Velvet Nights
by Rosemary Laurey

Chapter One

Vickie Anderson propped her feet on the porch railings, flaking off old paint in the process, sipped her ice tea, and leaned back in her rocking chair. It had been a long, hot drive from DC, but worth every mile. She hadn't realized how much she needed to get away. Up here she could forget crime, job stresses, and regulations. As the first firefly flickered in the warm June night, Vickie let out a long sigh and tension seeped out of her aching body.

This old house, deep in the Blue Ridge Mountains, was the perfect haven from the pressures of being a cop in the nation's capital. She had the warm night, honeysuckle in the woods, crickets in the long grass, two owls calling to each other in the trees, and the sound of an engine racing up the road.

Who on earth was it? This was the only house this far up the mountain - not counting the old fishing cabin on the lake.

The noise grew louder. Not a car or truck. It was tinnier and shriller, and getting louder by the minute, until a red motorcycle raced around the bend, bringing with it an aura of power and speed, the smell of fuel, and a cloud of dust on the dry road.

Who in the name of sanity was that? The south west Virginia representative of Hell's Angels? Who ever it was, they slowed, turned around, and were coming back. Vickie grabbed her empty glass but unbreakable plastic wasn't much used for self-defense. Pity she hadn't brought her gun with her. Was Gramp's shotgun still in the closet beside the fireplace? Did she have time to find it?

As the motorcycle came to a halt, Vickie stood, ready to run for the gun. The rider looked up at her, waving a leather-gauntleted hand as he set the bike on the kickstand. He was tall, covered in black leather like a second skin, his eyes hidden behind the dark visor of the red helmet. If she had any sense, she'd run and pray the spare shotgun shells were still in the Mason jar on top of the fridge.

Instead, she stared like a snared rabbit as he lifted a long leg over the saddle of the bike and turned to face her. "You must be the Anderson's granddaughter," he said, as he unsnapped his chin strap.

Vickie was all ready to say that yes, she was, and armed (fingers crossed) and had four brawny brothers out back. But before the lies of self-defense came to her lips, she looked up at his face, and without quite knowing why, walked over to the porch railing. He came closer, helmet under his arm, a dark mass of curls framing his face.

He paused, just a yard or so away, and from the height of the porch, she looked down at the most compelling pair of dark eyes she'd ever seem. "Hi!" Was all she managed to get out. The steamy night was making her breathless.

"Hello!" He smiled. "I'm Pete Falcon. Mrs Burrows mentioned I'd be having a neighbor for the next few days."

Mrs Burrows, at the general store and gas, gossiped too much! "I'm Vickie Anderson, just up her for a few days of utter solitude." As heavy a hint as she could drop without actually saying, 'bugger off!'

She should have gone for 'bugger off!' Or should she?

As Pete stepped forward, placing one leather-booted foot on the first step, he moved into the full circle of the light. Dear heaven! She had the distinct impression she had seen him before - in a 'hunk of the month' calendar. He was beautiful: dark eyes glinting in the night, and a wide, full mouth smiling up at her. And tall. Heavens, yes! With broad shoulders that filled his leather jacket. And she was gawking at him! Her tongue as good as fused to the roof of her mouth - until it flapped loose. "Would you like a glass of tea? Have a seat on the porch." What a stupid thing to say! Especially as he took the rest of the steps two at a time, his leather-clad thighs gleaming in the glare of the porch light.

"Sure. Thanks! It's been a long, dry ride up from Boones Mill."

"Have a seat! I'll get it!"

The screen door crashed behind her as she darted into the house. She all but ran through the living room into the kitchen, grabbing a clean glass from the cabinet, and yanking open the fridge before she made herself calm down. The cool of the freezer soothed her flushed face as she reached in and grabbed a handful of ice. She hadn't asked if he wanted lemon. What the heck? He was getting it!

By the time she squeezed two wedges of lemon into the glass, the panic attack - or whatever it was - eased. She still wasn't sure exactly why she'd invited a total stranger onto her porch and offered him refreshment. He could be the local rapist for all she knew. Nonsense! He was merely a hot and thirsty biker just ridden up the mountain.

'Hot' being the operative word.

