Read The Devil and Ms. Moody for Free Online Page B

was, he couldn’t help wondering how long it had been since she’d been with a man. Maybe because until this very moment she hadn’t looked like a woman who had ever slept with a man.
    What’s with this innocent? he wondered. Drugged or not, didn’t she know she was supposed to run screaming from a guy who wore black leather and rode a monster motorcycle?
    “I mean,” she added, “if you didn’t like soft, that would be a problem, wouldn’t it? Since I’m clearly ... soft.”
    Diablo felt muscles swell and harden at the base of his body. Blood surged through his heart. Clearly, he had a choice. And there was going to be a price to pay either way, he realized grimly. He could take her now, tonight. And to hell with their bargain. If she wasn’t completely willing, he was damn sure she could readily be persuaded. However innocent, any woman who gazed at a man the way she was gazing could be persuaded.
    Or ... he could play it safe.
    He couldn’t believe he was even considering the latter, but in her case it just didn’t feel right. She was homespun, sort of “nice.” And he knew only too well what nice women did after you made love to them. They got weird. They had second thoughts. They got clingy or weepy, and he couldn’t afford either. She was his ticket in, but she could also screw up his plans royally if she got emotional and unpredictable.
    No mercy, he thought, referring as much to himself as to her. Steeling himself against the violent protest of his own body, he stared into the dreamy amber depths of her eyes, and broke the spell. “Where the hell did you get the name Edwina?” he asked, his voice still husky. “It’s got to go.”
    Her eyes turned coppery, and she stiffened under his touch. “It’s my grandmother’s name,” she said, obviously affronted. “Edwina Dickerson, on my mother’s side. We called her Binky.”
    ‘Binky’? He was thinking of making hot, sweaty love to a woman who called her grandmother Binky?
    She shoved his hands away and twisted out of the tight space between him and the bike. “I suppose you could call me Ed,” she said abruptly, “or Ejay. That’s what my sorority sisters in Delta Gamma Phi called me.”
    “I’ve got some bad news for you, Ed. The Warlords aren’t into Greek. They’ve got two rules and two rules only: Don’t mess with a man’s bike, or his woman.”
    “Really? In that order?”
    “That depends on the woman.” He pointed to the crest on his bike and the words painted across the gas tank: PROPERTY OF DIABLO. “That’s my mark. Whatever I put it on belongs to me: my bike, my clothes ... my woman.”
    Her eyes widened. “You’re not serious?”
    He gave her that slow nod again. “ ’Fraid so, Princess. Without my mark, you’re fair game. You want to risk it, it’s up to you. But I can tell you right now, I’m not going to feel like dragging Mad Dog off your body every time I turn around.”
    Edwina crossed her arms over her chest like a shield. “A mark of ownership? That’s barbaric.”
    “I don’t make the rules.”
    “What am I supposed to do, slap a Post-it note on my tank top that says Diablo’s Woman?”
    “Not exactly.”
    “Well, thank goodness. I’ve never heard of anything so primitive—or sexist.”
    “The mark goes on your person, Ed.”
    “What?”
    “Most of the women have tattoos on their—”
    “Don’t tell me!” Edwina staggered backward, prepared to make the sign of the cross if he came near her. “Nobody’s tattooing my person anywhere!”
    “Sorry, that’s the way it’s got to be, Ed—”
    “No! No tattoos! My mother is not a well woman, and that would kill her. I could never go home again.”
    He walked to the bike, unzipped a section of his gearbag, and pulled out a packet. “Relax. I’m going to use this.”
    “What is it?”
    “A semipermanent tattoo. It washes off eventually, kind of like hair dye.” He waved the packet temptingly. “It comes with a very attractive skull