Her heart leaped from her rib cage at the voice. When she turned, it was to discover a pair of booted feet standing right behind her. Those booted feet were stuffed with a pair of very nicely shaped, black-jeaned legs, upon which balanced some neat, taut, masculine hips. A black leather belt encircled his waist and—
“Madame?” the voice came again. The southern French accent was musical, the voice low and timbered.
Mildly bristled at being called ‘madame’, because as far as she was concerned, a woman who was a pinkie toe into her thirties surely deserved at least a courtesy ‘mademoiselle’. But she realized the man was asking if she needed help, and that was more important than wondering if she needed to step up her age-defying skin care regime.
Three years of French classes flew out of Sienna’s head like a mist. “I ... uh ... je ne sais pas… how to… comment changer le…” What the hell was French for ‘tire’? And why wasn’t it just ‘tire’? For that matter, why didn’t everyone in the world just call it a ‘tire’ and be done with it? Wouldn’t that make life easier?
“Pneu,” he said helpfully.
“Pardon?”
“The French word for ‘tire’ is ‘pneu’. That’s what you were searching for, no?”
“Thank God you speak English!” she sighed in relief.
And then the man squatted onto his haunches in front of her and immediately Sienna decided she didn’t care if the French word for ‘tire’ was ‘supercalifragilisticexpialidocious’. Because this man literally—and she did mean literally—snatched her breath away.
Sienna got the impression of skin the color of a buttered almond dessert, the kind of delicious where she’d definitely have to lick the spoon. A thatch of straight black hair, expertly cut, with a shag softly falling over his brow. Eyes the shape of almonds—again, those damn almonds! Black and shiny, with intelligence and humor. A long, strong nose, and full lips that were curved in a half-smile. His an angled jaw and clean-shaven chin held the hint of a dimple.
Sienna realized she was staring and dragged her eyes down toward her array of tools. “Uh… yeah. Thanks. I am having problems changing my… pneu.”
He gave her a smile that damn near melted the elastic in her thong, and then rolled up his sleeves, revealing a complex design of interconnected tattoos.
Better and better, she thought.
The man rooted through the tools, selecting what he needed without hesitation. Then he began changing the tire with expert, practiced ease, as if he’d been handed the secret scrolls of roadside maintenance by the elders the moment he had come of age.
Realizing that her cameras were still rolling, she waggled her brows at her unseen audience, telegraphing to them,OMG!
Sienna wasn’t exactly timing how long it took him, but it was definitely quicker than the time she took to make herself a soft-boiled egg. Despite her half-hearted protests, Sienna watched as he repacked the tools, put away the flat tire, and hefted her luggage back into the trunk.
For the first time, she noticed a large, futuristic looking motorbike with elaborate chrome trim, leaning on its kickstand, like a steed patiently waiting on its master.Biker, she thought.Hmmm.
“You will do well to have that tire repaired at the nearest shop, madame,” he said. “Not a good idea risking two flats on a lonely road like this.”
“Sienna,” she blurted. Because the ‘madame’ thing was killing her. She held out her hand.
The man lifted his hands apologetically, to demonstrate that they were now black with tire muck, and with a hurried ‘Oh’ she bustled to the front seat, pulled out her handy pack of wipes, and returned. Without realizing what she was doing, she took his hands in hers and carefully wiped them clean, as if ministering to a naughty little boy who had come in from playing football in the yard. His hands were broad, warm, and solid.
When she released him, she looked up in time to catch his amused smile. Then, hands finally clean, he introduced himself while shaking hers. “Maxim.”
If that isn’t the sexiest name I have ever heard, she thought,I don’t know what is.