Vickie had to stop herself from ogling him as she walked back with his tea. He stood at her approach and opened the screen door, closing it carefully so the spring didn't bang, and giving her the perfect chance to ogle his luxuriant blue-black ponytail. He turned back to her and smiled, and her throat went dry. He was close. Too close. And covered in black leather from his boots to his shoulders. His jacket was unzipped at the neck, revealing a vee of male skin and a fine sprinkling of dark hair. As if that wasn't already far too much for comfort, two other zips hung open: one either side of his chest. For ventilation in the heat, she imagined, but right now, his thin, white undershirt shone against the leather like the moon overhead against the night sky. If she looked a little closer, she was certain she'd see the outline of two dark nipples under the soft, washed cotton.

She was not looking closer! "Here's your tea."

His hand closed over the cool glass, his fingers just missing hers by a hairsbreadth. "Thanks!"

He stepped away and sat down on the glider. She walked back to her rocker, angling it slightly so he was completely in her line of vision.

He took a long, slow drink, uttered an appreciative "Mmm!" and licked his lips. She almost echoed the movement, but remembered, just in time, to take a deep, relaxing breath instead. A few moments later, he broke the companionable silence. "You're very trusting. You ought to be more careful who you invite into your house."

He was telling her! "Should I turf you off my porch then?"

His smile had to be a trick of the light. No one in creation could look that sexy with just a smile - and okay, a glint in his impressive, dark eyes. "Nah! I'm safe enough but there are some roughnecks and reprehensibles around these parts."

He was so dead-on serious, she had to chuckle. "Oh! The Adamses are still around are they?"

He looked. Just looked. His face stiller than she could have imagined. "You know them?"

"Everyone from here to Roanoke does! If they're lucky, only by reputation. When I was a kid, I was convinced the TV Adams family were named after them, and had no difficulty deciding scary, old Forrest Adams was a vampire."

Her visitor looked almost offended. Another trick of the light. "Yes," he said, "but there's not too many Adamses around any more."

"All in the county jail again?"

His face relaxed. "A couple of them. There's even a few gone respectable. Just one or two reprobates left."

Quite enough! Vickie shuddered remembering Sonny Adams rubbing poison ivy on her face, while his brother Micha sat on her. That Micha had also broken out all over had been scant consolation. "You live up this way?" Who wanted to talk about the George County Adams Family?

"Yup. In the house up the end of the road."

"The fishing cabin?"

He nodded, "Yes. I look out on the most magnificent view of the lake from the back porch."

"My grandfather used to take me fishing there. We spent hours on that jetty, with lines and bent nails baited with red worms."

"The dock has been rebuilt. You must come and see it some time."

If he'd been eighty, she might have accepted, but as it was... "Thanks." No way! She'd come here for peace of mind, and just these few minutes with Pete whatever-his-name-was, was rapidly disturbing it. "You work down in Boones Mill?"

He shook his head. "In Roanoke. For an environmental group. I cover this part of the state."

That told her nothing, not that she was the least bit interested. She'd just wanted to change the subject from 'come and see my jetty.' But she couldn't help watching as he tilted the glass and drained the last of his tea. She had to be imagining the way his throat muscles undulated as he swallowed. No way in this light could she see that clearly.

"Thanks for the tea, it hit the spot." Pete set the glass down, smiled again - just to quicken her heartbeat probably - and stood. "I'd better be off."

Yes, he should!

"Ride carefully. The woods are dark." Why was she worried about him? This was a man who could definitely take care of himself.

"I see well in the dark!" And his teeth flashed well in the dark, too! "Thanks for the drink."

"You're welcome." She smiled. How could she not, when he took her hand in his, his fingers long and strong but surprisingly cool? So cool, his touch sent goosebumps skittering down her spine. Had to be because he'd been holding his glass.

His eyes gleamed down at her. "Take care, Mizz Anderson, and remember what I said: there are some odd types wandering around these days. Just because you're miles from the main road, is no reason not to lock your doors and latch your windows."

And having a sexy hunk in black leather up the mountain was an even better one. "See you!"

She had no idea why she stood on the porch, watching long after his tail light disappeared up the road.