BILLIONAIRE BIKERS: 3 MC Romance Books (11 page)

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"So tell me...what do the 'R' and 'B' stand for?"

I glance up from the table, and the various documents arrayed about beneath my hands. Ana sits in bed, her long legs drawn up and tucked beneath her. She is completely naked, aside from my leather jacket, which she has turned around so that the patch faces the front and covers her breasts. The sleeves are long for her diminutive arms and wrinkle where she has to push them back around the cuffs. She cradles a cup of coffee in her hands, watching the steam rise as she waits for it to cool. Rather than reheat what had already gone cold, I settled for spoiling her by brewing another pot fresh.

"Robber Baron," I reply finally. "I ride with the Robber Baron MC. Doubt you've heard of us."

"Why would that be?" Ana muses as she glances down at the skull and crossed arrows. I settle back in my chair, balancing on two legs as I consider her.

"Because we don't boast the usual membership of a motorcycle club," I reply.

"How so?" she asks.

"There are only five of us, to start," I say. "And we don't always see eye-to-eye. We don't always get along. It's rare that we ride together, but the brotherhood aspect...we take it very seriously. A brother is always there when you need him, so it doesn't matter if most of us choose to ride alone the majority of the time."

"That seems counter to riding with a club," Ana is quick to point out. "Don't you get lonely?"

"No." My reply is automatic. "We've come together and networked out of necessity. Like I said, we're not like other MCs."

"You still haven't explained that point to my satisfaction," Ana says as she ducks her head to blow on her drink. I raise an eyebrow.

"How is your satisfaction my problem?" I ask. Then, "Never mind. Don't answer that. Any more innuendo and I'll have to take you for another round, and I don't think I've recovered yet."

"I beg to differ," she mutters to herself. "Your stamina is something else, Mr. Carter. Are you sure you're human?"

"You asked to know more about the MC," I remind her. "So here it is. It's money, more than blood, that binds us brothers together. It's not as romantic as most MCs, I know, but it's the truth. The club found me three years ago when I needed it most, and I wouldn't dream of leaving it now. We've got revolving membership and revolving rules. The one thing that stays the same—that we all have in common—are the bank accounts. You could say it's the price of admission."

"You're all billionaires," Ana concludes. "Aren't you?"

In answer, I rock back a little further in my chair, letting the creaking wood speak for me.

I continue to be surprised by how my wealth doesn't appear to affect Ana. The only conclusion of my own that I can draw, watching her thoughtful expression now, is that a fuck-ton of money isn't anything new to her.

              Again, I find myself wondering who she is and what she's been through. Who she's running from. Can I take her as far as she needs, or will she always be running?

              "I can see why the club might be just a
little bit
exclusive," she says.

              I shrug. I drop forward in my chair to continue studying the papers I've pulled from Richards' briefcase. All these names and numbers are starting to give me a headache, but I persevere. There was a time when I would have gladly spent hours doing this in the office, but then I'd have had a pair of readers with me. Somehow, I think pushing a pair of glasses up my nose now would give Ana occasion to think I am far less hard than I want her to think.

              "I know it's been three years," I mutter to myself, "but I don't remember any of these accounts. And these investments are completely spitting in the face of what Green Star is supposed to be. To stand for. Sustainable energy. A tomorrow that will completely eradicate the need for fossil fuels. Hell, we even had an electric motorcycle program we were set to start developing with Tesla. Looks like Halligan burned that bridge."

              "I assume you've been watching the news," Ana says. She slips from the bed to pad barefoot across the room and join me at the table. "Green Star hasn't been doing so hot since the widely-exaggerated reports of your death. Making controversial decision after controversial decision…"

              "This goes beyond even that," I mutter. "These transactions, these accounts…they prove how deep the corruption goes."

              "So why not release them?" Ana is standing at my shoulder now. "You could blow the whistle. You could take Green Star down. No one would ever even need to know you're alive. Unless you think that guy—Richards? Will piss his pants and tell."

              "You certainly have a way with turns of phrase," I chuckle. "No. The only people likely to believe Richards are the people who tried to kill me. There were three of them there that night: Richards, Tannenbaum, and Halligan, who rose to take my place as the current CEO of the company. Whether or not they believe I'm alive, if I do decide to blow the whistle, they go down with Green Star."

              "So what's the problem?" Ana presses. "Isn't that what you want? Revenge?"

              "No." I glower at the pages, my attention focused on something not present in the room with us. "Not like this. Not at the expense of my company. Green Star needs to go on, with or without me. The foundations were laid for them to do good work.
Great
work. I need to nullify the corruption from the inside, and leave a resounding message for those who would try to pervert what I created."

