“Your business.” He flicked the cigarette away before jumping effortlessly onto the pier. It shook and swayed beneath them. He was taller than she remembered, and she had to angle her chin to keep her eyes level. “Just don't expect to suck me into it.”

“All right then. I'll just stop wasting my time and yours.”

He waited until she'd stepped off the pier. “Suzanna.” He liked the way it sounded when he said it. Soft and feminine and old – fashioned. “You ever learn to drive?”

Eyes stormy, she took a step back toward him. “Is that what this is all about?” she demanded. “You're still steaming because you fell off that stupid motorcycle and bruised your inflated male ego?”

“That wasn't the only thing that got bruised – or scraped, or lacerated.” He remembered the way she'd looked. God, she couldn't have been more than sixteen. Rushing out of her car, her hair windblown, her face pale, her eyes dark and drenched with concern and fear.

And he'd been sprawled on the side of the road, his twenty – year – old pride as raw as the skin the asphalt had abraded.

“I don't believe it,” she was saying. “You're still mad, after what, twelve years, for something that was clearly your own fault.”

“My fault?” He tipped the bottle toward her. “You're the one who ran into me.”

“I never ran into you or anyone. You fell.”

“If I hadn't ditched the bike, you would have run into me. You weren't looking where you were going.”

“I had the right of way. And you were going entirely too fast.”

“Bull.” He was starting to enjoy himself. “You were checking that pretty face of yours in the rear – view mirror.”

“I certainly was not. I never took my eyes off the road.”

“If you'd had your eyes on the road, you wouldn't have run into me.”