Her eyes widened faintly, pleasure behind them. Ian grinned at her, for the moment, not thinking of the silent amulets at all.
“I’ve never been on one,” she warned him.
“It’s a touring bike,” he assured her, and then laughed when she only looked blankly in response. “It’s comfortable. You’ll feel secure. Though the retreat has a car—we can take that, if you’d prefer.”
She lifted a brow. “What kind of car?”
He nodded at the side of the house, where the bright blue Smart car just barely peeked out. She eyed it and then leaned over the wall to also ostentatiously eye the length of his leg. “Maybe not.”
Ian laughed. “Maybe not,” he agreed. “Come on around. We’ve got a jacket you can use. It’ll be cool up on the mountain.”
The retreat had plenty of such little extras, and if the leather jacket was a little big on her, the sleeves shoved back well enough—and the biking gloves fit perfectly. He showed her how to secure the motorcycle helmet, threading the double-D rings and snapping the trailing strap, then stowed her purse in the saddlebags. A quick primer on mounting, the foot pegs, the muffler placement and how to be a neutral passenger, and they were ready to go.
By then Fernie had emerged from the kitchen, an unusual flush to her features and her smile looking a bit determined. She proffered a packed lunch, and while Ian tucked it away and grabbed his own jacket, all black leather and zippers and snaps, Fernie leaned close to Ana as if Ian didn’t have the ears of a Sentinel to hear every word. “You hang on tight, now.”
Ana laughed—a faint uncertainty to it, but a low musical note, too, and one that tickled his ears.
Only once, after he’d mounted the bike and held it steady for her to settle in behind him, did she hesitate—and then, only just for a moment. Long enough to touch the pocket of her dark slacks, and he guessed she had her phone there—although reception on the mountain road would be touch and go at best. Then she climbed on, placing herself precisely on the seat and her feet on the passenger pegs, her legs barely brushing the outside of his hips and her hands resting loosely just above them.
“The trick is not to think too hard about it,” he told her, briefly resting a hand on the side of her lower leg. “And just nudge my shoulder if you need anything. I’ll pull over.”
“What are you waiting for?” she demanded.
He laughed and started the bike—and if she clutched tightly at him on the first turn and made him fight to keep the bike on line at the second turn, by the time they eased out of town and through the expensive foothills real estate, she’d started to relax. By the time they’d climbed through the piñon-juniper to the ponderosa, swooping gently through the curves and ever climbing upward, her hands rested around his waist as though they’d always been there, her knees snug at his hips without tension.
She shifted only slightly, never interfering with their balance, as he pointed out the things he spotted along the ride—the ferruginous hawk perched off the side of the road, the amazing tower of an ancient pine. He slowed down for the scatter of elk in the trees, giving her a good look and grinning when her hands tightened in the thrill of spotting them.
And along the way, he found himself just as relaxed as she was—just as willing to go along with the moment, without the constant nag of activity in his mind.
Huh.
Sixteen miles later he pulled over at the Vista Grande overlook, bracing the bike while she dismounted, her hands suddenly self-conscious as she steadied herself on his shoulder. He felt the distance like a cold chill, the descent of cares and the weighty awareness of...
Everything.
She fumbled at the helmet strap but managed it, pulling the helmet off to fluff up her hair. Then she got a good look at the view and faltered, her eyes widening.
“The Jemez Mountains,” he said, hooking his helmet over a handlebar as he dismounted and moving up behind her to point out the distant range, his arm over her shoulder where it felt like it belonged. “The Rio Grande Valley. Albuquerque, if you squint.” Not to mention the swatches of golden aspen against the dark green of the predominant ponderosa pines, Sangre de Cristo fall drama in all its glory.
She leaned back into him; maybe she didn’t even realize it.
Ian realized it. Boy, did he realize it. He cleared his throat. “There are a handful of trails leading out from this overlook—including one that goes into the Pecos wilderness.” He nodded eastward, and her hair tickled his chin. “If you’d like—if you have some hiking shoes—we can come again, and hike out into the aspens.”
A car drove past, slowing for the overlook...not stopping. When the sound of its motor no longer hummed among the trees, Ana pulled away from him—turning to face him, her hand touching her pocket as if it steadied her...her expression a little wary.
“Why?” she said.
He grew still inside, understanding the danger of taking this question lightly. “Because it’s beautiful, and I’d like to share it with you.”
She turned away, looking out over the sprawling vista of forest and valley and distant ranges rising anew.
Ian tapped a pattern against his thigh. “Hey,” he said, resisting the impulse to close the space between them. “If I misread the situation, no worries. We drive back down the mountain, you head off to the rest of your vacation, and we still had a good ride together in amazing country.”
He could hardly believe himself. Not when he wanted to—
Except it didn’t matter what he wanted, if she didn’t. And it wasn’t as if he didn’t have work to do, no matter his orders and Fernie looking over his shoulder. Until he cracked the secret of the silents, they were all at risk. High risk.
He hadn’t come near to convincing himself when she said it again. “Why?”
This time, he realized what she was asking—but not before she turned to look at him, searching his expression as she added, “You don’t even know me.”
He suddenly felt off balance. “That’s how it usually starts,” he said. “By meeting. And liking. And wanting more.” Who could not? And not just because of her delicate beauty, or the natural color of her lips against the glow of her complexion, or the way she wore that ill-fitting jacket that made it perfectly clear what curves lurked beneath—although his body responded to those things readily enough.
No, it was more about the complexity waiting behind her eyes, calling out the puzzle lover in Ian. One moment laughing, the next turned inward, and always—always—a shine of vulnerability. As if she simply waited for someone who could figure her out.
It was the way she made him feel. Moments of peace and inner quiet.
She must have seen something on his face. Her expression turned suddenly fierce. “I don’t need saving from being alone, if that’s what you think.”
Ian made an impatient sound. “That’s not what this is about.” He closed the distance between them then, reaching out to cradle her head and thread his fingers through her hair—holding but not constraining, and watching her eyes go wide while her body stiffened inside the ridiculously large jacket.
But then she relaxed, those eyes still huge and not so much wary as uncertain—waiting. Learning, he would have said, as he leaned down to her. Her hands rose to brush against his forearms as if they didn’t know what else to do, but her mouth...it rose to meet his. And when he kissed her, she kissed him back—a gentle thing, as uncertain as the rest of her could be.
He wooed her with that kiss, making it light and teasing, just