Christmas Wedding

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Pamela Macaluso

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18,8K

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highlight_author

Pamela Macaluso

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18,8K

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One

Was she seeing things? Or did the two-way mirror looking from the tattoo parlor office into the display area need cleaning?

Holly Bryant was used to seeing attractive men. But this guy was a major hunk. From his dark brown hair to his dusty black motorcycle boots—and all parts between. Including his enticing backside, which was displayed to absolute advantage in snug, faded denim.

In keeping with the warm October day in Daytona Beach, Florida, the top half of the man was decked out in a black leather vest. As he turned and walked farther into the shop, Holly could see that the vest showed off his broad shoulders, muscular chest and arms. The V neckline exposed a triangle of dark, curling hair.

And there wasn’t a tattoo in sight.

He was looking at the sample tattoo drawings and photographs displayed on the walls.

“Well, what are you waiting for? The guy’s a customer and Dad’s on lunch break,” Holly muttered to herself under her breath. She hoped she could wait on the guy without staring...or drooling all over him.

Opening the door into the front of the shop, she put on her best salesperson smile and walked out. “May I help you?”

He turned and looked at her with intense green eyes, but he didn’t smile.

Unusual. She was used to men smiling and flirting with her. Especially when she was decked out in the provocative outfits she wore to work in the tattoo parlor.

She’d been designing and making her own clothes long before she’d started taking fashion design classes at a local art school. For “Daytona Bike Week” and “Biketoberfest” she had a special biker-look wardrobe. It was sexy and daring. She thought of it as costuming for her job...playing a part.

Obviously the part of flirting temptress wasn’t working on this customer.

Up close Holly thought he looked vaguely familiar but couldn’t place him. Of course, during Daytona Bike Week every March and the more recently added Biketoberfest in October, there were large numbers of repeat visitors year after year and also an occasional celebrity.

This guy was handsome enough to be an actor, but nothing clicked. Or maybe he was one of those cover models from the romance novels her friend Ellen read.

“I don’t see anything for Yankee riders,” he said. His voice was deep and smooth—the kind of voice that made you think about maple syrup.

“Most of these samples went up ten years ago, when my dad moved to this location. Yankee wasn’t around at the time, but he has done Yankee tattoos. If you’ll step over here, I have a book showing some of them. Plus, he’ll do custom designs, drawn to order or copied from something you bring in.”

He flipped through the book, glancing a little longer at the designs showcasing Yankee. Some were renderings of the Yankee logo, others declared the names of different models in decorative lettering: Yankee Clipper, Yankee Spirit, Yankee Pride.

“I take it you ride a Yankee,” Holly said.

He kept his position, but he glanced up at her. “Yes, I do.”

“They’re starting to be more popular. I’ve seen more on the road this Biketoberfest than at any biker event in the past.” Didn’t this guy ever smile? “It must be all the excitement over the Yankee Hunks.”

Now he was really frowning. “Or it might be that more people are starting to realize what great bikes Yankees are.” He closed the book.

“Did you see anything you liked?”

“Actually, I was looking for a specific tattoo I saw on a guy this afternoon. He said this is where he’d gotten it done.”

“Well, maybe if you described it for me.”

“It showed a caricature of a biker and he was holding a picket sign that read Yankee Go Home.” If there’d been the smallest hint of good nature on his face, it was gone now.

“Was the guy’s name Tiny?”

“Yes.”

It seemed like a strange choice for someone who rode a Yankee, but Dad’s first rule was that the customer was always right. “Tiny’s was the first of that design, and it was just done last week so it’s not in the book yet. But I can hunt up the original drawing.” Holly kept a perfect poker face as she asked, “And where were you thinking about having it placed?”

He had gorgeous muscular arms that could accommodate a tattoo. Plus there was plenty more body currently hidden from view by denim and leather.

“I was thinking about one of two places. Either the trash can or my attorney’s desk.”

“Excuse me?”

“Either the design goes, or you’ll find yourself being sued.”

Holly shrugged, hoping that if she looked calm this whole thing would turn out to be a practical joke or one of those hidden video shows. “I’m sorry you don’t like the tattoo, but I’m sure there’s no copyright on the phrase ‘Yankee go home.’”

“Not the phrase, but that particular rendering of the word Yankee is a registered trademark.”

“Are you a lawyer or something?”

“Or something.”

Holly realized why he looked so familiar. “You’re one of them, aren’t you? One of the Yankee Hunks.”

He folded his arms across his chest with a rippling of muscles that made Holly’s breath catch in her throat. “We prefer to be called co-founders or co-owners.”

She pointed to the book. “The other tattoos probably fall under the same trademark laws, do you want them removed, also?”

