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short.”
    Moments later, Edwina emerged from the bathroom in jeans she’d altered jaggedly with her manicure scissors. The T-top was actually a ribbed cotton undershirt that was much too thin and snug for her liking. Diablo didn’t seem to like it either.
    “Lose the bra,” he said.
    Edwina’s hands flew to her chest. “I can’t do that!”
    “The bra goes. Or you do.”
    “You’re perverse!”
    “Have it your way,” he said, starting for the door.
    “All right !”
    Edwina hated him at that moment. However, when she emerged from the bathroom for the second time, it was sans bra. She blushed wildly at the way he looked her over, lingering on her unfettered breasts before he nodded approval. She felt naked, absolutely naked with her bosom straining against the skimpy stretch fabric and her legs hanging out of the cropped jeans.
    Displaying herself so blatantly was akin to torture for a woman who didn’t remove her towel until she was safely inside the shower stall with the door shut. And that was in her own bathroom! Now, in this strange hotel room, a continent away from her ruffled-chintz bedroom in Connecticut, she was exquisitely aware of her flesh heating under a stranger’s scrutiny, her nipples tightening.
    “Being ashamed of your own body,” he said, fastening his emerald eyes on her as he hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “That’s perverse.”
    “I’m not asha—” She sighed, knowing it was no use. There was a difference between taking pride in one’s body and the exhibitionism he was demanding of her, but she had no idea how to explain that to him. Anyway, she probably was a little uncomfortable with her body. So what?
    “Get your things together, and let’s go,” he said.
    “Tonight?”
    “Tonight. The Warlords should be setting up camp by now.”
    “Camp? We’re going to be camping? Outdoors?”
    His quick grin had a raffish quality to it that might have been charming under other circumstances. “It’s no fun camping indoors,” he said. “Come on.”

Three
    S OME MEN LOVED the adrenaline rush that came from mastering the road on a powerful machine. Some men loved the horsepower. Diablo loved the freedom. The sensual purr of the motorcycle beneath him, the wind whipping his hair as he careened toward a bend in the road that led to parts unknown—he never got enough of it. Freedom was the drug that altered his consciousness and stirred his blood. Nothing else came close ... unless you counted sex.
    They were southbound along the coast, he and the woman, and the August sun was splashing down into the ocean like a space capsule on reentry. Blazing reds and oranges bathed the twilight horizon as he arced into an ascending curve that would take them into the hills. She let out a soft cry and held him tighter. At least she wasn’t screaming. Things were improving.
    It had been a long time since he’d had a woman behind him, nestled right up against his butt, her hands soft on his body. He’d forgotten how good it could feel. Warmth stirred deep in his groin, and his hungry thoughts quickly took the sensation to its logical physical conclusion. A hard man, a soft woman, and some tender sex. Tautening muscles reminded him how long it had been. And how righteously good it could be.
    He hit the throttle and gassed it, spinning the bike onto a remote canyon road. Wind bit at his face, forcing him to rein in his bike and his fantasies. Just as well, he thought. Despite her valentine-heart mouth, the woman clinging to him like Saran Wrap was as uptight as they came, probably a virgin, for God’s sake. Guilt twanged inside him, sharp and sweet as a country-western guitar chord. Maybe he should have told her what he had in mind for tonight?
    Some fifteen minutes later they reached the area where Diablo planned to set up camp for the night. It was secluded enough that they wouldn’t be disturbed and isolated enough to give her a taste of what the Rosarita Beach run with the Warlords would