about-face to carry the dog away from the traffic. She was glad for the dark shades over her wide eyes as she studied him.
Where his face was Bruce Willis attractive, the flesh on the left side of his neck, from his jawbone to the collar of his shirt, bore an angry scar.
She sucked in her breath, ashamed to be staring.
“Thanks, everybody,” he called but seemed to avoid any particular eye contact.
“God bless you for what you just did,” she said aloud, though he was out of earshot.
As traffic began to inch forward, she kept an eye on his progress until he made it to the side of the bridge, where she lost sight of him.
Savage Cycles was only minutes away as the crow flies, but the drive seemed much longer with the memory of the rescue scene on constant replay. Claire viewed the mental picture of the man in black from every angle. The close-cropped dark hair and clean-shaven jaw packed a masculine punch. The muscular arms that embraced the pup belied the gentle nature of the stranger. The long legs encased in denim gave him a casual air. The ruddy scar tissue.
An unforgettable image.
Arriving at her destination, she found the parking lot of Savage Cycles already a hub of activity. It was no surprise since most serious bikers were gearing up for the annual Black Hills Rally. The regulars lived for these weekend get-togethers at her dealership, giving it a constant party atmosphere.
That was just one of the reasons she had been determined to become a partner, after observing the thrilling and unfamiliar sport of motorcycling as Sam Kennesaw’s business manager. When the former owner married and moved back to East Texas to resume his teaching career, Sam sold his pride and joy to Claire. She’d come to love this wild business, as he had. Now the hectic job was her sanctuary from the painful nightmare that couldn’t be counseled away, the memory of the abuse that couldn’t be buried deeply enough.
She thrived on the fact that every chopper sale was a new challenge, each customer a unique discovery about human nature. The sport offered a never-ending supply of interesting characters who were more concerned with her knowledge of product and finance than her personal history, physical features or local celebrity.
“Good morning, Claire,” Justin called from behind the counter.
She waved a greeting to her parts manager and the leather-clad customer being assisted. En route to her office she stopped to survey the showroom with a critical glance. A half-dozen new bikes were angled before the windows, beckoning to passersby.
Angled the wrong way.
She ground her teeth.
The employees had followed her instructions without question when she’d managed the business for Sam. After signing the papers and taking control, she’d overlooked the occasional incident when someone would “do it the old way” in spite of her instructions.
Sam had warned her there would come a time when she’d have to put her foot down and make it clear who ran the show.
Claire crossed to the display, muscled the first chopper into the correct position, tilted the handle-bars just so, then stepped back to admire the effect.
“You need help, ma’am?” Justin joined her.
“As a matter of fact, I do.” She smiled patiently. “I left specific instructions for all the bikes in this display to have the front wheels point west. Why didn’t that happen?”
Justin crossed his arms and tilted his head as he studied the bikes. “Well, I reminded Don of that this morning but he seemed to think Sam’s old way was better.”
“Last time I noticed, I was signing the checks around here now. So, which way do you think we should set these bikes?” Claire widened her eyes expectantly, sure Justin could deduce the correct answer.
The corner of his mouth twitched as he held back a grin. “I think they’re gonna look real fine set up the way you want them.”
She motioned with a crook of her finger for him to follow her across the room. She placed her back to the window. Justin mimicked her position, now standing where he could view the display as a customer would. The morning sunlight flashed on the spokes of the wheels like thousands of finely cut diamonds.
“There’s more chrome on the carburetor side. That’s what catches the customer’s eye when they walk through the door, don’t you think?” She watched for his reaction, wanting him to see the reason behind her request, but she’d have it her way whether he did or not.
He bobbed his head and gave her a two-fingered salute of understanding and approval.
“Consider it done,” he confirmed.
“Thanks.” She nodded, then continued down the narrow hallway to her office.
Claire dropped into the comfortable leather chair behind her desk for a quiet moment. Touching the ever-present cross at her throat, she reflected on the drama of her morning commute and the face she could not purge from her thoughts. Neither could she shake off the despair and terror of the innocent puppy.
Refusing to give in to the somber mood that threatened to settle over her heart, she swiveled to the credenza behind her desk and flipped the percolator’s “on” switch, and began poring over Sam’s computer programs. For the umpteenth time she marveled at the simplicity of what he had created when he’d turned his hobby into a thriving business.
“There’s a visitor for you at the front counter,” Justin’s low Texas twang rumbled through the intercom speaker.
“I’m on my way.”
She rolled the chair back as she stood, smoothed her hands down the front of her crisp, linen slacks and tugged the hem of her jacket. Her heels clicked a staccato beat on the terra cotta tiles of the showroom floor as she crossed the room. She paused to refold a T-shirt and position it directly atop the stack, then straighten the hangers on a display rack.
Justin acknowledged her approach with a nod of his head and the man before the counter turned her way.
A polite smile curved his mouth and then the look of recognition she’d come to know spread to his eyes. The year of public display as Miss Texas and ensuing product endorsements would always be a business asset, even if the road to the title had been paved with her innocence.
“Claire Savage, I’d know you anywhere.” His smile broadened. “It’s great to finally meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine, sir.” She accepted the stranger’s outstretched hand. “Are you interested in a chopper? We’re accepting deposits for the Southern Savage,” she said, always promoting her dealership’s soon-to-be-released signature bike.
“Actually, I’m interested in you.” He released her from his grip to fish a business card from the coat pocket of his expensive designer suit. “The name’s Arthur O’Malley—” he paused, seemingly for a reaction “—of Today’s Times magazine.” He emphasized the New York publication’s name as he handed her the card.
Claire gave the response he obviously expected.
“The Arthur O’Malley? What an honor to have you pay my little store a visit.”
His gaze swept the spacious area that warehoused several million dollars worth of dealer and aftermarket products, covering any biker’s need.
He chuckled appreciation for her understatement.
“Could I interest you in dinner this evening to discuss how you came to be the proprietor of this little store?”
“Thanks for the invitation, but I have music rehearsal at my church tonight,” she declined politely, having no intention of spending the evening deflecting the charm of a man old enough to be her father.
“And the name of that church would be…?” he probed like any good reporter should.
“My private business,