Wanted Woman. B.J. DanielsЧитать онлайн книгу.
left ankle. It’s just sprained.”
Maybe. Maybe not. “I’ll take you to the hospital emergency room to see a doctor.”
She shook her head. “Just get me to my bike.”
“It’s not rideable.” He’d seen enough twisted metal on it even in passing to know that. “I’ll load it into my pickup. There’s not a bike shop for a hundred miles but I’ve worked on a few of my own. I might be able to fix it.”
She looked up at him then as if seeing him for the first time. Her eyes narrowed as she took in the boots, jeans, bike rally T-shirt and his long dark ponytail. Her gaze settled on the single gold ring in his earlobe. “You live around here?”
“Right up that mountain,” he said, pointing to the light he’d left on. It glowed faintly high up the mountainside.
She studied it. Then him.
It was three in the morning but he had to ask. “Is anyone expecting you up the road, anyone who’ll be worried about you? Because I don’t have a phone yet.”
She didn’t seem to hear him. “You have ice for my ankle at your place?”
He nodded.
“Good. That’s all I need.”
“I have a clean bed you’re welcome to for what’s left of the night,” he offered.
She flashed him an in-your-dreams look.
He smiled and shook his head. “All I’m offering is a bed. Maybe something to eat or drink. Some ice. Nothing more.”
She cocked her head at him, looking more curious than anything else. He wondered what she saw. Whatever it was, he must have looked harmless enough before she started to limp toward her bike. “I need my saddlebag.”
“I’ll get it,” he said catching up to her and offering a hand. “No reason to walk on that ankle any more than you have to.” She quirked an eyebrow at him but said nothing as she slipped one arm around his shoulder and let him take her weight as she hobbled to the pickup.
As he opened the passenger-side door and slid her into his old truck, he felt way too damned chivalrous. Also a little embarrassed by his old truck.
She glanced around the cab, then settled back into the seat and closed her eyes. He slammed the door and went to load her bike.
He’d only seen a couple of these bikes. Too expensive for most riders. It definitely made him wonder about the woman in his pickup. The bike didn’t look like it was hurt bad. He figured he should be able to fix it. He liked the idea of working on it. The bike intrigued him almost as much as the woman who’d been riding it.
He rolled the bike up the plank he kept in the back of his pickup, retrieved her saddlebag and, slamming the tailgate, went around to climb into the cab of the truck beside her. He set the heavy, bulging saddlebag on the seat beside them.
She cracked an eyelid to see that the bag was there, then closed her eyes again.
“The name’s Jesse. Jesse Tanner.”
She didn’t move, didn’t open her eyes. “Maggie,” she said but offered no more.
He started the engine, shifted into first gear and headed back up the mountain to his new place. The road was steep and rough, but he liked being a little inaccessible. He saw her grimace a couple of times as he took the bumps, but she didn’t open her eyes until he parked in front of the cabin.
She looked up at the structure on the hillside, only the living-room light glowing in the darkness.
“This is where you live?” she said and, opening her door, got out, slipping the saddlebag over her shoulder protectively.
Something in her tone made him wonder if she meant the cabin or the isolated location. The only visitors he’d had so far were his younger brother, Mitch, and his dad. He figured if he wanted to be social, he knew the way to town and it was only five miles. Not nearly far enough some days.
He looked at the cabin, trying to see it through her eyes. It was tall and narrow, a crude place, built of logs and recycled cedar but he was proud of it since he’d designed and built it over the winter with the help of his dad and brother. It had gone up fast.
Three stories, the first the living room and kitchen, the second a bedroom and bath with a screened in deck where he planned to sleep come summer, the third his studio, a floor flanked with windows, the view incredible.
Unfortunately, it was pretty much a shell. He hadn’t furnished the inside yet. Hadn’t had time. So all he had was the minimal furniture he’d picked up.
Lately, he’d been busy getting some paintings ready for an exhibit in June, his first, and— He started to tell her all of that, but stopped himself. It wasn’t like she would be here more than a few hours and then she’d be gone. She didn’t want his life history, he could see that from her expression.
He’d been there himself. No roots. No desire to grow any. Especially no desire to be weighed down even with someone’s life story.
She was standing beside the pickup staring up at his cabin as he climbed out of the truck.
“It’s still under construction,” he said irritated with himself for wanting her to like it. But hell, she was the first woman he’d had up here since it was built.
“It’s perfect,” she said. “Neoclassical, right?”
He smiled, surprised at her knowledge of architecture. But then again, she was riding a forty-thousand-dollar bike and had another couple grand in leather on her back, spoke like she’d been to finishing school and carried herself as if she knew her way around the streets. All of that came from either education, money or experience. In her case, he wondered if it wasn’t all three.
She caught him admiring the way her leathers fit her.
“Let’s get you inside,” he said quickly. “You hungry?”
She shook her head and grabbed the railing, limping up the steps to the first floor, making it clear she didn’t need his help.
“You sure you don’t want to see a doctor? I could run you into town—”
“No.” Her tone didn’t leave any doubt.
“Okay.” He’d had to try.
They’d reached the front door. She seemed surprised it wasn’t locked. “I haven’t much to steal and most thieves are too lazy to make the trek up here.” He swung the door open and she stepped inside, her gaze going at once to his paintings he’d done of his years in Mexico.
He had a half dozen leaning against the bare living-room wall waiting to go to the framer for the exhibit. She limped over to them, staring at one and then another.
“How about coffee?” he offered, uncomfortable with the way she continued to study his work as if she were seeing something in the paintings he didn’t want exposed.
He couldn’t decide if she liked them or not. He wasn’t about to ask. He had a feeling she might tell him.
While she’d been studying the paintings he’d been studying her. As she shrugged out of her jacket, he saw that she wore a short-sleeved white T-shirt that molded her breasts and the muscles of her back. She was in good shape and her body was just as exquisite as he’d thought it would be beneath the leather.
But what stole his attention was the hole he’d seen in the jacket just below her left shoulder—and the corresponding fresh wound on her left biceps. He’d seen enough gunshot wounds in his day to recognize one even without the telltale hole in the leather jacket.
The bullet had grazed her flesh and would leave a scar. It wasn’t her first scar though. There was another one on her right forearm, an older one that had required stitches.
Who the hell was this woman and what was it