Guitar, violin, various flutes—maybe a piccolo—a concertina, a drum, harmonica, what he thought was a dulcimer, a cowbell, bongos, and a few things he couldn’t readily identify.

If it hadn’t been locked, he doubted he’d have resisted the urge to open the cabinet and try out a couple of instruments, just to see how they sounded, to see how they worked.

And, he supposed, that was why he didn’t consider Parker a casual bang. He had this urge to open her up, see how she worked.

Rich girl—wealthy woman, he corrected—with exceptional looks, the pedigree, the connections, the smarts. And she worked as hard, maybe harder, than anyone he knew. She could’ve coasted on her very fine ass, jetting off for drinks in Majorca, sailed the Aegean to sun those amazing legs, sipped wine in a Parisian cafe between shopping sprees.

Instead, she’d founded a business with childhood pals that kept her running around at other people’s beck.

He wandered to the piano, improvised a few chords.

Not for the money, he decided. He didn’t get the greed vibe from her. Money would be a result, a practicality of business, but not the essential ingredient. He knew what it was like when money was the essential.

Satisfaction played a role, but there had to be more.

He wanted to figure it out.

He sensed her—a little heat along the skin—and looked up to see her in the doorway.

And oh yeah, he wanted his hands on her.

She wore jeans as well as she wore her woman-in-charge suits. Her boots had short, skinny heels. She wore a bright red shirt under a thin leather jacket the color, like the boots, of dark chocolate. Silver hoops glinted on her ears.

Classy Biker Babe? he wondered.

No. Just classy.

“You play?”

“Me?” He shrugged.“No. I just mess around.That’s some collection.”

“Yes. My father’s mostly. He had absolutely no musical talent, and so admired those who did.”

“Del plays a mean piano, especially after a couple beers. How about you?”

“Piano, violin—with or without beer.The dulcimer.”

“I thought that’s what that was.What’s this one?”

She walked to the case as he tapped the glass toward a small, key-shaped instrument.

“A trump or jaw harp.You hold it against the teeth, or the lips, and pluck. Simple, effective, and very old.”

“Is that a piccolo?”

“No, that’s a soprano flute. That’s a piccolo. I can get the key for the case.”

“No, that’s okay.” He wondered, idly, where people came up with names like piccolo or saxophone. “I just like knowing what I’m looking at. Plus, if you opened it, I’d just want to play with everything and we wouldn’t get to that ride.”

He shifted so instead of shoulder-to-shoulder they stood face-to-face. “Maybe by the end of it, I’ll figure out what I’m looking at.”

She stepped back. “It’s not that complicated.”

“You’re not doing the looking. Ready?”

She nodded, led the way out. On the way she picked up a purse with a long strap, and slipped it on cross-body.

“One thing I know about you.You think things through.” He tapped the bag with his finger.“Getting on a bike, need your supplies. So you put them in something you can hang on, instead of hang on to. Smart. I like smart.”

He opened the door, holding it until she’d walked through.

“I like practical. That’s not practical.” She gestured toward the bike.

“Sure it is. It gets me where I’m going, gets good gas mileage, and can fit in small spaces for parking.”

“I’ll concede those points. I doubt it feels practical through a Connecticut winter.”

“Depends.” He walked down to unstrap a helmet.“Before you get on,” he said as he handed it to her, “and in the interest of fair play, I’ve got a bet going.”

“A bet?”

“With Del. Jack and Carter wanted in on it. I bet Del a hundred I’d get you back on the bike.”

Her eyes, he noted, neither heated or frosted. They just narrowed a fraction.

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. Del figured no way in hell. Jack’s with him on it, so I’ve got two on the line. Carter put his hundred on me.”

She turned the helmet in her hands. “You’re telling me this after I’ve agreed to take this ride, but before I actually take it. Meaning, I can toss this helmet in your face and tell you to go to hell.”

“Yeah.”

She nodded again. “Carter can keep his full winnings, but I want half of yours—Del’s hundred specifically.” She put the helmet on.

“Fair enough.” Grinning, he swung onto the bike.

He didn’t have to tell her to hold on this time, he noted, and with her arms wrapped around his waist, he roared off.