“I have no objection to the others.”

“Because they don’t knock your bikes?”

“Exactly.”

Holly didn’t know enough about the laws to argue with him. “I’ll talk to my father about it.”

“Is he the one who did the tattoo?”

“He did the tattoo, but I drew the design.” Tiny had come in on a busy afternoon. While he was waiting, he’d described what he’d wanted. Holly had made some sample sketches to give her father a general idea to work from. As it turned out, her sketch was exactly what Tiny had wanted, so her father had used it.

“You designed the tattoo?”

“Yes. Now, do you want a tattoo, or not?”

“Not.”

“Okay. Well, then, if there’s anything else I can do for you, ring the bell on the counter.” She turned and went back into the office, muttering under her breath about hunks who thought their good looks gave them a license to be grouchy.

* * *

Jesse frowned. His partners, Rorke O’Neil and Alex Dalton, and Yankee’s corporate attorney, Chad Ralston, were sitting around the table in a hotel suite overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.

After they went over the daily agenda of their public appearances, Jesse told them about Tiny—who hadn’t gotten his nickname for any part of him that showed—and his tattoo. Jesse also told them about his trip to the tattoo parlor.

While he wanted to go for blood, the others didn’t seem as incensed by the tattoo as he was. Rorke and Alex actually thought it was funny.

Chad said, “Whether we have a chance of winning a lawsuit is not the issue, Jesse. What we have to consider is what the media will do with it. They’ll make it look like three big bad guys are picking on one poor artistic waif.”

“This waif is about five foot nine, dressed in black leather and built like a centerfold.”

Not to mention her long, luscious legs that made a man wonder how it would feel to have them wrapped around him. Or the long, strawberry-blond hair he would love to see spread across a black satin pillowcase. And the full, pouty lips, which under normal circumstances he would have wanted a taste of.

Chad interrupted his thoughts. “It doesn’t matter. They’ll make her look like Little Red Riding Hood. All sweet, trusting innocence.”

“Besides,” Rorke said. “If we make a big deal out of this thing, they’ll start broadcasting the picture and more people will see it. Once it gets that much exposure other people might decide they want one, too.”

“And then it will end up on T-shirts,” Alex said.

“Baseball hats,” Rorke said.

“Coffee mugs,” Alex added.

Jesse looked at Rorke. “Don’t you dare say refrigerator magnets.”

“I was going to say bumper stickers, but refrigerator magnets are good.”

“Chad, be the voice of reason in this wilderness,” Jesse said.

“As I told you before, Jesse, I really think the best thing for us to do would be to ignore this particular tattoo,” Chad said.

Maybe the sight of Chad and his briefcase would be enough to scare her into throwing out the design. “Could you at least go over there with me and take a look at the drawing?”

Chad shrugged. “I don’t see what good it will do, but you’re the boss.”

Jesse looked at his agenda for the next day. “Tomorrow at two o’clock, then?”

* * *

Holly made an appreciative sound as she washed her face free of her at-work makeup. The extra makeup went along with the sexy image of her clothes. She liked the effect, but by the end of her shift she was always ready to get rid of it. After toweling dry, she smoothed on some moisturizer and brushed on light brown mascara.

She changed into a colorful camp shirt and khaki walking shorts and braided her hair. Picking up her backpack, she headed for class.

Holly paused briefly on the front porch of the white-clapboard house. At one time the house had been a large, single-family home, but then had been converted into apartments. Similar changes had been made to most of the houses on the block, including the one next door where her father lived.

It was a nice arrangement having Red in the next building, giving them both the privacy of living alone while allowing them to share a car. They each had their own motorcycle for regular transportation, but they shared the car on those few days when the Florida weather wasn’t conducive to motorcycle riding. Holly usually took the car to school because it was easier to transport her portfolio back and forth.

Once in the car, she drove the familiar oak-and palm-lined route to school. She caught herself checking every motorcycle she passed. It was normal for her to look at the bikes, but today she was also looking for a particular biker.

Jesse Tyler. A Yankee Hunk with an attitude.

She’d looked through a stack of motorcycle magazines her father kept at the shop until she’d found one with a picture of the Yankee owners. The man who’d been in the shop today was Jesse Tyler. Two months ago, when the article had been published, he was the only one of the three owners who was still single.

So what?

The guy hadn’t looked twice at her. Besides, she wasn’t interested in getting involved with any man. She had a career to build and didn’t need the hassle of dealing with a member of the opposite sex at this point in her life. From what she’d seen her friends go through, she couldn’t imagine any man being worth the trouble and heartache they brought with them.

But Jesse sure was a pleasure to look at. She hoped she didn’t have the opportunity to watch him from opposite sides of a courtroom.