              "You can't put the life of your company before human life," Ana says. I turn my glower onto her then, but she appears unaffected. Sleeping together has its drawbacks, then, if she no longer feels intimidated by me. Then again, I'm not sure I can argue that she ever was. "No, Flint. Listen to me. I'm not trying to be the feminine voice of reason here. When you really think about it—if that's the stance you really want to take with this—then you are exactly like the people who tried to kill you."

              "I'm nothing like them," I growl. Normally I would have lost my temper at this, and likely slammed something—my fist on the table, maybe—to demand her silence so I could think. But the logic of what she was saying was sound. Now I had to face the reality of the situation I had put myself in: if I had always run the risk of becoming like the men who had corrupted my life's work, had it ever mattered to me? With or without Ana's summary of events, did I really care about being a good man if it cost me my revenge?

              "There are other ways to get revenge, you know." It's as if she can read my mind. More than that, it's as if Ana knows precisely what it is I have always required, inside or outside of the boardroom, in or out of exile—the proposal of a better solution. "You can hit them so hard you can make them
wish
they were dead."

              "How do you propose I do that?" The words sound pretty, especially when someone like Ana says them, but I can't imagine what she might mean. How can those men possibly be better to me alive than dead? Even when you take my personal vendetta out of the equation, the future of the world suffers every hour these men are left alive and able to take it down the wrong path.

              "Sometimes you're as dumb as you are pretty," Ana says. "Or maybe the gears of your brain have been turning on the idea of 'revenge' so long that you can't think of anything else." She gestures to the pile of papers I have amassed before me. "They decided your life was forfeit over financial gains, right? They chose power and money over human life. That tells you a lot about them—it tells you what they value more than anything else. I think killing these men won't make them suffer
nearly
as much as destroying what they've lied and cheated and murdered their way into getting. Go after their money, Flint. Go after their public image. There's gotta be some stuff in here that will enable you to do that."

              "You may be on to something," I say slowly. "But I'm going to need help if I decide to go down that path." Ana perks up at this, and I can tell her bright expression has nothing to do with the coffee, and everything to do with my words. "Not you," I correct her assumption. "After all that talk about tenuous brotherhood, I'm going to have to get in touch with one of the other Barons."

              "Why not me?" she grouses. "I was really helpful before in, you know, not letting you star in Making a Murderer, Season Two."

              "I'll let you tag along," I allow. "If you're still in a mood to blackmail me. And if you feel like you have nothing better to do."

              "I have a million better things to do," Ana replies. "But you're right. You better keep an eye on me, just in case I decide to cash in on the story that Flynn Carter, vanished billionaire, is still alive."

              Our eyes meet for a moment, but I don't betray an expression that I am joking despite my words, and neither does Ana. I can see how playing pretend about our relationship might become exhausting in the near future, but I'm not ready to give up the lie—not yet. And neither is she.

              We can't be together, but we can't find it in us to be apart. Something's got to give, and if my life and past are anything to go by, it's going to be sooner rather than later.

              I realize I still hold Ana's gaze. It's either that, or she holds mine. I break away and move about the hotel room, gathering up our sparse belongings, kicking discarded clothes her way. The time to leave draws near. I'm anxious to get down into the lobby and make the call; then, it's back out on the road for us.

              There's only one brother who can get me the information I want, and he happens to be conveniently located nearby.

I just don't know if he's more likely to greet me with a handshake or the barrel of a gun.

ANA

I'm more nervous than I thought I would be about meeting one of Flint's "brothers."

              Of course, I'm not going to let it show that my nervousness is starting to get the better of me. I stride confidently across the hotel parking lot, following him to his bike, the mode of transportation I already find myself adjusting to. I'm not sure I can go back to riding in a regular old car after this. More traditional vehicles are too confined, too slow, and somehow seem more likely to be maneuvered by inexpert hands. Men like Flint seem almost like wranglers—they spend a lot more time learning to break the power between their legs.

              A blush threatens my face as I conceive the metaphor, but I fight it back. I can't help but wonder what the similarity I've drawn means for me.

              "The man we're going to see is named Lesher," Flint mentions as I lift myself up onto the seat behind him. "His membership in the club has been contested. A lot. I'm on better terms with him than the rest of the Barons, but that doesn't mean he's going to be happy to see us when we roll up."

              "Wouldn't it be better to call ahead if you're worried?" I ask. The question strikes me as being incredibly, I don't know how to describe it—
civilian
—but I feel the need to point out the obvious just in case. The Flint I've come to know these past few days has proved himself to be an incredibly intelligent man, but he doesn't always seem to identify the most straightforward solutions to things.

              "Thought about it. Decided it's better to show up unannounced. Gives him less time to pack up and move his operation if he doesn't want to be found…which is true nine times out of ten." He cranks the right handlebar, and the engine purrs beneath us. "Anyway," he continues as we pull out of the lot, "who says I'm worried?"

