Page 57 of Return of the Bad Girl (Rock Canyon, Idaho 4)

“Why are you tense?” he asked, his mind suddenly taking a dark turn. “Did something else happen with that guy who attacked you?”

“What? Oh, no, it’s just family stuff. My sister actually,” she said, setting her bottle down and walking around him. “By the way, who is HM?”

“What?” he said, surprised by her straightforward question.

“The painting you hung in the living room. It’s signed by an HM, and I was curious how you know him . . . or her.”

He took several gulps from another bottle of water and tossed the empty plastic in the trash. “HM stands for Honey Moriarty. My sister.”

“I didn’t know you had a sister,” she said.

“You never asked.”

“No, I guess I didn’t. I guess I didn’t feel it was appropriate, considering that you’ve said several times—if I stay out of your business, you’ll stay out of mine,” she said, taking a long draw of her water before continuing. “Although so far, you haven’t really done your part, have you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, no matter how many times I say I don’t need your help, you always seem to be there. It’s pretty heroic, actually. Besides, you aren’t really the sharing type anyway.”

He knew she had chosen “heroic” because it would needle him, but really, he was amused. Over the last week, he’d found that the walls between them were slowly being chipped away, at least on his side.

Though it was still killing him that she wouldn’t tell him about the man who’d attacked her or why.

“That’s interesting, because every time I ask you about your past or about the guy who assaulted you, you change the subject. Care to bare your soul and divulge all your secrets?”

Caroline sighed loudly. “Point taken.”

He waited for her to continue, but instead she said, “So show me some of these designs of yours.”

Apparently, sharing time was over. “You like motorcycles?”

“Sure. Had one for a while in Arizona. It was awesome.”

Just one more thing that made her amazing.

“What kind did you have?” he asked.

“I had a 2010 Ducati Streetfighter.”

He whistled. “What happened to it?”

“I sold it when I moved to Detroit. Too cold most of the year to have one,” she said, walking into what would be his office.

He grabbed some of his designs from his portfolio and came up alongside her. The sweet smell of her lotion or perfum

e mixed with her own scent had him leaning closer as he opened the large folder. “These are the first plans I drew up for my bike, so you can see how it changed,” he said.

“Why do you call your motorcycle Baby Blue?”

He shrugged. “My sister is a big George Strait fan.”

“Not you?”

“No.”

“Where is she?”

“Who?”

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