Page 7
“Heidi.”
My name again. Calm and low, with no room for argument. I suck my lips between my teeth, close my eyes, and slide my hands to his sides, barely touching.
He waits.
I hate him. I hate his patience. I hate the solid heat of him beneath his jacket and the fact that my palms remember the architecture of his body in a way that was only ever supposed to be professional. I hate that I know where his injury used to pull tight, and how stubborn he was the first time I told him to use pain as information instead of weakness.
With a muttered curse, I wrap my arms properly around his waist and feel his body go still. His gloved hand covers both of mine where they lock flat against his taut stomach, then he gives them a firm squeeze.
“Ready?” he asks.
“No.”
The bike rumbles beneath us, and Viktor leans forward.
“Tough,” he says, and pulls back into the traffic.
The morning blurs at the edges. Air rushes over my shoulders, catching at the hem of my jacket and waking every nerve in my body, and I hold onto Viktor tighter because I’m deeply opposed to dying. The city rushes around us, and my pulse climbs for reasons that have nothing to do with the fact I’m late for the meeting that might change my life.
My car is broken, my folder is creased into the bike’s storage compartment, and I’m riding through Denver in hot pink athletic wear on the back of Viktor Karlsson’s death machine.
I have entirely lost control of the plot.
Chapter two
Viktor
“Did you cut the music because you were embarrassed?”
Heidi’s voice pressing against my ear is my first problem. My second is her fingertips flexing against my middle. The third is that I am in traffic, which means I need the useful parts of my brain working despite the warmth of her skin and the natural husk in her voice.
“I was not embarrassed,” I say, easing Priscilla into the right lane.
“That was the fastest musical evacuation I’ve ever witnessed.”
“It connected automatically.”
“To Roxette.”
“Yes.”
“Specifically to ‘Joyride’ by Roxette.”
I check the mirror. An SUV behind us hangs back at a reasonable distance, which is good, because if one more man in a large car makes bad decisions near Heidi Grant this morning, I may become less reasonable than I prefer to be off the ice.
When a semi shifts too close to our lane, she makes a small sound in her throat.
“I see him,” I murmur.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You breathed loudly.”
“Sorry my lungs are interfering with your biker dramatics.”
“I do not have biker dramatics.”
“You named your bike Priscilla. That’s dramatic.”
