appalled. “So, you didn’t have any feelings for this guy, but you had sex with him anyway?”
“Well, I felt sorry for him. You know how that goes.”
The other three women nodded their commiseration, much to Angela’s confusion. Why would anyone, even a sixteen-year-old, have sex with someone out of pity? Sex was such a…a personal thing. A powerful and special gift that a woman gave to a man after careful consideration. Or at least that was how it worked in Angela’s universe. Anyway, she thought so.
“So, how was it?” someone asked Phoebe.
“Terrible, of course. The guy needed a flashlight and a guide book.”
Everyone laughed, including Angela. Phoebe had a way with words. As the laughter faded, however, Angela realized four pairs of curious eyes were riveted on her. She cleared her throat and looked down into her salad, playing with an olive she had no intention of eating.
“Well, Angie?” Phoebe prompted. “Your turn.”
“No, thanks,” Angela said politely.
“Aw, c’mon,” said Victoria, a refined blond nurse who fifteen minutes ago had admitted she’d been so drunk during her deflowering she didn’t even remember it.
“It couldn’t be worse than mine.” The usually shy Sarah, their clinic’s office manager, piped up. She was the only one in the group who was married, and she’d turned bright red as she’d confessed that she’d been an awkward virgin bride.
“We won’t laugh,” said redheaded Terri, the clinic’s receptionist, who only minutes earlier had sent the whole table into hysterics with her tale of whipped cream and a rubber spatula.
Angela daintily blotted her mouth with her napkin. “All right. You asked for it. But I think you’ll be shocked.”
“I’m a nurse,” Victoria said. “You can’t shock me.”
Angela took a deep breath. “I’ve never had sex with anybody. I’m still a virgin.”
Phoebe dropped her fork. It rolled across the floor with a cherry tomato still attached, but no one bent to retrieve it. They all just stared, mouths gaping.
“Angie, honey, that’s impossible,” Phoebe said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “You’re twenty-six years old!”
“And you’re so…so…” Sarah couldn’t find the word.
“Earthy, I think is what she’s trying to say,” Terri put in. “Sensual. I mean, you’re a massage therapist, for gosh sake.”
Angela waited for their objections to die down and the inevitable question to arise. “Why?” they asked, almost as one.
“’Cause I’ve never met a guy who made me so crazy with lust or desire or pity or whatever that I was willing to risk pregnancy, disease, or the emotional vulnerability that goes with sex. There, I’ve said it.”
Terri sighed. “You mean you’ve never felt carried away by the moment? Like where you just don’t give a flip about the consequences of your actions?”
Angela shook her head. “Never.” She took a small bite of her brownie, savoring the rich chocolate indulgence and hoping the subject would drop. No such luck.
“So, like, do you think it’ll ever happen?” Phoebe asked cautiously. “I mean, you do like guys, right?”
Oh, honestly. Did they think she was frigid? “Yes, of course I like guys, and of course it’ll happen. When I meet the right man, and I have a long-term, secure relationship, that’s when I’ll be ready to take the appropriate steps.”
“Honey, it’s not line dancing,” Phoebe said with a wink. “And believe me, if you sit around waiting for ‘the right guy,’ you’ll be a virgin when you’re eighty. Just what qualities, exactly, does this mythical paragon of yours possess?”
Angela gave the question serious consideration. “He would have to be psychologically mature. Responsible and reliable. Stable, with the kind of job I can respect. A hard worker. Open and, most important, completely honest.”
“Bo-o-o-oring,” the others said in unison.
Phoebe got a thoughtful look on her face. “I’ll bet,” she said slowly, waiting until she had everyone’s attention, “I’ll bet that’s your problem. You’ve been looking for all the wrong things. If the right guy came along—tall and dark, dangerous and mysterious—and he pushed all the right buttons, you’d be putty in his hands.”
The others nodded in agreement.
Angela shrugged. “Maybe so.” She almost wished it were true. She was a passionate, sensual person. Deep down, she knew that. She reveled in all of her senses, but particularly touch. That was why she was such a good massage therapist. Still, she’d never experienced that all-consuming lust her friends raved about. Maybe it was just bad luck. Maybe the right guy hadn’t come along.
And maybe she wouldn’t have any idea what to do if he did. It was a sobering thought.
Chapter One
Angela cursed three times, stamped her foot and beat on the windshield glass with her fist, but her temper tantrum did nothing to change the situation. First her car had refused to start. Then, when she’d stomped off to find a phone to call her motor club, she’d locked her keys inside the car. She was out here in the clinic parking lot at a quarter past nine in the evening, and everything she owned was locked inside, including her purse. She didn’t even have thirty-five cents on her to make a call from a pay phone. All she had going for her was that things couldn’t get worse.
As the full wretchedness of her situation dawned on her, she became aware of a rumbling that grew louder. Whirling around, she saw a man on an awesomely big motorcycle slowly approaching. Suddenly her situation seemed a whole lot worse than it had just seconds ago.
She should run, she thought, though her feet remained stubbornly planted to the asphalt. Her eyes were riveted on the broad shoulders of the biker, the way his faded denim shirt stretched across his chest. His powerful thighs, covered by yet more denim, gripped the bike, and his black-leather-gloved hands held the handlebars in what looked like a gentle caress.
A tinted visor across the front of his helmet hid his face, but Angela knew he was looking at her. Staring, in fact.
Though a stranger in a dark parking lot represented unspeakable danger, Angela was fascinated. She couldn’t turn her gaze away, much less run. A tightness claimed her chest and a slight queasiness assaulted her stomach. The feeling reminded her of riding the Ferris wheel at the State Fair—exhilarating, but scary.
The bike pulled up beside her. The rider pulled off his helmet, revealing a full head of thick, black, wavy hair, a bit shorter than she’d expected. He smoothed it off his forehead in a fluid gesture, all the while staring at her.
Then she saw his eyes. They were a piercing blue, so vivid she could easily detect the color even in this dimly lit scenario. They almost glowed, as if they had a light of their own. They were topped with steeply angled, dramatic eyebrows and rimmed with thick lashes. His long nose might have been aquiline once, but it looked as if it had been broken a few times. His cheekbones were razor sharp, his lips full and sensual, his chin square as a brick and just as stubborn looking.
She took in all of his features instantaneously, though for a moment it seemed time stood still as they stared at each other.
“Problem?” he asked in a deep, almost gravelly voice. A whiskey voice. She’d read that in a book once, but only now understood the meaning of the phrase.
Somehow she found her own voice. It even managed to come out sounding fairly normal. “It won’t start. Then I locked my keys inside.”
“Double trouble,” he said, turning off the bike. He swung one leg behind