Virgin Promise

“I was a virgin.”

Vic felt dizzy at the realization of what he’d done. He’d taken something from Angela through deception. If he’d known…he never would have come on so strong.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

“I didn’t want you to change your mind. Men like you run from virgins. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize for giving me an incredible gift.” He was the one who should be apologizing. But to do that, he’d have to confess this night started off as a setup….

Dear Reader,

Come join us for another dream-fulfilling month of Harlequin American Romance! We’re proud to have this chance to bring you our four special new stories.

In her brand-new miniseries, beloved author Cathy Gillen Thacker will sweep you away to Laramie, Texas, hometown of matchmaking madness for THE LOCKHARTS OF TEXAS. Trouble brews when arch rivals Beau and Dani discover a marriage license—with their names on it! Don’t miss The Bride Said, “I Did?”!

What better way to turn a bachelor’s mind to matrimony than sending him a woman who desperately needs to have a baby? Mindy Neff continues her legendary BACHELORS OF SHOTGUN RIDGE miniseries this month with The Horseman’s Convenient Wife—watch Eden and Stony discover that love is anything but convenient!

Imagine waking up to see your own wedding announcement in the paper—to someone you hardly know! Melinda has some explaining to do to Ben in Mollie Molay’s The Groom Came C.O.D., the first book in our HAPPILY WEDDED AFTER promotion. And in Kara Lennox’s Virgin Promise, a bad boy is shocked to discover he’s seduced a virgin. Will promising to court her from afar convince her he wants more than one night of passion?

Find out this month, only from Harlequin American Romance!

Best wishes,

Melissa Jeglinski

Associate Senior Editor

Virgin Promise

Kara Lennox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my husband, Rob

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Texas native Kara Lennox has been an art director, typesetter, advertising copy writer, textbook editor and reporter. She’s worked in a boutique, a health club and has conducted telephone surveys. She’s been an antiques dealer and briefly ran a clipping service. But no work has made her happier than writing romance novels.

When Kara isn’t writing, she indulges in an ever-changing array of weird hobbies, from rock climbing to crystal digging. But her mind is never far from her stories. Just about anything can send her running to her computer to jot down a new idea for some future novel.

Dear Reader,

I can’t imagine any career more satisfying—or more fun—than writing romance novels. After writing dozens of books over the past few years for different romance lines and different publishers, I’m especially happy to have found a home with Harlequin American Romance, a line I’ve been reading since its launch.

Virgin Promise was a fun story to write, probably because my cautious, organized heroine, Angela, who plans every detail of her life, is nothing like me! I always wondered how such people cope when they fall crazy in love. Here, at least, is one theory about what might happen. Poor Angie doesn’t know what hit her, and Vic, the steady, reliable cop she falls in love with, doesn’t fare much better! Eventually, of course, they figure it all out. But I tortured them a bit along the way. (Authors get to do that.)

I hope you enjoy Virgin Promise, and I look forward to sharing more fun stories with you in the future.

Sincerely,

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Prologue

“It was in the back seat of my mother’s station wagon at the local lovers’ lane.”

Angela Capria listened to her friend Phoebe’s sordid confession with a mixture of discomfort and fascination. Fascination because her friends looked so normal, yet each one shocked her anew with their tales of painful embarrassment. Discomfort, because she’d already heard three humiliating anecdotes during the past half hour. Her turn was rapidly approaching.

She wasn’t sure how the subject had come up, but over pasta salad and diet Cokes at their favorite deli, Angela’s co-workers had spontaneously started confessing how they’d lost their virginity, sparing no details.

“I was sixteen,” Phoebe, a bouncy physical therapist, continued in a hushed voice, “and he was the biggest nerd in the entire school. But he was crazy about me, and, you know, when a guy’s crazy in love with you, it’s really an aphrodisiac.”

Angela was appalled. “So, you didn’t have any feelings for this guy, but you had sex with him anyway?”

“Well, I felt sorry for him. You know how that goes.”

