Rachel finally found her voice. “I’m not going to the opera on a motorbike!”

“Why not? It’ll be fun.” His gaze dropped to her feet. “Those boots should be okay on the bike.”

She tugged the shawl tighter around her shoulders. “What about my hair?” It was piled on her head, with loose tendrils softening the diamanté sparkles at her earlobes and throat.

Devin looked at it critically. “Very pretty.”

She had a sudden feeling he was doing this on purpose. “We’re catching a taxi.”

“Okay.” To her surprise, he got off the motorcycle without a murmur. “How long do they take on a Saturday night? Not that I mind missing the first half…”

Rachel held out her hand for the jumpsuit and helmet. “Wait here.” Inside, she put on the offending items, knowing better than to check her appearance in the mirror. When she came out, Devin sat astride the bike, engine idling and his face hidden behind the visor again. “If you’re grinning behind that…”

He raised a gloved hand holding two tickets. “Front row mezzanine, overlooking the stage.”

Gingerly, Rachel approached the bike. “How do I get on this thing?”

“Put your left foot on the foot peg, then swing your right leg over the seat. Watch out for the exhaust.”

She followed his instructions, trying not to touch him, and he checked the position of her feet. “You can hold on to the grab rail or me. If you haven’t ridden before you’ll probably feel more secure with your arms around my waist.”

Rachel reached behind her for the grab rail. “This is fine.” She couldn’t see his face, but it sounded as if he was trying not to laugh.

“Let’s go then.”

He accelerated slowly, but her knees tightened instinctively around his hips. The Harley picked up speed and Rachel dropped the grab rail and clamped her arms around his waist, hanging on for dear life. A rumble of laughter vibrated through his torso, matching the rumble of the bike’s engine.

She’d never been on a motorbike before, never comprehended the delicious assault on the senses. Speed cooled the air and pushed the scents of the city under her visor. Exhaust fumes, a sizzle of food from passing restaurants, the whiff of trash from a downtown Dumpster, and from the waterfront the salty tang of the sea.

Devin knew the streets well, bypassing traffic lights to detour down narrow alleys. If she wanted to, Rachel could lean out and touch the parked cars, talk to passing pedestrians. There was no barrier between her and the pulse of the neon city, the pulse of the powerful bike vibrating beneath her.

Under the thin jumpsuit the skirt of her dress had hiked up, and Devin’s legs warmed her where she gripped him, from knees to inner thighs. Her spirits soared with a heady sense of freedom. Naughtiness was addictive. She could have been a teenager again, but a teenager without responsibility, without the burden of having to make adult choices.

Rachel felt an almost overpowering urge to stand on the foot pegs with her hands on Devin’s broad shoulders and yell, “Forget the opera! Let’s just ride until we run out of gas.” Except she had a disquieting feeling he would agree.

“Hey!”

Twisting, she saw a stranger waving and gesturing from the sidewalk. Rachel waved back. Twice more, she returned salutes-from two openmouthed kids staring out the back window of a passing car, and from an old lady waving her walking stick. Amazing who turned out to be Harley fans.

Too soon they were at an underground parking lot on Queen Street where Devin cruised into a parking bay. In the enclosed space the rumble of the Harley was deafening.

Rachel touched his shoulder and pointed to a sign, Owners Only.

He turned off the engine. “I’ve got an apartment here,” he said over his shoulder. “We’ll dump the gear first, then walk across the road to the opera house.”

Standing on the foot pegs, Rachel swung her right leg up and over the seat.

That was when she noticed the rubber heel of her dainty boot was on fire.

TAKING OFF HIS HELMET, Devin turned at the sound of Rachel’s gurgle of laughter, then caught sight of her smoldering boot. “Hell!” Hunkering down, he grabbed her foot with his gloved hands, wrenched down the zip and hauled off the boot, dropping it on the concrete.

“All those people-” peals of laughter escaped under the visor “-waving and yelling-” she hauled off her helmet, gasping for air “-and I-” another paroxysm of laughter shook her “-I thought they were just being friendly.” Leaning on the bike for support, Rachel dabbed at her eyes.

Devin inspected her ankle. The stocking wasn’t touched. Dropping her foot, he stood up. “What the hell part of ‘keep your feet on the foot peg at all times’ didn’t you understand?”

Without waiting for a response, Devin launched into a blistering reprimand. Rachel bit her lip and tried to stop laughing. It felt almost like an out-of-body experience, looking down at himself-the never-loses-his-cool Prince of Excess-ranting at his passenger on the importance of following the damn rules. Finally he ran out of steam and stopped for breath.

Holding her helmet, Rachel bowed her head. “I’m sorry. I promise to be more careful on the way home.” She didn’t sound contrite, she sounded as though she was still laughing. And when she raised her head, her eyes confirmed it. “But you have to admit it’s quite funny.”

Tomorrow it might be funny. Right now he wasn’t ready to let her off the hook for giving him such a scare. Scowling, Devin picked up her boot, looked at the indentation where the rubber had melted, then waved it under her nose. “On your leg this would be third-degree burns.”

Rachel’s face fell. “And they were so expensive,” she said, remorseful for the wrong reason. “One hundred dollars on sale.” The boots he wore were worth three grand, U.S. “Will it last through the opera?”

In answer, Devin snapped off the fragile heel. “We’ll knock the other one off upstairs. That will get you through the performance at least.” Leading her to the elevator, he used his key to access his floor.

The elevator opened into a private lobby. Rachel stepped out and, like all his guests, immediately gravitated to the panoramic view through the hall’s archway. “My God, I thought you said you had an apartment…this is a penthouse.” As her gaze swung around the living room, with its rough-hewn stone columns and steel spiral staircase, Devin willed himself not to stiffen. Seeing his wealth changed some people. He didn’t want the librarian to view him any differently than she did now.

“I like the casual comfort,” she commented, stroking the saddle-brown leather couch, “but I would never have picked you as a flower man.” She gestured toward the orange poppies on the sideboard, ignoring the expensive cast-bronze sculpture beside it. “Those are a homey touch.”

His mother did the flowers. Devin relaxed. Nothing had changed.

“Right,” Rachel said briskly, dumping the helmet. “Let’s take off this gear, fix my shoe and get Cinderella to the ball.”

He peeled off his leathers, but when he turned around she was still in her jumpsuit, staring at him. “I should have told you to dress up,” she said in dismay.

Devin looked down at his black jeans and bloodred, V-neck silk T-shirt. The pin-striped jacket had been personally tailored for him by top American designer Tom Ford. A dragon motif, the exact match of his tattoo, was embroidered in red silk down the length of one sleeve and across his shoulder. The whole ensemble, including the red snakeskin boots, cost more than her pip-squeak car. Manfully, he resisted the impulse to tell her that.

She misread his inner struggle as hurt.

“It’s my fault,” she said. “I should have mentioned that men wear tuxedos to the gala opening night.”

He grinned. “It wouldn’t have mattered.”

“You’ll get stared at.”