help the shiver of excitement the low growl of his voice in my ear produced. Now I just had six hours to kill before he got here.
Rarely did a Saturday go by that I didn’t hear from Parker, but it seemed he was giving me a break today. I should’ve been glad. Instead, I found I missed hearing his voice, even if it was just to ask me where I’d put a file or to tell me to schedule a conference call.
I changed my toe color to Blue My Mind and repainted my nails the pale neutral pink that was suited for the office. It’s not like I could have crazy nails on my hands, but with my toes I could do whatever I wanted.
I scrutinized my closet, trying to figure out exactly what to wear tonight. If he picked me up, did that mean another motorcycle ride? If so, then a skirt or dress was probably out. It’d have to be jeans or shorts.
Ryker had said I was a “bombshell.” I wanted to make him say that again, so I reached in the back of my closet, hauling out a pair of denim shorts that were so tight they looked painted on. I pulled them on over my black bikini panties, added a black bra, then dug in my closet again for a shirt.
I had a black chiffon blouse with elbow-length sleeves that was utterly see-through, but had a pocket over each breast, preserving a bit of modesty. After a moment of hesitation, I put it on, being sure to leave enough buttons undone to do justice to my cleavage. Victoria’s Secret models had nothing on me, thanks to their padded, add-two-sizes pushup Wonderbra.
My hair was down and I’d put curlers in earlier that I took out, using my fingers to separate the curls into waves. A pair of black heels with straps that wrapped around my ankles, a couple of long silver necklaces, and big silver hoop earrings completed my transformation from Goody Two-shoes secretary into Saturday-night-hottie. I hoped.
I transferred my wallet, keys, and cell into a smaller, black purse with a long, silver chain strap I could wear across my body. Again, thinking of the motorcycle. At this rate, I was going to be disappointed if he didn’t bring the damn thing.
I was debating the wisdom of having a drink to calm my nerves when I heard a knock on my door. Looked like Megan had been right. He’d had no problem finding out my address, or my cell number, come to think of it.
Glancing through the peephole, I caught my breath. It was him all right.
Pulling open the door, I couldn’t help the smile stretching across my face. He looked…mouthwatering.
Low-rise jeans that clung to his hips and legs, a navy T-shirt a tad on the small side that stretched to encase his chest and arms, and a black leather jacket over that. The glint of metal at his side beneath the jacket told me he had his weapon on him, which was hot. His mirrored aviators were hooked on the front of his shirt and he had the slightly scruffy jaw that said it had been over twenty-four hours since he’d shaved.
“I’m not late, am I?” he asked, his lips twisted in a half-smile. His gaze was taking me in head to toe the same way I was him.
“I think you know you’re not,” I replied. “Want to come in?”
I stepped back so he could come inside, taking a deep whiff of his cologne as he passed by me, so close the buttery leather of his jacket brushed my arm.
“This is a nice place,” he said, glancing around.
“Thanks. Can I get you a drink?” But he shook his head.
“I’m driving, but thanks.”
“Okay, well give me a second and I’ll be ready to go. Is this outfit all right for where we’re going?” I sat on the couch and reached for one of my heels, slipping it on and wrapping the leather strands around my ankle before fastening it. When Ryker didn’t immediately reply, I glanced up at him, but his gaze was fixed on my leg. I grinned. “Ahem.”
He jerked his gaze to mine and didn’t look even mildly abashed at having been caught staring. Instead, he grinned. “If not, we’ll go somewhere else, because you look smokin’ hot in that.”
Amazing what being called “smokin’ hot” did for a girl’s ego.
I wasn’t surprised to see the motorcycle parked outside.