he managed. “You have a twin.” He couldn't imagine another woman looking like Dani and had an image of them wreaking havoc on teenage boys everywhere in their younger years. But what was just as interesting was how much Dani's voice changed when she talked about her sister.
“Other than looks, are you two alike?” he asked.
Dani laughed again. “Don't worry she isn't a thing like me. She's sweet and naïve and almost always content with life. I think I've heard her complain about twice in the last year and one of those was when she was dilated ten centimeters with her third baby and the doctor refused to give her an epidural. He claimed it was too late. I think he wanted to hear my sweet baby sister cuss a blue streak.”
He knew she wasn't as cool as she seemed at the briefing, and Ty liked these revelations and glimpses into Dani's life. They made her seem more real, more her. “So you are an aunt? Three times over?”
“Two girls and a boy. Sammy and Jason, Drew's brother, decided at the ripe old age of six and eight that they would get married. It stuck. They are about as in love with each other now as they were then. The kids are adorable but a handful. My sister has the patience of a saint.”
“She sounds great,” Ty commented.
“She is,” Dani responded. “She's nothing like me.”
Ty thought about asking Dani what she meant about that ambiguous statement. Did she think she wasn't a good person? Or did she think her sister was great and recognized the differences for what they were, just differences? He was pretty sure Dani wouldn't be interested in hearing his opinion of her, interested in hearing that he thought she was pretty great too. Not to mention that he'd come off sounding like a seventh grader. She was smart and capable and confident and sexier than a woman had a right to be. But she wouldn't want to hear that from him, so he decided to change the subject.
“So what about your parents? Do you see them often?” He felt Dani stiffen on the seat behind him and, though his rational mind knew it wasn't possible, he had a very tactile sense of her pulling away from him.
“They're both dead,” she said. Her voice was rote and flat. “They died about twenty years ago.”
And just like that, the conversation died, too.
In silence, they pulled up to an empty parking lot that hosted a beautiful view of the Atlantic Ocean. A short distance from the lot was a fence that protected the tourists and sightseers from the sheer cliff that plunged into the sea below. Other than that, it was about as exposed as it could get.
“Maybe if we dressed in bright orange or sent up a flare, they could see us better,” Dani commented the minute their helmets were off. Her jaw was tight and her arms crossed rigid over her middle.
Ty held her gaze for a brief second before turning to the saddlebags on his bike. He pulled out two pairs of fingerless gloves, a blanket, and the glasses. No way would he push her further. The mention of her parents had not only brought back her professional wall, but also seemed to make her edgier and more aggressive. It was there—in the way she moved, in the tone of her voice. He'd go back to the professional playing field, but he wasn't about to cater to anything else.
“Have you rock climbed before?” he asked tossing her a pair of gloves as he moved toward the fence. She managed to peel her arms off her middle in time to catch them.
When she didn't answer, he turned back. Her eyes were going from him to the ocean behind his back. She met his gaze. “Of course I've rocked climbed, but I'm not climbing over a hundred foot cliff without gear. And no, these gloves,” she said holding them up to make her point, “do not constitute gear.”
Ty smiled. He had to admit he loved that she didn't bat an eye at scaling a cliff. It was only at the lack of equipment that she protested. He winked once and then swung himself over the fence.
“Ty,” her voice raised in reluctant concern as he approached the ledge. He turned back again and damn, if she didn't look a little pale. He walked back to the fence but stayed on the other side as he motioned her forward. She