Read An Excerpt

THE GOOD DAUGHTER
by Jane Porter

Genre: General Mainstream Fiction, Mainstream

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Crouching on the curb, Kit raised her camera to capture the burnt orange bike parked in front of Bluewater Steakhouse, the big bike’s huge ape hangers reflected in the restaurant’s frosted glass window as fog swirled around the body and wheels.

Working swiftly, she snapped another half dozen shots. First of the front tire, and a close up of the stark handle bars and then another of the dark brown leather seat with its image of a sexy half naked woman wrapped in the embrace of one scary snake.

She was still snapping the intricate leatherwork when a faded denim clad leg swung over the seat, hiding it.

Kit jerked her head up and lowered the camera just in time to get a glimpse of long black hair, bronze skin, dark eyes and the slash of a high cheekbone before a black helmet came down, obscuring his face.

Impulsively she raised the camera, snapped another photo even as he turned his head and looked directly at her.

Gorgeous, she thought. Dangerous, she thought in a more logical part. He looked like trouble. Tough. Hard. Physical.

Sexual.

And then he started his bike. It sputtered once, twice, before roaring to life, low, rough, loud.

Kit bit into her bottom lip even as the bike lurched forward and then did a quick spin, turning in the middle of the quiet street to come straight at her.

She stumbled backwards, thinking the rider had lost control but then he stopped the bike mere inches from her ankle and tugged off his helmet.

“You took a picture of me,” he said, looking into her eyes, his voice nearly as deep as the engine’s growl.

She opened her mouth and then shut it.

“Why?” he demanded.

Her brows tugged, and her shoulders twisted. “I liked your bike.  Thought it’d make an interesting picture.”

His dark eyes narrowed and his head tilted, glossy black hair sliding over prominent cheekbones. “You a cop?”

She nearly laughed. “No.”

“What do you do then?”

“I’m a teacher.”

“And what do you teach?”

“High school English.”

He sat back on his seat. “Then why are you taking pictures?”

“It’s a hobby. Gives me something to do when I’m not grading papers.”

He looked at her a long moment, expression shuttered and impossible to read. “How do I know you’re really a teacher?”

“Why would I lie?”

“People do all the time.”

“Well, not me. I’m a Catholic School teacher,” she said, emphasizing Catholic. “I have to be moral. It’s my job.”

“You took a vow of morality to teach English?”

She wondered about his background. He was very dark, and hard, and altogether too intimidating. “No. But what kind of example would I set if I went through life lying, stealing and cheating?”

“I didn’t know women like you still existed.”

“The world is full of good women.”

“I haven’t met any.”

“Then you’re hanging around with the wrong crowd.”

“You don’t like me.”

“I don’t know you.”