There he was again. The motorcycle man sped past her for the third in the last half, shooting her a huge dazzling grin. Annie Simon's heart gave a startled little leap in her chest, and she forced herself not to smile back at him. It took real effort. 

He roared down the highway ahead of her like a bullet, drawing her gaze helplessly after him. His dazzling red motorcycle glittered with chrome, his helmet gleamed, his black leather jacket flapped wildly behind him. He was larger than life, bursting with brilliant energy against the leafless winter backdrop of dull browns and grays.

This was the third day in a row that he had followed her. She noticed him for the first time around Charlottesville,Virginia. At first she had figured that he must be going her way by sheer coincidence and was just flirting with her to amuse himself on the road, but she'd been stopping every day for hours to hike in almost every state and national park that she passed, and he never seemed to outdistance her. She didn't really mind. In fact, the few times she thought she'd shaken him off for good, she'd been surprised at how disappointed she felt-almost angry at him for not trying harder. Then poof, up he popped, flashing her a wild grin so full of rollicking good humour that she couldn't help laughing back 

She knew she should be alarmed at his persistence,young woman travelling alone,yada yada, but the game was actually giving her a tingle of pleased excitement, and it had been long since she had felt anything remotely like a pleasant tingle. Lately, her feeling had run more along the lines of dread, exhausted anger, or a crching sense of impending doom. The little buzz that the motorcycle man gave her was a refreshing  as long as he stayed strictly in this place. 

Annie had whiled away what would have been many long, depressing hour on the road speculating about him studying the fascinating detail of bike and his wordrobe , not to mention his powerful, gorgeous body . Three-year as a fashion buyer had trained her eye to read the silent language of his wardrobe. She had a feeling that the jacket on his back retailed for over $2,000, depending on the season, and how well things were moving on the floor . Her father had taught her enough about motorcycles to spot the sleek, sensual line of an exquisitely perserved vintage indian. The guy was speeding down the highway on a jewel of a collector's item that had to be worth at least fifty grand, if not more. Whoever he was, and whatever he did, her motorcycle man didn't spare any expense in outfitting himself . He looked great.