He exhaled. "That sounds so bad."
"Let me rephrase, then. In your absence, they will be my genteel hosts. So those are the rules. Respect you. Don't pay too much attention to other men. Act like I think you're brilliant, gorgeous, charming, and I'm crazy about you. All of which is easy to do because it's true. And you're especially gorgeous when you blush."
He chuckled. "Thank you."
"What matters is how you treat me, and there are no issues there. As for putting up with culturally ingrained sexism, you do remember where I grew up, right? You want equal rights? Don't go to the biker club or the country club. Now, if you can excuse me for twenty minutes . . ." I lifted a shopping bag. "I brought wardrobe."
He grinned. "Micro shorts and a white T-shirt?"
"Sadly, no, but if you'd like that for a private evening at home, we can talk."
--
Styling my hair didn't take more than a few minutes. I'd cut it shoulder length when I was trying to hide from the media. It was growing, but it was taking its time. The fake color had long since washed out, leaving me my usual ash-blond.
Next came the outfit. I could say my jeans were snugger than I usually wear, but that'd be a lie. For a shirt, I'd gone uptown. Button-down, classic oxford. Designer label. It seemed more insulting to Ricky's friends if I dressed in Walmart fashion, as if that's what I expected would fit in.
I will say that I got the shirt on sale. I can't claim the same for the Louboutin boots. They were my first real indulgence since leaving my parents' home, and I wasn't going to regret it. Besides, they looked killer with the jeans.
When I walked into the living room, Ricky's look agreed one hundred percent. He checked his watch.
"No time," I said.
He laughed and kissed my cheek. "I'm that transparent, huh?"
"Yep. I'll claim my bouquet later."
"Bouquet?"
"In recognition of an acting job well done, delivered after the performance. Now let's go so I can earn it."
I started to walk away. He caught my hand. When I looked at him, the smile had vanished and he looked as nervous as a boy about to meet his girlfriend's parents.
"Speaking of bouquets," he said. "I mentioned before that I'm not very good at romantic gifts."
"You got me a switchblade. I think that was very romantic."
"Yeah, I'm much better at giving weapons than . . ." He took a box from his pocket and opened it. Inside was a silver chain. He swore. "See? I can't even manage the presentation properly. Damn thing slid . . ." He fished the chain out, pendant popping from inside the box. He caught it, hand closing around the necklace before I could see what it was. "I wanted to say thanks for tonight."
He held out the necklace. It was white gold. The pendant was a crescent moon, filigreed and inlaid with clear, sparkling gemstones that I was damn sure weren't cubic zirconia.
As I stared, he pulled his hand back. "I overdid it, didn't I? Shit, shit, shit--"
My arms went around his neck, kissing away that doubt; then I disentangled myself and opened his hand to look at the necklace.
"It's gorgeous. If you think you don't have great taste in jewelry, you could not be more wrong."
I turned around and lifted my hair. He put the chain on and kissed the back of my neck.
"I'll model it properly for you later," I said. "With less clothing in the way."
"And by moonlight?"
"Of course." I fingered the pendant. "That's only fitting."
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The clubhouse was a half mile down a dirt road and surrounded by woods. That might look as if the Saints are hiding. They aren't, because the clubhouse is exactly what it purports to be--a private social club for motorcycle enthusiasts. They might talk business in the back room, but they aren't stupid enough to keep drugs, guns, or any other product on the property.