             
Your body says plenty,
I think to myself, but I refrain from remarking on it out loud. The honed, controlled strength I can usually feel hardened beneath me as we ride is steelier than usual; Flint tenses all over with anxious energy, so much so that it's almost as if he is practically bristling in my arms. How am I supposed to play it cool about our impending meeting if he's so clearly broadcasting his own feelings about it?

              Then again, maybe I've become especially sensitive to reading Flint's moods. We've spent so much time together in close physical contact these past few days, I almost feel as if I can read him like an open book. Even his facial expressions, or willful lack thereof, are becoming more familiar to me as the time passes.

              And I can't deny any longer that I've loved every moment of getting to know this sexy, mysterious man. Maybe I've been solitary for a lot of my life leading up to this point, but that doesn't necessarily mean I've ever been
alone.
I've always been surrounded by people: friends, clients, and associates, who at the end of the day belong to my family, and more specifically my father. I can't claim a personal connection to any of them, not even members of my own family who I am necessarily tied to by blood and loyalty. I've been bustled from one opulent, crowded room to the next my whole life, increasingly paraded around like a show pony as I sprang up and got older, growing into my full feminine potential. I was never alone in my life before the road, yet I was
always
alone. It's a strange dichotomy, and I'm not sure it even makes sense…only that's how I feel now, riding with Flint, and realizing the full depths of my loneliness leading up to this strange and exciting point in my life.

              But I shouldn't let myself dwell on the past now. That life is far behind me, and getting farther by the second. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of the men who are after me since that first fateful meeting with Flint at the bar, and I don't intend to cross paths with them again if I can help it. I'll run for the rest of my life if I have to.

              We weave through the early morning streets of Omaha, stopping only for a short breakfast at the gas station as Flint refuels. I'm not complaining—food is food, and I'm the sort of woman who can put away anything and be happy—but the contrast between our night at the Ritz-Carlton and resuming life on the road leaves me feeling a bit winded. That Flint can transition so easily between the two, as if money and affluence is no object, is something to be admired.

              "Lesher is located on the edge of town," Flint says. He leans against the bike with his arms crossed. As I sip my gas station coffee, I glance around at the other early morning commuters. All of them are either staring openly from their own pumps, or looking away as if they had been staring seconds before I considered the direction their eyes were turned. Flint is definitely the most intimidating person around. I've never been with the most intimidating man at the gas station before. The thought humors me, and I smile into the lid of my cup.

              "Ana, are you even listening to me?" he demands. I shake my head, and squeal with surprise and delight when I feel his arms wrap around my waist and pull me into the space between his legs, still radiating the heat from our ride over. I tighten my grip on my coffee so it doesn't slip from my grasp, forgetting at the same time to concentrate on something more productive, like slipping out of
Flint's
grasp. But for all the fun a continuation of our little fight might be—for all the enjoyment I might get out of being the teasing pull to his incessant push—I decide being reeled in against him is exactly where I want to be.

              I crane up on the tips of my toes, bringing my close-lipped smile within inches of his own. Even leaning against the frame of his bike, Flint still outmatches me in height, but I've managed to bring myself to his level. I see his own lips twitch seconds before the gloved fingers resting at the small of my back flex and yank me against him. My mouth almost parts in a surprised laugh, but the noise is silenced by his kiss.

              Flint's mouth engulfs my own, hot and wet and warm. His tongue flicks against mine with an already indecent familiarity, and I sigh and ease into him—he already knows every hidden angle and secret preference that makes me weak in the knees. He's more than a quick or practiced study: he is an adept, intuitive lover. The thought of him watching me intensely even when I'm not looking his way, and of his gauging my responses and filing them away for later use, makes me feel both vulnerable and beautiful. While he might never admit it out loud, Flint, a man so recently consumed by thoughts of revenge, can't help but focus on and memorize even the smallest details that turn me on.

              I'm aware that the people who were looking at us before are probably still looking, but I decide that I like that they are looking. Unlike last night's hard-won kiss under the cover of darkness, Flint is claiming me easily and publicly…and I, him. Anxiety about meeting another member of his MC, and even anxiety about the future of our deeply strange relationship, can't cut through the smell of gasoline and the heat of Flint's kiss.

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Lesher is staring at me.

              This is
exactly
what I didn't want.

              If I thought Flint was darkly formidable, Lesher Vance is setting new records for the shadiness of blonds. I wouldn't even go so far as to call him 'blond'—his hair is closer to colorless. It's longer than Flint's own dark locks, at least on top; Lesher's hair is shaved close up the sides of his head, so close I'm surprised it hasn't nicked his skull. The hair on top is much longer, and slicked back in a way that looks more aerodynamic than greasy.

