Making Her His (Beating the Biker 1)

John snorted. “You’re welcome. Bring her in and get her a drink.”

“No, I’m fine,” she insisted.

“Come on,” said Saks, putting a protective around

her. “You’re shivering and it’s not cold out. You’re in shock. Come in. I’ll buy you another drink, then you can go. Just let the shock wear off a moment.”

She was reluctant, but Saks gently guided her back into the bar. By the time they entered John was back behind the bar, looking as if nothing had happened. Saks took her to a booth and immediately a waitress brought a bottle of white wine, along with a Jack and Coke for Saks.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” the woman murmured as Saks poured her a glass.

“You should. John just sent out a bottle of his 2008 Littorai Thieriot Vineyard Chardonnay. Apparently, he feels badly about your dustup with the Rojos.”

She shivered again, and Saks resisted the urge to move to her side of the booth and hold her. Instead, he stood and put his jacket around her shoulders.

“It’s a nice wine,” she said after taking a sip.

“It’s a very nice wine. Retails at over a hundred bucks a pop, if you can find it. Collectors snap it up.”

“You? You know wines?”

“I had my phase.”

“And?” she said, pointedly glancing at his Jack and Coke.

“I outgrew it. Somehow, talking fine wines doesn’t go over well at the clubhouse.”

She giggled, and her laughter warmed his heart.

“Hey, he said gently, “if I’m going to ply you with drink, I should at least know your name.”

“I thought John bought this.”

“Figure of speech. But you have to admit I indirectly helped you obtain this fine vintage.”

“That’s true. You came to my rescue.” She stuck her hand out over the tabletop. “My name’s Chrissy.”

Saks shook her hand and held it a second longer than he should. She pulled it away and Saks felt the loss immediately. “Chrissy? That’s all I’m going to get?”

“All I got was a club name,” she said, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “Saks.”

“Anthony Parks.”

“And do people call you Tony?”

“Only under pain of death.”

“And where are you from, Anthony?”

“Near here. I live and work in Westfield.”

“Oh,” she said, pursing her lips. Her expression was unreadable.

“And where do you work?”

“New York.”

“Commuter, eh? And what do you do?”