The other three women nodded their commiseration, much to Angela’s confusion. Why would anyone, even a sixteen-year-old, have sex with someone out of pity? Sex was such a…a personal thing. A powerful and special gift that a woman gave to a man after careful consideration. Or at least that was how it worked in Angela’s universe. Anyway, she thought so.

“So, how was it?” someone asked Phoebe.

“Terrible, of course. The guy needed a flashlight and a guide book.”

Everyone laughed, including Angela. Phoebe had a way with words. As the laughter faded, however, Angela realized four pairs of curious eyes were riveted on her. She cleared her throat and looked down into her salad, playing with an olive she had no intention of eating.

“Well, Angie?” Phoebe prompted. “Your turn.”

“No, thanks,” Angela said politely.

“Aw, c’mon,” said Victoria, a refined blond nurse who fifteen minutes ago had admitted she’d been so drunk during her deflowering she didn’t even remember it.

“It couldn’t be worse than mine.” The usually shy Sarah, their clinic’s office manager, piped up. She was the only one in the group who was married, and she’d turned bright red as she’d confessed that she’d been an awkward virgin bride.

“We won’t laugh,” said redheaded Terri, the clinic’s receptionist, who only minutes earlier had sent the whole table into hysterics with her tale of whipped cream and a rubber spatula.

Angela daintily blotted her mouth with her napkin. “All right. You asked for it. But I think you’ll be shocked.”

“I’m a nurse,” Victoria said. “You can’t shock me.”

Angela took a deep breath. “I’ve never had sex with anybody. I’m still a virgin.”

Phoebe dropped her fork. It rolled across the floor with a cherry tomato still attached, but no one bent to retrieve it. They all just stared, mouths gaping.

“Angie, honey, that’s impossible,” Phoebe said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “You’re twenty-six years old!”

“And you’re so…so…” Sarah couldn’t find the word.

“Earthy, I think is what she’s trying to say,” Terri put in. “Sensual. I mean, you’re a massage therapist, for gosh sake.”

Angela waited for their objections to die down and the inevitable question to arise. “Why?” they asked, almost as one.

“’Cause I’ve never met a guy who made me so crazy with lust or desire or pity or whatever that I was willing to risk pregnancy, disease, or the emotional vulnerability that goes with sex. There, I’ve said it.”

Terri sighed. “You mean you’ve never felt carried away by the moment? Like where you just don’t give a flip about the consequences of your actions?”

Angela shook her head. “Never.” She took a small bite of her brownie, savoring the rich chocolate indulgence and hoping the subject would drop. No such luck.

“So, like, do you think it’ll ever happen?” Phoebe asked cautiously. “I mean, you do like guys, right?”

Oh, honestly. Did they think she was frigid? “Yes, of course I like guys, and of course it’ll happen. When I meet the right man, and I have a long-term, secure relationship, that’s when I’ll be ready to take the appropriate steps.”

“Honey, it’s not line dancing,” Phoebe said with a wink. “And believe me, if you sit around waiting for ‘the right guy,’ you’ll be a virgin when you’re eighty. Just what qualities, exactly, does this mythical paragon of yours possess?”

Angela gave the question serious consideration. “He would have to be psychologically mature. Responsible and reliable. Stable, with the kind of job I can respect. A hard worker. Open and, most important, completely honest.”

“Bo-o-o-oring,” the others said in unison.

Phoebe got a thoughtful look on her face. “I’ll bet,” she said slowly, waiting until she had everyone’s attention, “I’ll bet that’s your problem. You’ve been looking for all the wrong things. If the right guy came along—tall and dark, dangerous and mysterious—and he pushed all the right buttons, you’d be putty in his hands.”

The others nodded in agreement.

Angela shrugged. “Maybe so.” She almost wished it were true. She was a passionate, sensual person. Deep down, she knew that. She reveled in all of her senses, but particularly touch. That was why she was such a good massage therapist. Still, she’d never experienced that all-consuming lust her friends raved about. Maybe it was just bad luck. Maybe the right guy hadn’t come along.

And maybe she wouldn’t have any idea what to do if he did. It was a sobering thought.