              While Flint is tan from his time on the road, Lesher is paler; but then, he wears many more layers than Flint, and appears to have taken the
assume leather
part of the Robber Baron handbook incredibly seriously. Then again, maybe the club found him that way. He is a few inches shorter than Flint—although I wouldn't call him
short
by any stretch, no pun intended—and his shoulders are broader than Flint's. He looks strong and compact under all that oil-black leather; more than that, he looks in control. His eyes are a cool baby blue, as pale as the rest of him, and his expression is one of immovable indifference.

              He is a strikingly handsome man, despite being a photonegative of Flint, but I can't help but feel slightly afraid of him. Even seeing Flint wield a gun with homicidal intentionality doesn't compare to the feeling of not knowing what this man is capable of. If I thought Flint was hard to read when he wanted to be, this man is a blank page in book devoid of legible words.

              So yeah, I'm a little afraid of Lesher Vance. That's why I stare back openly, allowing his intense study of me to be mirrored in my own face. It's a tactic I learned growing up around intimidating men, and I'm not afraid to employ it against this stranger now.

I notice his mouth hitch slightly, almost as if he knows exactly what I'm thinking. I feel like shifting, but fight the impulse. I don't move.

We are seated across from one another at a bare kitchen table, in a spare apartment that doesn't look like it's been lived in longer than twenty-four hours. Living on the road this long I've become acquainted with the concept of burner phones, but burner apartments, which this appears to be, is something new. I find the concept interesting—I hadn't known they made those. I had better ask Flint about it later.

              "Who's this?" The way Lesher's voice slides over the words, I almost expected him to call me something degrading. I finally do allow myself to shift in the chair, but it's only to cross one leg over the other.

              "Who she is isn't important." I wish Flint would join us at the table, but he can't seem to sit still. Lesher had even invited him to do so when we first entered; I could tell then by the unsurprised, even disaffected greeting that met us that Flint had not expected an interview with Lesher to come this easily. Maybe that's why he won't stop pacing.

              "You don't
know
who she is," Lesher corrects.

And suddenly,
something
about the way his says this makes me think he knows exactly who I am.

Flint is too distracted to notice. He walks through the naked kitchen, running his gloved fingers along each spotless surface as he summons the words to ask for help. Apparently, the ride over from the hotel wasn't enough time for him to string his request together.

If I'm feeling more than a little impatient with my lover, it's because of my increasing certainty that Lesher is more dangerous than I imagined, and not in any of the expected ways. Flint had informed me that he was more given to participating in criminal activity than the rest of the Robber Barons…a profile of the club that I've decided to tuck away and unpack later, but right now isn't the time.

Lesher is still looking at me, and as I watch—never batting an eye at the display—one upper lid lowers subtly. Is he actually
winking
at me? Is there any chance Flint is getting a load of this?

No. Not a chance. Flint clears his throat, and I let my full lips turn down in a scowl for Lesher's benefit. I don't appreciate being extorted, and I have a feeling it will be to my long-term benefit to let him know in advance. It might also be to my benefit to never leave Flint's side while I'm with this man…then again, what if he feels like revealing certain tidbits of information that will set Flint against me? Or worse, cause the man that I am falling in love with, despite my best intentions, to leave me? I would be devastated.

I can't let any of this show in my expression.

"So you didn't go through with it," Lesher supplies helpfully when Flint continues to struggle. "Your revenge mission. The bloody recourse you've been mapping out for years." He is surprisingly cultured despite his thuggish looks; not that I can applaud this, but the contrast is still surprising. "And now that you've royally fucked it all up because you've gained a girlfriend and grown a conscience, you're coming to me."

"That's not at all an accurate representation of what's going on," Flint threw back waspishly.

"It's a little accurate," I concede. I may not have an ally in a man like Lesher, but I have to give him props when he's right. Flint shoots me a scathing look, but seeing as this has never had anything resembling a pronounced effect on me in the past, I just shrug my shoulders.

"So what do you expect me to do about it?" Lesher sits back and crosses his arms. I shoot a look toward Flint. I've been wondering this, too.

"I need you to find me an address." Flint's assertion chills me. I narrow my eyes, trying to get him to look my way, but he won't comply. Is he planning on going after someone else from Green Star? Maybe another one of the men who tried to kill him? I remember him telling me there were three of them altogether. Discounting the failed assassination of Richards, that leaves two guilty men still out there carrying Flint's black spot.

Lesher's grin lengthens. "But that's not all," he coaxes. "Is it?"

"I want to hit them where it hurts most," Flint replies. "Their wallets. And for that I'm going to need your help…or at least, the help of your network on the other side of the law."

"And I'm going to need the help of your own wallet to motivate me to do that," Lesher says seamlessly. "I've got a big job coming up that I need to fund, and I'd rather not use my own money."