It was all so peaceful. So Italian. So—
A big American motorcycle came thudding up, close beside the building. With an arrogance that proved the rider was also American, he barely pulled it to one side before parking. Another six inches and he’d be on the carruggio. It was a monster of a machine, like the kind that rode on big American highways.
She knew nothing about motorcycles, but this one looked old in style yet brand new. It had a little Indian-head lamp mounted on its curved front fender that appeared to be searching for a tomahawk to scalp her with—if it only had arms. The metal was a glossy burgundy accented with white pinstriping. The fenders covered the top half of each wheel in a manly swoop. Large saddlebags hung at the rear, but the bike was all about the massive, bright-ch