Chapter One

Angela cursed three times, stamped her foot and beat on the windshield glass with her fist, but her temper tantrum did nothing to change the situation. First her car had refused to start. Then, when she’d stomped off to find a phone to call her motor club, she’d locked her keys inside the car. She was out here in the clinic parking lot at a quarter past nine in the evening, and everything she owned was locked inside, including her purse. She didn’t even have thirty-five cents on her to make a call from a pay phone. All she had going for her was that things couldn’t get worse.

As the full wretchedness of her situation dawned on her, she became aware of a rumbling that grew louder. Whirling around, she saw a man on an awesomely big motorcycle slowly approaching. Suddenly her situation seemed a whole lot worse than it had just seconds ago.

She should run, she thought, though her feet remained stubbornly planted to the asphalt. Her eyes were riveted on the broad shoulders of the biker, the way his faded denim shirt stretched across his chest. His powerful thighs, covered by yet more denim, gripped the bike, and his black-leather-gloved hands held the handlebars in what looked like a gentle caress.

A tinted visor across the front of his helmet hid his face, but Angela knew he was looking at her. Staring, in fact.

Though a stranger in a dark parking lot represented unspeakable danger, Angela was fascinated. She couldn’t turn her gaze away, much less run. A tightness claimed her chest and a slight queasiness assaulted her stomach. The feeling reminded her of riding the Ferris wheel at the State Fair—exhilarating, but scary.

The bike pulled up beside her. The rider pulled off his helmet, revealing a full head of thick, black, wavy hair, a bit shorter than she’d expected. He smoothed it off his forehead in a fluid gesture, all the while staring at her.

Then she saw his eyes. They were a piercing blue, so vivid she could easily detect the color even in this dimly lit scenario. They almost glowed, as if they had a light of their own. They were topped with steeply angled, dramatic eyebrows and rimmed with thick lashes. His long nose might have been aquiline once, but it looked as if it had been broken a few times. His cheekbones were razor sharp, his lips full and sensual, his chin square as a brick and just as stubborn looking.

She took in all of his features instantaneously, though for a moment it seemed time stood still as they stared at each other.

“Problem?” he asked in a deep, almost gravelly voice. A whiskey voice. She’d read that in a book once, but only now understood the meaning of the phrase.

Somehow she found her own voice. It even managed to come out sounding fairly normal. “It won’t start. Then I locked my keys inside.”

“Double trouble,” he said, turning off the bike. He swung one leg behind him and dismounted. His innate animal grace made Angela’s mouth go dry. In two strides he was very close, and for one agonizing moment she thought he was going to grab her. Instead he stepped around her, leaned down and peered into the driver’s window.

“Yeah, there they are, all right.”

“You didn’t believe me?”

“I like to see things for myself. What’s your name?”

“Angela,” she blurted out. God, what was wrong with her? She shouldn’t give out her name to a perfect stranger.

“Angela,” he repeated. Her name coming out of his mouth had an erotic turn to it she’d never heard before. “Well, Angela, got a coat hanger?”

She noticed he didn’t offer his own name in return. “No. Actually, I think I’ll just go find a phone and call someone…” As she spoke, she edged away from him, overwhelmed by the overt maleness of him. He wasn’t huge—she’d give him six foot one—but there was something about him, a barely leashed power, a dangerous essence, that made her uneasy even as it fascinated her.

“Hold on, now. Maybe I can help you out.” He sidled past her and went to the trunk, popping it open with one deft movement. “You don’t lock your trunk?”

“There’s nothing in there anyone would want to steal.”

“Just a spare tire and a jack. And—” he grabbed something from her trunk and held it aloft triumphantly “—a coat hanger.” He slammed the trunk shut and immediately began untwisting the wire hanger. Angela watched, utterly enthralled, as he manipulated the pliant metal into a curved hook. He’d obviously done this a time or two, which only added to her uneasiness.

“Maybe I should just go call the auto club,” she ventured, knowing now she’d made a mistake. She never should have let this frightening stranger take control of the situation away from her. Hadn’t she learned anything in her assertiveness-training class?

