast, you were fast. I didn’t expect . . .” She paused as her brain started to function again. “Were you out this way, on your bike?”

“I am out this way, on my bike,” he corrected. “Since you called in for service due to being run off the road.You didn’t call the cops?”

“I didn’t get the plate, or even the kind of car.” And that galled her. Just galled. “It happened so fast, and it was raining, and—”

“And it would be a waste of time. Still, Bill’s going to take pictures and report it for you.”

She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. “Okay. Thanks. Really, thank you. I guess I’m a little rattled.”

“First time I’ve seen you that way. Hold on.”

He walked to the truck, and while he spoke with his driver she sipped the water and ordered herself to settle down. Everything was fine, just fine.The driver would give her a ride home, and she wouldn’t even be late.Ten minutes home, five minutes to freshen up. She’d give the simple flat tire story after the consult.

Everything was just fine.

She looked up as Malcolm walked back and handed her a fire-engine red helmet. “You’ll need this.”

“Why?”

“Safety first, Legs.” He put it on her head himself and his grin edged ever so slightly toward smirk. “Cute.”

“What?” Her eyes popped wide. “If you think I’m getting on that motorcycle—”

“You want to make your meeting? Keep your rep as Ms. Prompt and Efficient? Rain’s stopped.You won’t even get wet.” Again he reached past her, but this time their bodies bumped. He pulled out again holding her purse. “You’ll want this. Let’s go.”

“Can’t the driver—can’t he just drop me off ?”

Mal strapped her purse to the bike, swung a leg over. “You’re not afraid to ride a bike, are you? And for what, about six miles?”

“Of course I’m not afraid.”

He put on his helmet, turned on the bike, gave the engine a couple of muscular revs. “Clock’s ticking.”

“Oh for God’s—” She bit off the words, clipped her way to the bike in her heels, and, keeping her teeth gritted, managed to get a leg over the bike behind him. Her skirt hiked up high on her thighs.

“Nice.”

“Just shut up.”

She felt rather than heard his laugh. “You ever ride a Harley, Legs?”

“No.Why would I?”

“Then you’re in for a treat.You’re going to want to hold on. To me,” he added after a beat.

She put her hands lightly on either side of his waist.

But when he revved the engine again—she knew damn well he did it on purpose—she swallowed pride and wrapped her arms around him.

Why, she wondered, anyone would want to drive something so noisy, so dangerous, so—

Then they were flying down the road, and the wind blew cool and balmy and gorgeous over every inch of her.

Okay, a thrill, she admitted, and her heart skipped as he leaned into a turn. A terrifying sort of thrill. Like a roller coaster, which was another thing she could admit was exciting without being a necessary experience in a well-rounded life.

The landscape whizzed by. She smelled the rain, the grass, the leather of his jacket, felt the throb of the bike between her legs.

Sexual, she admitted. Add arousing to that terrifying thrill. Which was surely the reason people rode bikes.

When he swung onto her drive, she had to resist flinging her arms up in the air to feel the wind give her palms a slapping high five.

As he stopped in front of the house, Del came out.

“Mal.”

“Del.”

“Parker, where’s your car?”

“Oh, I had a flat just down the road. Mal came by. His tow truck driver’s fixing it. I have a consult.”

Her brother cocked his head, and she saw the corner of his mouth twitch. “Parker.You rode on a motorcycle.”

“So what?” She tried to ease off gracefully, but the heels and skirt added challenge.

Mal simply swung off, then plucked her off like a package for delivery.

“Thank you.Very much. I have to run or—”

“You’ll be late.” He unstrapped her purse.“You probably don’t want to wear this.”

He unclipped the helmet, took it off for her.

“Thank you.”

“You said that already. A few times.”

“Well . . .” Uncharacteristically blank, she turned and hurried toward the house.

She heard Del say, “Come on in and have a beer.”

And tried not to wince when Mal drawled out a “Don’t mind if I do.”

Mal followed Del inside, and caught a glimpse of Parker charging up the stairs.The woman had legs, what he thought of as Hollywood legs.

The rest of her partners—the cool blonde, the raven-haired beauty, the willowy redhead—stood in the doorway of what he supposed they called a parlor, all talking at once.

They made a hell of a picture.

“Flat tire,” Del said and kept walking.

The Brown mansion had style, Mal thought, had class, had weight, and still managed to feel like a home instead of a museum. He figured that clicked on credit for those who lived there, and had lived there.

Warm colors, art that drew the eye rather than baffled it, comfortable chairs, glossy tables, and flowers, flowers, and more flowers mixed together with that style, that class and weight.

But he never felt as if he should keep his hands in his pockets for fear of getting a fingerprint on something.

He’d been through most of the place—excluding Parker’s private wing (and wouldn’t it be interesting to change that?), and always felt comfortable. Still, the easiest and most welcoming area of the house remained Mrs. Grady’s kitchen.

The woman herself turned from the stove where she stirred something that turned the air to heaven.

“So, it’s Malcolm.”

“How’re you doing, Mrs. Grady?”

“Well enough.” She cocked a brow as Del took a couple beers from the refrigerator. “Take those outside. I don’t want you underfoot.”

“Yes, ma’am,” both men said together.

“I suppose you’ll be staying for dinner,” she said to Malcolm.

“Are you asking?”

“I will if Delaney’s forgotten his manners.”

“He just got here,” Del muttered.

“As the other boys have wheedled a meal after the consult, I can stretch things to one more. If he’s not picky.”

“If you’re cooking it, Mrs. Grady, I’ll be grateful for even a single bite.”

“You’ve a clever tongue, don’t you, boy?”

“All the girls say so.”

She let out a quick bark of a laugh, and tapped her spoon on the edge of a pot. “Outside, the pair of you.”

Del opened the fridge, grabbed two more beers. He shoved three of the four on Mal, then flipped out his phone as they walked outside. “Jack. Mal’s here. Got beer. Get Carter.” He snapped the phone closed again.

He still wore his suit, Mal noted, and though he’d taken off his tie, loosened his collar, he looked every inch the Yale-educated lawyer. He shared his sister’s coloring—thick, dense brown hair, misty blue eyes. Her features were smoother, softer, but anyone with working eyes would make them as siblings.

Del sat, stretched out his legs. His manner tended to be more casual and a hell of a lot less prickly than his sister’s, which might have been why they’d become poker buddies, then friends.

They popped the bottles, and as Malcolm took the first cold sip, his body relaxed for the first time since he’d picked up his tools twelve hours earlier.

“What happened?” Del asked.

“About?”

“Don’t play me, Mal. Flat tire, my ass. If Parker’d had a flat, you’d have changed it—or she would have—and she wouldn’t have ridden home on your bike.”

“She had a flat.” Malcolm took another pull on his beer. “In fact, she had two.They’re toast.” He shrugged. He wouldn’t lie to a friend.“From what she said, and how it looked when I got there, some asshole swerved to avoid a dog. Parker had to cut it hard to the shoulder to avoid getting creamed. Wet road, maybe a little overcompensating, she had herself a little spin, shot out the two left tires. Looked to me from the skid marks, the other driver was booking—she wasn’t. And he kept right on going.”

“He left her there?” Outrage colored Del’s voice, blew across his face in a storm.“Son of a bitch. Did she get the plate, the make?”