Her Knight in the Outback. Nikki Logan

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      ‘No story. I’m travelling.’

      ‘You’re not a bikie.’ Statement, not question.

      ‘Not everyone with a motorbike belongs in an outlaw club,’ he pointed out.

      ‘You look like a bikie.’

      ‘I wear leather because it’s safest when you get too intimate with asphalt. I have a beard because one of the greatest joys in life is not having to shave, and so I indulge that when I’m travelling alone.’

      She glanced down to where the dagger protruded from his T-shirt sleeve. ‘And the tattoo?’

      His eyes immediately darkened. ‘We were all young and impetuous once.’

      ‘Who’s Christine?’

      ‘Christine’s not relevant to this discussion.’

      Bang. Total shutdown. ‘Come on, Marshall. I aired my skeleton.’

      ‘Something tells me you air it regularly. To anyone who’ll listen.’

      Okay, this time the criticism was unmistakable. She pushed more upright in her chair. ‘You were asking the questions, if you recall.’

      ‘Don’t get all huffy. We barely know each other. Why would I spill my guts to a stranger?’

      ‘I don’t know. Why would you rescue a stranger on the street?’

      ‘Not wanting to see you beaten to a pulp and not wanting to share my dirty laundry are very different things.’

      ‘Oh, Christine’s dirty laundry?’

      His lips thinned even further and he pushed away from the table. ‘Thanks for the drink. Good luck with your brother.’

      She shot to her feet, too. ‘Wait. Marshall?’

      He stopped and turned back slowly.

      ‘I’m sorry. I guess I’m out of practice with people,’ she said.

      ‘You’re not kidding.’

      ‘Where are you staying?’

      ‘In town.’

      Nice and non-specific. ‘I’m a bit... I get a bit tired of eating in the bus. On my own. Can I interest you in something to eat, later?’

      ‘I don’t think so.’

      Walk away, Eve. That would be the smart thing to do.

      ‘I’ll change the subject. Not my brother. Not your...’ Not your Christine? ‘We can talk about places we’ve been. Favourite sights.’ Her voice petered out.

      His eyebrows folded down over his eyes briefly and disguised them from her view. But he finally relented. ‘There’s a café across the street from my motel. End of this road.’

      ‘Sounds good.’

      She didn’t usually eat out, to save money, but then she didn’t usually have the slightest hint of company either. One dinner wouldn’t kill her. Alone with a stranger. Across the road from his motel room.

      ‘It’s not a date, though,’ she hastened to add.

      ‘No.’ The moustache twisted up on the left. ‘It’s not.’

      And as he and his leather pants sauntered back out of the bar, she felt like an idiot. An adolescent idiot. Of course this was not a date and of course he wouldn’t have considered it such. Hairy, lone-wolf types who travelled the country on motorbikes probably didn’t stand much on ceremony when it came to women. Or bother with dates.

      She’d only mentioned a meal at all because she felt bad that she’d pressed an obvious sore point with him after he’d shown her nothing but interest and acceptance about Travis.

       *facepalm*

      Her brother’s favourite saying flittered through her memory and never seemed more appropriate. Hopefully, a few hours and a good shower from now she could be a little more socially appropriate and a lot less hormonal.

      Inexplicably so.

      Unwashed biker types were definitely not her thing, no matter how nice their smiles. Normally, the eau de sweaty man that littered towns in the Australian bush flared her nostrils. But as Marshall Sullivan had hoisted her up against his body out in the street she’d definitely responded to the powerful circle of his hold, the hard heat of his chest and the warmth of his hissed words against her ear.

      Even though it came with the tickle of his substantial beard against her skin.

      She was so not a beard woman.

      A man who travelled the country alone was almost certainly doing it for a reason. Running from something or someone. Dropping out of society. Hiding from the authorities. Any number of mysterious and dangerous things.

      Or maybe Marshall Sullivan was just as socially challenged as she was.

      Maybe that was why she had a sudden and unfathomable desire to sit across a table from the man again.

      ‘See you at seven-thirty, then,’ she called after him.

      * * *

      Eve’s annoyance at herself for being late—and at caring about that—turned into annoyance at Marshall Sullivan for being even later. What, had he got lost crossing the street?

      Her gaze scanned the little café diner as she entered—over the elderly couple with a stumpy candle, past the just-showered Nigel No Friends reading a book and the two men arguing over the sports pages. But as her eyes grazed back around to the service counter, they stumbled over the hands wrapped around Nigel’s battered novel. Beautiful hands.

      She stepped closer. ‘Marshall?’

      Rust-flecked eyes glanced up to her. And then he pushed to his feet. To say he was a changed man without the beard would have been an understatement. He was transformed. His hair hadn’t been cut but it was slicked back either with product or he truly had just showered. But his face...

      Free of the overgrown blondish beard and moustache, his eyes totally stole focus, followed only by his smooth broad forehead. She’d always liked an unsullied forehead. Reliable somehow.

      He slid a serviette into the book to mark his place and closed it.

      She glanced at the cover. ‘Gulliver’s Travels?’

      Though what she really wanted to say was...You shaved?

      ‘I carry a few favourites around with me in my pack.’

      She slid in opposite him, completely unable to take her eyes off his new face. At a loss to reconcile it as the under layer of all that sweat, dust and helmet hair she’d encountered out on СКАЧАТЬ