“They’ll take forever to get here,” the stranger argued as he returned his attention to the locked door, then felt expertly along the edge of the window for just the right point of entry. “It’s St. Patrick’s day. Drunks all over Dallas are running out of gas, flattening their tires on broken beer bottles and losing their keys. Trust me, you don’t want to be out here alone.”

He had a point. Angela stood back a few feet, ready to flee at the slightest provocation. But the stranger, frightening as he was, hadn’t made any threatening gestures or comments. Then again, he didn’t have to. His mere presence was intimidating enough.

He made several tries at the lock, then pulled the hanger out and reshaped it slightly.

“You’ve done this before,” she said.

“Yeah.” He inserted the hanger again. “Hell, there’s not a car made I can’t get into.”

Oh, that was comforting.

“Comes from a misspent youth. Hah!” He gave the coat hanger one final yank, and the door lock gave. In seconds he had the front door open.

She was so relieved, so anxious to retrieve her precious keys, that she forgot to be cautious. She slid right past him, only belatedly realizing her body would brush against his. She received a brief impression of heat and hardness before she gained the relative safety of the driver’s seat. His physical allure was undeniable.

She refused to look at him, afraid of what she would see in those luminescent blue eyes. Mostly she was afraid she would see acknowledgment of what she felt—awareness. Awareness on a totally physical, sexual level.

It was a preposterous thing for her to admit, but it was true. She’d felt desire before. She’d even been tempted, at least mildly, to break the celibacy habit. But for her, physical awareness had always followed emotional closeness. She’d never just looked at a guy, heard his voice, watched his hands and felt a rush of heat wash through her like liquid fire.

All wrapped up in this crazy flush of lust was her fear. She was completely vulnerable to him. He was big and undoubtedly strong, and he could have her under his control in a heartbeat. Her smartest course of action, she knew, was to get the hell out of there. Grab her purse and her keys, lock up her car and flee.

“Thanks so much for helping me out,” she said in an attempt to end the encounter. “I don’t know what I would have done…”

He wasn’t listening to her. He leaned through the open car door, and for one glorious, hideous moment she thought he was going to kiss her. Then he sank lower, leaning in farther, and her engine hood popped open. He’d been searching for the release lever.

“Really, you don’t have to—”

“It’s no trouble,” he said, withdrawing, but not before Angela got a noseful of his scent—clean, like soap, but with a hint of musk. He probably hadn’t showered in the past thirty minutes, but the essence was enough to convince Angela that the man had good grooming habits. That didn’t exactly fit the Hell’s Angel image given off by the rest of him.

Resigned, Angela climbed out of the car with her purse and car keys firmly in hand—in case she decided to run away after all. But despite his daunting appearance, the man had been nothing but helpful so far, she reasoned. If he’d wanted to do something terrible, he’d probably have done it already.

With that comforting thought in mind, she stood passively by and let the man try to fix her car. She didn’t normally allow fate or luck to dictate her behavior, but tonight she felt powerless to divert the freight train of events barreling along the tracks in her personal universe.

She was taking an enormous chance by trusting this man. Yet she didn’t seem to have any choice. For the first time in her life, Angela Capria had been swept off her feet.

And the guy wasn’t even trying! Imagine the results if he put a little effort into it.

WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING? Vic Steadman thought, as he fiddled pointlessly with the woman’s car engine. The distributor cap had been unscrewed, a fully deliberate effort someone had made to disable her vehicle. With a twist of his hand he could have her engine running and send her on her way.

That’s why he’d come, right? To make sure the woman wasn’t stranded all alone in a dark parking lot? But he didn’t fix the car. Instead he checked fluid levels, disconnected and reconnected hoses, checked points and plugs, all in an effort to buy himself some time. What did he really want to do here?

He’d never expected Angela Capria to be so gorgeous.

