The One He's Been Looking For. Joanna Sims

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СКАЧАТЬ Not some California bleached-blond bimbo, or an Orphan Annie waif who needs a couple good meals. I want a woman who isn’t afraid to be different. I want...” He paused for a moment as his eyes settled on a black motorcycle parked illegally and facing the wrong direction on Sixth Street. He could tell that the woman swinging her leg over the back of the bike was tall and lean. His heart began to quicken as he leaned forward and turned his head slightly to the left so he could focus in on her with his stronger eye. The minute she pulled off her helmet, he had a visceral response that felt like a punch in the gut.

      “Her.”

      “What?” Dylan asked.

      “Her,” Ian repeated loudly. “Down there. I want her.”

      * * *

      “Mom. Mom! Will you come up for air, please? What’s the problem?”

      “I just saw the pictures on your Facebook page, Jordan! What have you done to your beautiful hair?”

      “Cut it.”

      “I can see that. What did you do to the color?” Barbara Brand’s voice had a shrill quality that made Jordan move the phone away from her ear for a minute.

      “I changed it,” she said nonchalantly when she brought the phone closer again.

      “Jordan Carol, save your witticisms for your friends. Obviously I can see that you’ve changed the color from the pictures!”

      “Mom.” Jordan pushed on the door to leave the tattoo parlor; she smiled and winked at Chappy, who was tattooing a navy-themed design on a young man’s arm. “If you’re going to keep on freaking out every time I post a picture, I’m afraid we won’t be able to be Facebook friends anymore.”

      Barbara ignored her daughter’s teasing remark. “Your hair was so naturally beautiful, Jordan. Do you know how many women would pay good money to have hair like that? And look what you’ve gone and done. You’ve ruined it!”

      “Mom. It’s hair dye. It’s not permanent.”

      “Not permanent?”

      “Okay, let me rephrase that...it’s not forever.”

      “Your father thinks that it looks like a clown exploded on your head!”

      “Uh...wow! I can’t believe Dad said that! I’m not going to tell Amaya. She can be very sensitive about her work. It wasn’t easy for her to get just the right blend of fire engine red, magenta madness and tangerine bliss.”

      “Amaya? Amaya did that? She isn’t a hairstylist!”

      “True,” Jordan said of her roommate. “But she is a trained ice sculptor, among other things. We figured they were related disciplines.” Jordan laughed as she stepped out onto the sidewalk.

      After a short pause, Barbara added, “And here your dad went to all that trouble to get you an interview with the head of the art department at Montana State so you can finally finish your master’s degree. What in the world are they going to think of you with that hair?”

      Jordan stopped in her tracks and looked up at the sky in frustration. “Oh, my God, Mom! We’ve already discussed this like a thousand times! I am not...and I repeat...I am not moving to the middle of nowhere Bozeman, Montana. I’d rather die a slow and painful death!”

      “What’s wrong with Bozeman? It’s a college town!” Barbara seemed genuinely surprised. “And you can paint anywhere after all. What’s more inspiring than Montana in spring?”

      “Mom. I have my first gallery show coming up. Do you know how insane it is that a gallery is actually willing to sponsor an unknown artist?” When her mother didn’t respond, Jordan added, “Mom. I love you. But you’ve gotta accept that I’m not moving back to Montana.”

      Just as her mom was about to continue making her case, Jordan spotted a San Diego police officer standing beside her motorcycle. He was writing down her tag number.

      “Hey! Wait!” she called out to the policeman. “Mom, I’ve gotta go. RoboCop is writing me a ticket.”

      “Jordan!”

      She made a kissing sound into the phone. “I love you. Give Dad a hug for me!”

      Jordan tapped the end call button and jammed her phone into her pocket. “Officer, wait. I’m gonna move it right now!”

      The man had naturally golden skin, coal-black hair and the muscular frame of a guy who spent most of his spare time in the gym. He looked up at her and she saw that his eyes were the rich color of a Kona coffee bean. “Is this your motorcycle?”

      “Yes.”

      “License, registration, proof of insurance.” He was all business.

      “Officer, please. I was just about to move it. I was late and—”

      “License, registration, proof of insurance, ma’am.” He was unmoved by her explanation, she could see.

      Crap!

      Jordan rested her helmet on the seat of her bike, pulled the license out of her back pocket and handed it to him.

      The cop looked at the license and then said, “Registration, proof of insurance, Ms. Brand.”

      “I don’t have it on me.” Jordan inwardly cursed her own carelessness. How could she have left the house without her wallet?

      “Wait here,” the officer said before he walked back over to his own motorcycle.

      Jordan followed him. “You don’t understand. I just got my license back—”

      “Stay with your vehicle, ma’am!” The cop stopped in his tracks and made a gesture that let her know he wasn’t in the mood for any further argument or explanation.

      Jordan took in a deep, frustrated breath as she walked back to her bike. She sat sidesaddle on the seat and stuffed her hands into the front pockets of her faded jeans.

      As she watched the officer call her information in, all she could think of was the negative balance in her checking account. The money she’d just made selling customized tattoo designs to Marty needed to go into the account pronto if she had any hope of breaking even. It was a financial reality that occasionally selling tattoo designs and bartending on weekends at Altitude weren’t enough to keep her right side up. But by her calculation, all she really needed to do was keep afloat until the gallery show. Then she’d be in the black. Well, that plan was looking like a real long shot now that RoboCop was about to blow up her flotation device.

      Jordan was still calculating how screwed she was financially when her eyes were drawn to a man walking with long, determined strides in her direction. He was tall with a lean build, broad shouldered, and he walked with the natural swagger of a successful man who was wealthy and knew he was good-looking to boot. Just the type of man Jordan avoided like the plague: cocky, egoistical, narcissistic and way too GQ pretty for his own good.

      “Wolf.” The man spoke in a deep, authoritative baritone voice that was just as pleasant to the ears as his chiseled facial features were СКАЧАТЬ