With his usual endearing optimism, her father had told her not to worry about lawsuit threats, but Holly couldn’t help it.

She wished she had promised Jesse they wouldn’t use the design again. She would have, but his attitude had annoyed her. If he’d asked nicely, instead of demanded, she probably would have complied.

And if he’d been the least bit congenial, she might have been able to ask him about the rumor going around school that Yankee Motorworks might be adding a line of motorcycle clothing to their business. It would be an incredible coup if she could get in on the ground floor of such a project.

It would be the chance she wanted—to make a name for herself.

Once she’d found her own success, she could stop worrying that she might fall into the trap of basing her self-worth on the man in her life. Her mother had done it; Holly was determined not to.

And once she established her self-worth, she wouldn’t repeat her mother’s mistake. She wouldn’t have to leave broken relationships, and possibly children, behind to upgrade the man in her life.

She turned into the school parking lot, pushing away all thoughts of her future, her mother, and Jesse Tyler from her mind. Leaving her free to concentrate on the class ahead.

* * *

The next afternoon Holly was putting the finishing touches on a pencil sketch of a jacket for her midterm project when the ringing of the bell by the front door signaled that someone had come into the shop.

“Holly, can you get that?” Red Bryant called out to her.

“Sure, Dad.”

There were two men wearing business suits in the display area. One stood just inside the door, facing the window. The other, holding a briefcase, stood by the counter. Holly guessed he was in his late thirties or early forties. Medium brown hair, deep brown eyes—he was attractive in an Ivy League sort of way.

He gave her a visual once-over, then glanced over his shoulder at the other man before turning to her again. He smiled.

“May I help you?” she asked.

He pulled a business card from his pocket and laid it on the counter. “Chad Ralston. I represent Yankee Motorworks.”

Holly’s heart sank to her toes. She picked up the card, trying to look casual.

Stay calm. Don’t let him see he’s got you rattled.

“So, what can we do for you, Mr. Ralston? A tattoo of a nice heart that says Mother? Or perhaps a shark? How about a great white?” The words poured out before she could stop them.

The man by the window laughed, then turned and walked toward them.

Holly was bowled over again by how good-looking Jesse was—even in today’s civilized business attire. But she would sleep on a bed of tattoo needles before she let him know she thought so. “Oh, so you like lawyer jokes, Mr. Tyler?”

When the laughter stopped, his face took its grim lines again. “It appears so, Ms....”

“Bryant. Holly Bryant.”

“I brought Chad in to see the design we discussed yesterday.”

“You’ll have to take him to see Tiny.”

“You said you had a copy.”

“I had the original drawing. I don’t anymore.” It was at home, hanging on her refrigerator, and the picket sign now read Jesse Tyler Go Home.

Chad shrugged. “I guess that’s it, then.”

Jesse held up one hand. “Hold on a minute.” He turned to Chad. “What’s to keep her from drawing it again?”

Holly planted a fist on each hip. “You can’t stop me from drawing anything.”

“Chad?”

“She’s right. She can draw it.” He turned to Holly. “But you can’t sell it or use it in any way to profit your business.”

“And what if I do?” The words were for Chad Ralston, but her eyes were on Jesse.

Holly felt her father’s hands settle on her shoulders. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” He stepped to the side and held his hand out across the counter. “Red Bryant.” He shook hands with Chad and then Jesse. He was about the same height as the other men, but he had an extra twenty years and an extra fifty pounds on them. “What can we do for you today?”

Jesse answered. “We’ve asked Ms. Bryant not to reproduce a particular design. If she agrees, then we can all avoid the cost and headache of a lawsuit.”

Holly looked at her dad. “Tiny’s tattoo...I mentioned it yesterday.”

Red nodded. “I remember. Why don’t you go on into the stockroom and unpack the shipment and let me handle this?”

She looked at Jesse. The urge was there to spout philosophical ideals about artistic freedom of expression, but at the moment artistic freedom was balanced against her father’s livelihood, and she didn’t feel it was her place to jeopardize that.

Especially when the probability was that even if the sample drawing were in the shop she doubted there would be many requests for it. Tiny’s girlfriend had run off with a guy who rode a Yankee, which was why he’d come up with the idea in the first place.

Holly looked at her dad. “All right, but call if you need me.”

* * *

Ten minutes later her father joined her in the stockroom.

“Are they gone?”

“Yes.”

She set aside the packing list she was holding. “Well? What did they say?”

“For the most part, they repeated what they’d said to you.”

“You were listening?”

“I heard the whole conversation.”

“And what did you say?”

“I told them I wouldn’t use the design again.”

All artistic freedom and philosophical issues aside, it was the most logical solution. “Were they satisfied with that?”