A few hours ago, when his rookie partner, Bobby Ray Allen, had lain on the gurney getting stitched up in the Parkland E.R. after an unfortunate confrontation with a beer bottle, he’d confessed his problem to Vic. It seemed he had a blind date, and there was no way he was going to make it out of the E.R. in time to meet her. Would Vic pinch-hit for him?

Vic had considered this a very peculiar request. Normally Bobby had plenty of female company and didn’t need fix-ups. Also, Bobby was territorial about his girlfriends. He seldom introduced any of the guys on the force to his various women, much less invited one of his buddies to fill in for him on a date. If Bobby hadn’t been lying there bleeding, Vic would have suspected he was being set up.

“Why can’t you just call her?” Vic had wanted to know.

Then Bobby had explained the unusual circumstances, and Vic had been stuck. Apparently this woman refused blind dates. So her friends had covertly set her up. They’d sabotaged her car, and Bobby was supposed to rescue her, then sweep her off her feet with a dark, dangerous, sexy persona.

If Vic hadn’t filled in, the poor woman would have been stranded out here alone in a questionable neighborhood.

He’d originally planned to identify himself as a Dallas cop so as not to scare her, then fix her car and send her on her way. But that was before he’d seen her.

“Do you see the problem?” the woman asked anxiously.

“Not yet,” he lied.

From the way Bobby had talked about her, he’d been expecting some homely, sexually repressed spinster. Nothing could be farther from the truth.

Angela was in her mid-twenties, slender, with rich dark hair pulled into a loose braid and shapely curves that not even her sexless nurse’s whites could disguise. Her breasts were high and full, more than a handful, and her hips were gently rounded beneath the white slacks. He wasn’t sure what color her eyes were, other than that they were dark, but her mouth was incredible—full, moist and pink.

As he thought about that mouth and all the things it might be persuaded to do, Vic felt a stirring inside him, like a sleeping beast opening one eye. Though the foreignness of the feeling concerned him, he couldn’t help but smile at the imagery that had come to mind. Him? A beast? He was reliable, steady Steadman.

Incredibly, his police badge never came out of his pocket. Instead, during that split second he had to assess her, he racked his brain for everything Bobby had told him about her. Massage therapist…repressed…needs a fantasy man to sweep her off her feet, someone dark and dangerous to take control out of her hands, to push her buttons, to awaken her sexuality.

Without any conscious decision on his part, he’d found himself becoming that dark, dangerous fantasy man. He’d stopped short of actually frightening her, because that wasn’t in him under any circumstances, but he’d definitely taken control away from her.

“Looks like it might be your distributor,” he said, hoping she didn’t know much about car engines. “I could fix it if I had my tools.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “I don’t live far. I’ll just call a friend to pick me up, and deal with the car tomorrow.”

That thought made him uneasy. Any mechanic would immediately spot the sabotage, and she would know Vic had pulled a fast one. He quickly formulated a plan. “If you don’t live far, I’ll give you a lift,” he offered.

The woman’s eyebrows shot up. “On that?” She nodded toward his cycle.

“Sure, why not?”

He could tell she was intrigued. “I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before.”

He shrugged. “Nothing to it. I do all the driving. You just hold on to me.”

She shook her head. “I’d have to have a helmet, and I won’t take yours.”

He sauntered over to his motorcycle, opened the side compartment and produced an extra helmet. He dangled it by the chin strap, almost like bait. “Any more objections?”

Angela licked her lips and cocked her head, still indecisive. She would have to be crazy to go with him, he thought. He hadn’t even offered her a name. But she felt the same sexual pull he had. He’d seen it on her face, in her eyes, during those first few moments when they’d simply stared at one another.

“Do you promise to go slowly?”

“I haven’t had a ticket in years.”

“All—” Her voice cracked, and she took a moment to clear her throat. “All right. I appreciate it very much.”

“Pleasure’s all mine.” He gave her a long look before he climbed aboard the bike. She hesitated another moment, then took the extra helmet and set it on her head. He had to help her adjust the strap. His knuckles brushed against the ivory smoothness of her cheek, sending ribbons of warmth trickling through his body. Damn, if her cheek did this to him, imagine what her other body parts might accomplish.