The sound of screeching tires behind her bode another disaster. Heather squeezed her eyes tight, clutching the steering wheel even harder, waiting for the crash. She expected to feel the jolt, to hear the sound of metal crunching metal.
"Hey, lady! Why don't you learn how to drive!" the driver yelled at her as he jerked his car around her.
She gulped. Heather returned the taunt with an icy glare. She fought to steady her hands and clear her head. What if I'd run over that poor guy? Not that anybody else seems to care. I could have killed him!
Her heart still pounding in her temples, Heather breathed deeply before she realized that somehow she'd managed to engage her trouble lights. Seeing the flashing signal triggered her from her stupor.
Quaking, Heather took another shaky breath, uncurling her rigid fingers from the steering wheel. She threw open her door, leaped out, and ran to the downed rider.
"Are you hurt?" she gasped in a quivery voice as she knelt beside the leather-clad motorcyclist. Her waist length hair blew forward over her shoulders and swept about her face. Anxiously, she clawed her wind-whipped hair away from her eyes. Her concern for the victim's welfare deepened when he did not reply. She watched him struggle to turn off his engine.
Suddenly noticing that the man's arm was pinned under the handlebar, Heather reached for the key and turned off the ignition.
Dizzying stabs still prickled the nape of her neck. Her heartbeat still pounded in her ears, and her mouth had gone dry. She crouched beside the helmeted figure, glancing over her shoulder at the swerving traffic, furtively appraising their situation.
At least while her stalled VW blocked oncoming traffic, she reasoned, the man wouldn't get run over. She had no idea how badly he might be hurt. Obviously, the string of oaths weren't intended for her ears, she decided. She hadn't caused the accident.
Finally realizing he was trapped by the weight of the motorcycle, Heather jumped to her feet and threw her slight body against the machine. Her attempt to lift its weight was unsuccessful.
She knelt again to open the face shield. "Hey, Mister, are you all right?" she asked. The sight of his penetrating blue eyes captivated her.
Noticing her for the first time, the rider stopped struggling. The stream of oaths ceased. He gazed up into her face as though mesmerized.
"Damn, what beautiful hair. Are you an angel, Pretty Lady?" he asked.
"No. Just a good Samaritan."
"Sam who?"
"Samaritan. I stopped to help you."
The rider took a deep breath. "I think I'm in trouble here."
"Right," she stammered. "You've had an accident."
When the man struggled to unfasten his chinstrap, Heather reached out and pulled the helmet free. The sight of his blond curly hair tumbling loose, his tanned good looks, and his quick brave smile snarled her heartstrings. Geez, just look at those blue eyes! Feeling lightheaded, she blinked and brushed her hand jerkily across her forehead.
"Don't faint," he pleaded quietly, cupping her face with his gloved hand. "I think I'll live."
Still kneeling beside him, Heather straightened her back, her knees still shaking. "I don't see any blood or anything," she gasped, scanning his body. "Do you hurt anywhere?
"No ... nothing serious anyway."
Without breaking his starry-eyed gaze, he reached for her with his free arm, brushing his hand lightly through her hair, letting his fingers tangle in the curls that now cascaded over his chest.
"You sure you're not an angel?"
"I'm sure." Heather's head spun as she drowned in the depths of his bright blue eyes. Finding herself unable to shift her gaze, her heart skipped a beat.
Heather's head jerked up suddenly as she caught the motion of a traffic cop pulling his own motorcycle in behind the protection of her car. "The cavalry is here," she quipped gratefully, as she stood. She brushed the road gravel from her knees.
Thank goodness. We aren't likely to get run over now that the cop is here. Traffic continued to flow around them, swishing past so close that the wind-draft whipped her shirt.
The C.H.I.P. officer reached for his two-way radio and reported his location before he dismounted and strode toward the downed biker. Leaning over, he lifted the bike enough to release the rider's pinned arm.
The good-looking stranger gingerly massaged his wrist, then, carefully extracted his hand from its black leather gauntlet.
He still lay on his side, trapped by the weight of the motorcycle. The highway patrol officer lifted the bike and punched down the kickstand with his foot. Tentatively, the fallen man flexed his hand several more times as though to verify it was uninjured.
"Stay put," the officer ordered the rider. "There's an ambulance on the way."
"I don't think I need one," the blond responded. "I'm not really hurt. Maybe a sprained ankle."
The officer quickly placed flares, then, report pad in hand, he paced about the motorcycle, sizing up the damage and possible injury. "The hard-pack sidesaddles kept you from being crushed," the cop told the bike rider. He finally leaned down over the young man to help him up. "Take it easy till the paramedics get here," he cautioned.
Automatically, Heather offered a steadying arm as the motorcyclist gingerly took a few steps. The warmth of his firm, hardened muscles flexing against her, caught her by surprise. He was stronger and more lithe than he looked.
He flashed her a brave smile, which instantly faded. He curled his arm about her shoulders as he took a few more experimental steps.
The wind whipped her tangled hair against his face. As her lashes brushed his cheek, Heather became aware that his lips were dangerously near.
)
