Did he have a different woman in every city? “Must be lonely, traveling all by yourself.”

Near the street, Cal pulled her toward a low wall, behind a row of bushes. “That sounds suspiciously like you’re hinting at something, Miss Prim. If you want to know about me, come out and ask.” As he leaned back, he settled her in between his long legs and placed his hands around her waist.

She planted her hands on his chest and gazed up at him through the shadows. “Fine. Do you have a girlfriend in every city, or fuck-buddies lined up all over the world?”

“No and no. I’m not some kind of man slag, shagging my way through Europe. Not since I was a teenager anyway. I just like to see new things.”

Monica wanted to believe him. Which made her an idiot. The man was gorgeous, and that hoarse voice was a panty-dropper. He may not shag his way through Europe, but she was certain he had no trouble getting laid.

“Now it’s your turn,” he said. “What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?”

Crazy or stupid? They sort of mingled together until it was hard to separate one from the other. But past stupid behavior was definitely one of her hot-button issues.

Cal searched her face. “We don’t have to talk about it. It’s not important.” He softly stroked her cheek.

Monica shoved at his shoulders and walked backward a few steps. “When I was fourteen, I surfed down a steep staircase handrail. I made it halfway before flying off and fracturing my arm.” She jutted her chin in the air, expecting him to call bullshit. For some reason, Cal could read her bluff the way no one else ever had. It made her feel vulnerable, emotionally naked. And she wasn’t lying, not really. The arm thing happened, but it wasn’t the craziest thing she’d ever done.

He stared at her for a long moment. “Which arm?”

“The right one.” She held it up. Her mother had been undergoing radiation therapy at the time and spent most of her days in bed. “Allie was extremely pissed off, but that was normal. I was something of a problem child.”

Cal gasped and lightly captured her arm. He stroked his hand from her shoulder to her wrist, leaving goose bumps in his wake. “You, problematic? Say it isn’t so.”

“It’s so.”

“Come on, let’s find something to eat. I’m starving.” Cal wrapped his hand around her wrist and pulled her along. “She warned me off, you know. Threatened to remove my balls.”

Monica blinked up at him. “Who?”

“Allison.”

Her steps halted, and she glared at the passing traffic. After a few seconds, she glanced back at Cal. “You’re not joking?”

Cal peered down at her. “I didn’t mean to create hard feelings. I thought you’d laugh, or I never would have mentioned it.”

Same old Allie, always sticking her nose into Monica’s business. She knew her sister meant well, and Monica had given her enough reason to worry in the past, but would Al ever treat her like an adult? “It’s fine,” she said. “It’s what she does. She’s a worrier.”

They continued walking another block, then Cal pointed to a bar with twangy music blaring through the open door. “There.”

“A country bar?”

“Very American,” he said.

“Very corporate. It’s a chain.”

“What’s more American than that?” He gave her a wide grin. The grooves along the left side of his mouth were deeper, higher than the ones on the right side. Monica found herself smiling back.

She let him guide her inside the saloon, and she glanced around while Cal paid the cover charge. Since it was a Friday, naturally the place was packed. Could have something to do with the bikini bull riding in one corner, or the beer pong tournament on the far side of the room.

Cal placed his hands on her shoulders and steered her like one of his cars toward the long wooden bar where the female bartender wore a leather bikini and matching chaps. “What do you want to drink?” Cal yelled in her ear.

“Beer is fine.”

Cal ordered two. The leather-clad brunette’s smile was an invitation. So were her fake tits rammed into that too-small top. Monica shouldn’t be jealous. Cal wasn’t her boyfriend. He was on loan until he decided to hit the road to Siberia. That didn’t stop the emotion from slamming through her.

Cal stood behind her, his hand resting on her hip, his chest a solid wall against her back. Monica watched his reaction in the mirror behind the bar. He didn’t stare at the bartender—he stared down at Monica.

She looked away and grabbed the cups. Cal slid a bill to the woman and took a beer from Monica’s hand.

“Cheers.” He tapped her glass with his own. He took a sip, then bent down. “Sign says there’s a restaurant upstairs. Shall we eat?”

She nodded and let him thread his way through the crowd while she held on to the back of his shirt. When they passed the mechanical bull undulating in the corner, with a barely dressed blond waving her hat at the crowd, Cal glanced back. “Is there a rule saying you have to flash your baps to ride that? If so, bloody brilliant. What will it take to get you up there?”

“A lack of dignity. Let’s see you take off your clothes and get up there,” she said.

“Maybe after a few more beers, eh?” He began moving toward the stairs.

The restaurant was slightly less crowded. As they waited for a table, Monica sat beside him on a roughly hewn wooden bench and quizzed him about his travels. Occasionally, she’d throw in a car question.

“Best Chinese food you’ve ever tasted?” she asked.

“A little place in Boston, oddly enough.”

“Favorite convertible?”

He shook his head, pinning his lips together. “That’s like asking which is my favorite child. They’re all special in their own way, but I have to say the ’52 Nash-Healey roadster was a labor of love. And hate. Took forever to renovate that car. It was a stunner. Now your turn. Favorite type of music?”

“Boy bands.”

Cal made a face. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“Hey, I’m a product of my environment.”

Through dinner and afterward, Monica spent the next hour and a half listening to Cal. He told her all about his adventures, keeping his stories light and amusing. And there was always a car attached to his favorite places. He’d fixed his first Fiat in Honduras, replaced a broken engine block from a ’67 Benz in Menton. On the one hand, she envied all the experiences he’d chalked up, countries he’d seen, people he’d met. Yet she felt a little sorry for him too. Cal never stayed in one place for very long. That had to be rough on a kid.

“What was Pixie like as a mother?” Monica asked, resting her chin in her palm.

“She was less of a mother and more of a partner in crime. She had very few rules, very few boundaries. She was fun.” He reached for her hand, rubbed his finger across her palm.

“What about school?” Monica asked.

Nothing about his posture altered, but the atmosphere between them changed. And his finger stopped moving over her skin. “I never went to school.”

“Did you have tutors?”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “In a manner of speaking. Babcock made sure I did my homework.”

“What’s a Babcock?”

“She was my nanny, my mum’s keeper. Actually, she was like a mother to both of us. She’d make me sit down each day and study. I hated every bloody minute of it, but she wouldn’t let me go outside until I finished. We had some heated rows, I can tell you that much.” His expression changed when he talked about this woman, softening just a bit. Cal cast his eyes to their joined hands. “Mum was helpless. If Babcock hadn’t taken care of the domestic tasks, they wouldn’t get done.”

“And she followed you all over the world?”

“She was part of the family.” Monica wasn’t sure if Cal realized his grip on her hand had tightened.

“Was?”

He nodded. “Was.”

“I’m sorry, Cal.”

He said nothing, merely nodded. “You know, I think it’s time to get you on that bull.”