She looked up in time to see a big, black, dust-covered Harley slow and swing into the narrow drive that led up the hill to her inn. The guy straddling the noisy monster was wearing a thick black leather jacket, jeans with what looked like black leather chaps over them, heavy gloves, heavier looking boots, and a black helmet that looked as dusty as the bike.

“Stealth biker,” Kirby murmured as she straightened to a stand. She could only assume he was either lost, or…well, she didn’t know any other reason why he’d be idling in her driveway. When he didn’t turn around at the leveled-out gravel lot area at the top and head back down the hill, she walked over to see what was up. Maybe he was looking for work. Which, good luck with that. The area wasn’t an economic boomtown in the best of times, and while the excitement over the coming ski hoards had been palpable in terms of expanding the local workforce, that excitement had waned rapidly in the face of the relentless, unseasonably warm weather.

“So, I hate to disappoint you,” she murmured under her breath, “but I’m definitely not hiring.”

As she drew closer, he turned off the bike, settled the weight on the kickstand, and then threw his leg over the back and straightened. He looked…well, the word “powerful” came to mind. Maybe it was all the black leather, but he was a big man, easily over six feet, with or without the heavy road boots, broad shouldered, and just very…imposing. He slid off his gloves and laid them across the seat; then he turned as he unbuckled his helmet. Affording her a lovely view of a mighty fine backside. She decided right then and there she was a big fan of whatever those chap things were he was wearing. Damn.

Then he turned back, helmet off, and she forgot all about his amazing ass. She was too busy noticing the way his thick, dark curls, unshaven, hard-looking jaw, and lethal black sunglasses jacked up the intensity of his overall outlaw appearance.