Accidentally in Love With the Biker (What Happens in Vegas) (14 page)

Epilogue

“Are you ready?” Quinn stood outside of the bathroom checking his watch for the nineteenth time, and then straightening his tie and rebuttoning his suit coat. The awards ceremony wasn’t a strictly formal event, but he felt compelled to complement whatever conservative dress Kellie would have pulled from her bookstore-lady wardrobe. “We’ve got to get going, babe.”

He leaned toward the mirror in the hallway, finger-combing his newly shorn hair. Yes, he’d even remembered to get a haircut for this.

“Okay. Here I come.” The door finally began to crack open.

The woman who stepped out was not even
close
to being mistaken for a bookstore lady. At least, not a
children’s
bookstore lady.

“Oh, no.” Kellie’s black leather motorcycle boots came to an abrupt, dismayed halt a foot from Quinn’s shiny wing tips.

“Oh, yes.” Quinn’s mouth watered as he took her in, from the top of her teased hair, over the tiny leather vest that barely supported her generous bosom, along the impossibly skintight pants, to the tip of those sexily clunky boots.

She glared at his tie and tugged at her vest. “I thought this was a biker convention.”

He grinned. “Yeah.” Moving forward so that his toes bumped hers, he put his arms around her, pulling her against him.

“You’re all…all…engineering executive or something. I have to go change.”

“No. You don’t.”

“I look ridiculous,” she told him, shoving at his chest.

“You look delicious,” he countered, emphasizing his point by grabbing a handful of ass in each hand, rocking his pelvis into hers, and biting the skin along the side of her neck, following it with a lick. She tasted, as always, of sunshine and freedom.

His body thrummed in anticipation of what might come next.

“Ohhhhh.” She sighed, softening against him, running her hands over his chest, finding his nipples and running her thumbs over them. His already partially hard cock rose a little farther.

Did they have time to— No. They didn’t.

His body whined in protest as he set her gently away from him and stepped back. “You look perfect,” he told her.

“But you’re all…fancy,” she protested, pushing him to get to the closet.

He grabbed her arm and stopped her. “No. You, sit. If you change, we’ll miss Betty’s debut.” He yanked at his tie and kicked one of his motorcycle boots from under the bed. Where was the other one?

“No! You can’t change,” she told him. “Let’s just go.”

“Really?” This was the same girl who had agonized about how well her hair was blow-dried and which sweater thingy to wear before going to meet his mother. Was she really willing to step out in an ever-so-delightfully trashy biker-chick outfit while he wore a conservative suit?

Apparently she was, because they were on the back of Sue and heading down Las Vegas Boulevard in no time.

As Quinn rolled them into the parking area of the MGM Grand, he felt his tension mount, and this time it wasn’t the nice kind, courtesy of the woman behind him on the leather seat of his bike. This one was pure nervous energy, in the form of a knot in the center of his chest.

…

Kellie’s hand was nearly squished in Quinn’s massive paw as she double-timed it like an army recruit to keep up with his longer stride and not have her arm yanked out of its socket.

“Babe, can you slow down just a skosh?” she panted.

He stopped and turned to look at her as though he’d just realized she was with him. “Oh. Sorry.” But then he turned and started moving again, albeit at a marginally lower pace. At least she wasn’t completely out of breath when they found their seats at a table near the front of the massive auditorium.

Quinn pulled her chair out for her and then seated himself, folding his long legs next to hers under the table.

She leaned toward him, anxious to absorb heat from his body. How did those showgirls survive in places like this? It was positively polar.

Quinn was jittery, though, moving around in his seat, looking here and there about the room. “You sure you don’t want me to take your coat back and hang it up?” he asked, trying to pull the thing off of her by the collar.

“Quinn!” she finally snapped at him, fighting to keep her arms in the almost-warm leather. “Would you relax? Please?”

Her hand on his arm seemed to calm him slightly, but he still practically vibrated under her touch. Her big, strong Zeus was a nervous wreck about this evening, even though he looked like he’d stepped right off of the pages of
Esquire
magazine. And Kellie understood. He’d worked so hard for this night, using every ounce of energy that he had—and nearly wearing out the Darryls in the process—to finish Betty and get her delivered to the show on time.

And now it was time. The night that the awards for best bikes would be given out.

The lights in the room began to dim.

“I hope they present the new artist category first,” he murmured in her ear, sending those delicious shivers along her spine. Shivers that had nothing to do with how cold it was in this room—as a matter of fact, Kellie was feeling just a little bit warmer, all of a sudden. “If they hurry up and get it over with, I can be happy for whoever wins and stop stressing about it.”

She turned her head to look into his dark eyes. Those eyes that she’d been gazing into on a regular basis forever, if she had her way. “Why do you think it won’t be you?” she asked.

“I dunno, I just want it to be over with.”

And really, there was no need for him to be anxious. He’d been asked for his business card so many times this week that Kellie had run to the printer to rush-order a few hundred more. Darryl A. told her this morning that their appointment calendar was filling up faster than they could handle, and he asked Quinn to place an ad to hire another Darryl as soon as possible.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Las Vegas Bike Fest Award Ceremony,” came a giant voice from behind the curtain.

Quinn stiffened, suddenly very still, and Kellie grabbed his hand, pulling it into her lap, stroking his fingers. She would find a way to distract him until this was over.