Maybe her heart thundered, especially on the curves, but Parker couldn’t deny she enjoyed the sensation. Neither could she deny if she hadn’t wanted to be there, she wouldn’t be.

Curiosity, she thought. Now she’d satisfied the curiosity. Yes, streaking down the road, punching through the wind, was just as thrilling as it had been on her initial, brief ride.

It didn’t mean she’d make a habit of it, but she appreciated being able to file the experience under Things Accomplished.

Almost as much as she appreciated winning the hundred from Del.

Served him right.

Since she was in the process of admissions, she had to admit it had been damn perceptive of Malcolm to calculate her reaction.

Then again, maybe he’d banked on his own dubious charm to persuade her to keep the deal.Though she couldn’t see the point of that. Safer to have said nothing.

And wasn’t that the point? she realized.

He wasn’t the type to take the safe choice.

The hell with it, she decided. She’d enjoy the experience before filing it away.

That enjoyment climbed several levels when she realized he zigged and zagged his way toward the water. She caught the scent of it, damp and tinged with salt. She watched the sun flood its evening light over the sound, glint and glimmer over the bumps of Calf Island, catch in the rippling white sails of pleasure boats.

And all the while the machine growled under her, vibrating with power.

Obligations, schedules, duties shed from her mind, and blew away like feathers in the wind.The thunder of her heart throttled back to a steady, relaxed beat as she watched gulls soar and dip. If the phone in her bag rang, she didn’t hear it, didn’t give it a thought.

She lost track of the time, noting only the softening of the light and the air as he doubled back.

He slowed as they cruised into Old Greenwich. Tourists and locals mingled on the busy main street, drawn by the shops and restaurants, the easy distance to the shore. But the bustle didn’t diminish the neighborhood feel.

He turned off the main, putting with traffic before swinging into a minuscule parking spot. He pulled his helmet off as he turned to look at her.

“Hungry?”

“I guess I am.”

“I know a place here that serves the best pizza in Connecticut.”

“Then you haven’t tasted Mrs. G’s.”

“Maybe I’ll get lucky there, but in the meantime . . . You can let go now.”

“Oh.”A little flustered she hadn’t realized she still had her arms around him, she pulled back, climbed off.

He hooked the helmets on the bike. “It’s not far. Just enough to stretch it out a little before we eat.”

“I don’t mind a walk,” she began, then flipped open her purse at the signal. “Sorry, that’s voice mail. I’d better check.”

“How many?” he asked when she muttered a curse under her breath.

“Three.”

“Do they ever give you the night off ?”

“It happens. Rarely, but it happens. People planning a wedding, or a big event like an important anniversary, it becomes their world for a while. Every idea or problem or decision can take on enormous magnitude.”

She started to slip the phone back into her bag, thinking she’d duck into the rest room first chance and handle whatever she could.

“Go ahead and do the callbacks.”

“That’s all right. It can wait for a bit.”

“You’ll be thinking about them, and thinking how to duck away to deal with them. Might as well just do it.”

“I’ll make it quick.”

He slowed the pace to a saunter, listening while she spoke to someone named Gina about chiffon versus taffeta. They agreed Parker would meet her to check out both samples.Then she discussed a Cinderella coach with a Mrs. Seaman. Parker promised to arrange one as she pulled out a notepad and wrote down the specifications. Finally, she assured somebody named Michael that both he and his fiancй, Vince, still had time to learn to swing dance, and rattled off the name and number of a dance instructor.

“Sorry,” she said to Malcolm as she slipped the phone back into its pocket. “And thanks.”

“No problem. Okay, I don’t care about chiffon or taffeta, or the difference in weight and sheen, but where the hell do you get a Cinderella coach outside of Disney?”

“You’d be surprised what you can get, especially if you have the right resources, and in this case a virtually unlimited budget. Mrs. Seaman—that’s Seaman Furniture—wants her daughter to arrive and depart in a Cinderella coach, I’ll make that happen. After I check with the bride to make sure that’s what she wants.”

“Got it. Now, why do Michael and Vince need to swing dance?”

“They’re getting married in February, and finally decided on a Big Band-era theme.They’re wearing zoot suits and spats.”

He took a moment to absorb it. “You’re not kidding.”

“No, and I happen to think it’ll be fun. So naturally, they want to swing, and particularly well for their first dance.”