Read an Excerpt
For Pete's Sake
Chapter One
What a car! A 2007 Atomic Orange Corvette swept past Ellen Brittingham's motorcycle as though in flight. It was the four-wheeled American eagle, in a class all its own. Her pulse, already thrumming as she rode in the saddle of her new Harley-Davidson, shot into an even higher gear. Ellen had been watching its approach in the rearview mirrors as she rode past green pastures that morphed into woods and then into a crossroads, occupied by a food and gas mini-market. It had been just a dot of orange, moving up through a herd of beach-bound cars and SUVs.
Revving up the speed of her Hog, she flipped on her blinker and swerved onto the passing lane to follow in the sport car's wake. Talk about the perfect end to a perfect week.
The Lower Shore Ladybugs, a women's biker group, had planned a rendezvous in St. Michaels on the Tred Avon River. Just perfect to shake down her new bike—her first new bike. The gang, made up of women from all walks of life, had a blast taking day trips from St. Michaels to the farthest reaches of the Delmarva Peninsula. It never ceased to amaze Ellen how much the Eastern Shore's quaint bay and riverside towns, as well as their contrasting oceanfront resorts, had to offer and how much locals—including her—took them for granted.
And Sheba, the name Ellen dubbed the new bike because it made her feel like a queen, had done her proud. She'd roared like a lioness or purred like a cub all the way. Not once had Ellen had to break out the tool kit she kept in the left saddlebag. But then, for what she'd paid for the Harley, she hadn't expected to.
Watchingthe sleek Corvette swoop around an SUV as if it was standing still, Ellen accelerated to close the distance between them and get a better look. She'd read in one of her mechanics magazines that the GM 'Vette had a new color, and she liked it. With that metallic finish, it looked good to Ellen—from the front in her rearview mirror, the side as it passed her, and the back as she now followed it. She'd go at least as far as Route 90 with the kid and then head for Piper Cove and home.
That is, she assumed it was a kid who'd barreled by her. Probably a college grad in his new graduation present. Or even a high-school grad. Some families could swing that kind of gift. Not that she begrudged them or the fact that hers couldn't. No 'Vette in the world could give her the pleasure that she'd experienced helping her dad rebuild his classic 1967 Camaro. There were a lot of things in life that mattered more than money. Family. Faith.
Of course, money helped. And thankfully, her career as a landscape architect was lucrative enough to satisfy her meager needs and some of her wants.
With a grin as wide as her handlebar, she leaned into the wind and accelerated past the hot new car before her exit loomed too close. Sheba came to life beneath her, growling and clawing the road as if eager to show this four-wheeled eagle what its two-wheeled counterpart could do. But Ellen kept her engine semi-leashed. Safety first. She just wanted a look-see, not a blooming drag race.
As Sheba shot up beside the 'Vette, Ellen savored its sleek lines and made out a profile through the tinted windows. To her surprise, it was a mature, square-jawed one with a dimpled chin that turned toward her.
Shades of 007, he was checking her out, his designer sunglasses tipped ever-so-slightly in her direction! Sheba wobbled, betraying Ellen's shock. A teeth-grating smile locked on her lips by embarrassment, she did what she'd been taught to do since childhood. Blushing from her bones to the leather of her vest, she nodded a neighborly hello and gave Sheba the gas. It wasn't flirting, she told herself, but just in case the guy thought she was, the best thing to do was to exit. And if he'd been checking out Sheba . . . well, he could check out her dust.
"Go on, little Sheba," Adrian Sinclair chided, reading the custom tags on the back of the pearl-glow black-and-red Harley streaking ahead of him. "You might think you can run, but you can't outrun me."
He had no intention of actually catching the female biker. The preconceived image of badly colored and coiffed hair, tattoos, cigarette-breath, and a voice that could grate old cheese hardly appealed to him. Passing the chrome-bedecked Harley-Davidson served him just fine. It was a matter of power versus power, nothing else. And the five hundred and five horses under his hood were as anxious to break out as his own frustrated spirit.
At least they could.
"In one mile, turn right onto Route 90 East to Ocean Pines," his OnStar lady told him in a pleasant, yet indifferent voice.
One mile in which to show Sheba she'd bitten off more than she could chew. He gunned the engine and shifted gears. That was definitely doable. He might even make it to the closing for his new property a few minutes early.
In a matter of seconds, Adrian caught up with the bike. He couldn't help but admire the way the lady moved as one with the bike, dipping and swaying in those tight jeans as if she was glued to the seat. Sheba and her rider definitely showed a poetry in motion that a man behind a steering wheel couldn't.
Adrian wondered who the second helmet strapped on the back of the bike belonged to. A husband or boyfriend? Not likely, he decided. It matched Sheba's accessories. Would a rough-riding Harley man name his bike Sheba?
"In one half mile, turn right onto Route 90 East to Ocean Pines."
For Pete's Sake. Copyright © by Linda Windsor. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