The first few awards were for weird things like best chrome detail, and longest tailpipe—or something like that. She had no clear memory of what the categories were because Quinn finally relaxed and wrapped his hand around her thigh and began to rub circles on her leg with his thumb, sliding his fingers higher and closer to her inseam. The sensation of his calloused skin over hers was slightly deadened by the leather of her pants, but somehow, that made the feeling that much more intense. Her body loosened, swelling in preparation for him. She squirmed in her seat.
Oh God
. How bad would a wet spot show up on black leather pants?

He leaned in closer and, in that growly God of Anarchy voice said, “Open your legs a little bit, babe.” Tugging at the links on her belt, which was a modified stainless steel chain, he rubbed one of the metal pieces against her upper thigh, teasing her. What would that feel like if she let him slide that—

Ooooh-kay. Maybe he was getting too comfortable. She might have put on her biker-chick persona for a test drive tonight, but she wasn’t quite ready to go all Sturgis Motorcycle Rally and perform for the masses.

She turned sharply to try to glare at him in warning, the movement effectively trapping his hand right where she wanted to feel it most.

“And this year’s award for most innovative new designer goes to Quinn Anderson and Quinn’s Customs!”

“Argh!” Quinn said, trying to extricate himself as every spotlight in the room turned toward his stricken face—and his wrist, where his stupid monogrammed cufflink was caught on one of the metal links on Kellie’s belt.

Thinking faster than she ever had before, Kellie grabbed his formerly wandering hand in hers, hissed, “Get up now!” and threw her other arm around his neck while she leaped from her seat, wrapping herself around him, squealing. “You did it, baby!”

The crowd applauded and chuckled indulgently, probably thinking they were allowing the preppy young bike designer his moment with the motorcycle groupie. But Quinn surprised them—and her—because he held her hand and tugged her toward the podium with him.

But what else could he do? They were attached at the moment. So she held on to him, clutching his hand to her tummy like a total goober, and did her fast-walk shuffle along with him to the microphone.

…

This was it. The moment Quinn had been waiting for.

Not for the best young designer award. Kellie didn’t realize it, but he’d known for a week that he’d won the category.

No, the reason he was such a basket case was because she didn’t know what he’d won for. She’d been here at the show with him, and she’d seen Betty—who was, indeed, being shown. But at the last minute, Quinn had managed to slip another bike into the running, after another builder had dropped out.

“Hi, everyone,” he said into the microphone, trying not to flinch at how weird he sounded in giant stereophonic amplification. “I really appreciate this award. I’ve wanted to build motorcycles my whole life—” He broke off when he spotted a familiar face—two faces—a few rows back. His parents were here? He shot Kellie a glance and she smiled smugly.

He gathered his wits and continued. “Winning this award, this bike show, is a really good way to kick off the next phase of my career.”

Kellie tightened her grip on his hand then, no doubt confused about what he was talking about.

“This is my girl, here.” He pulled her forward, by the chain on the front of her pants. Everyone probably thought he was some kind of Neanderthal, but screw them.

“She hasn’t been in my life for long enough to get comfortable around motorcycles, but she sure does inspire me.” He waggled his eyebrows for effect, and the crowd hooted.

He felt Kellie’s eyes on him, felt the power of her affection. Clearing his throat, he said, “For some crazy reason, she believes in me. I think that’s probably because she’s an amazing romance writer, and that happily-ever-after thing is part of her soul. She’s made it part of mine. And because of that, I’ve been playing with some new ideas.”

He turned to her, staring into the green eyes that revealed everything he ever wanted to know. “I decided to launch a new line of bikes. Built especially for women. A little smaller, a little lighter, and every bit as badass as you are.”

Her snort was picked up by the microphone and carried clear around the room.

“Seriously. I want you to ride with me for as long as you’ll have me.”

Her grip on his hand was cutting off his circulation, but he didn’t care. He reached up and wiped at the tear that trickled onto her cheek.

“I want you to ride with me, but you can do it on your own bike, if you want.” Looking to the side, he signaled the Darryls, who were waiting in the wings. They pushed the bike they’d been working on after hours onto the stage.

Kellie gasped. Quinn thought that was probably a good thing. The audience applauded as images of the bike from all angled were displayed on the giant screen so everyone could see every detail.

“How did you keep this a secret?”

He smiled. “I have my ways.”

She gazed at the bike, dazed, but, he thought, pleased. The bike was a smaller version of Betty, with her sleek lines and chopper roots, but unlike his bike, the gas tank and the seat were a metallic flake gunmetal, and there were peach accents. He had to make sure his Georgia peach had a little taste of home.

Finally, the question he’d been holding in for the past—well, since she’d come back into his life. “Kellie Dalton, will you ride off into the sunset with me?”

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Acknowledgments

Special thanks to everyone at Entangled for including me in this amazing series. Especially Robin Haseltine for pulling my submission out of the pile and saying “YES! I want this one!” And then guiding me through the editing process, and getting my humor, and liking my dorky crocheted hats. And thanks to Liz Pelletier for taking my micro idea and helping me build it into a story that I loved writing.

Jessica Lemmon, Cathy Perkins, Kathryn Miller, and Angela Dennis either read or plotted, or otherwise provided authorial support (okay—they mostly listened to me whine about irrelevant stuff during the writing of this book, but that’s as important as a critique!).

Also, as always, thanks go to Nicole Resciniti, kick-ass agent and friend. All you Seymour Agency peeps—you are the best.

I wouldn’t be able to do what I do without the support of my favorite husband, Tom, and my three favorite kids: Karen, Sam, and Dan; and Mom, Dad, Mary, and John—the best grandparents my kids could possibly have. As for the two favorite dogs…no. You were no help at all. But you can have some cookies anyway.