BILLIONAIRE BIKERS: 3 MC Romance Books (12 page)

"I don't want to know about it," says Flint.

"You would if you were a good little Baron," Lesher replies. "Which, we both know, you aren't."

"I'm not like you," Flint all but spits the words. "You're a criminal. You're—"

His ire is up and his temper is provoked, and he's about to destroy his chances of getting what he needs. I cut in quickly. "You're our only hope, Mr. Vance. We've been on the road almost nonstop for the last few days, so…sorry if it seems like we're burning the candle at both ends."

Lesher looks at me for a long moment after I've said my piece. He sits like an immovable statue across from me. I can't tell if what I'm saying is having any effect, much less getting through.

He shifts, finally, and I feel some of the tension ease out my shoulders. "It's all right, Miss—"

"Ryan," I supply.

The room was quiet before, but now it goes dead quiet as I realize what I've done.

I can feel the blood draining from my face, and my stomach gives a sickening twist as I watch the slow smile spread across Lesher's own expression.

I've fallen right into his trap. I'm so, incredibly, goddamn
stupid.

In an effort to play nice and keep up with his pretense of formality, I have inadvertently given him my last name. My
real
last name. If Lesher suspected who I was before, I've just confirmed it for him myself.

Flint has stopped his pacing, and he's watching my exchange with Lesher intently now. He can read the strangeness of what has just passed between us, even if he doesn't possess the same confirmed information that Lesher Vance does. I straighten my posture in an effort not to sink into my chair in complete defeat. Flint is no idiot. He will know that what just transpired has to do with my true identity.

The question is: will he maintain his flippant attitude that has made our traveling together possible? Or will he decide to at last take an interest in his runaway-turned-blackmailer-turned-lover?

"Miss Ryan." Lesher purrs my name. Hearing it after so long, spoken in such a sultry voice, shouldn't make my skin crawl, but it does. "It does seem as if at least one of us has been burning it at both ends. I wouldn't expect anything less from Brother Flint. If you can convince him to part with his ego long enough to make the deal he came here to make, then maybe there's something I can do for him."

"What about money?" Flint growls.

"Oh, I have no doubt that she can convince you to part with
that,"
Lesher replies with a nasty smile. "It's a skill most women excel at."

"I'm not most women," I say scathingly as I rise from the table. It appears that negotiations between the two riders are back on, so I assume I am no longer needed.

"You're right. My mistake," Lesher responds.
"
You're
not
like most women. Not at all."

I turn from this 'compliment' so I don't have to see the expressions on their faces. Despite trying my best to play it cool, I can feel my heart beating wildly in my ribs, as fast as the first time I joined Flint on the back of his bike.

What does Lesher know, and what will he tell Flint about me? They don't seem to be close enough to share a hand, but that doesn't make me believe any less that Lesher holds cards that would be of a particular interest to Flint…

… if Flint cares at all about me. He had seemed too consumed with his own demons from the beginning that I never worried he would dig deeper into my past, but after our kiss in the parking lot, and our night spent together at the Ritz-Carlton, I'm suddenly not so sure anymore.

I yearn for intimacy with this man, the only man who can make my skin heat and my heart race with a look, but I'm not sure I can accept the consequences. If I give myself over to him fully, what will be the cost? Will he turn away from me and leave me standing in the dust, trailing behind him on the long lonely road? I've been ready for that outcome all along, haven't I?

Or would he betray me to the life I left behind and throw me back to the wolves?

I excuse myself without a word to the front room. I can hear them resuming talks now, but the walls separating us make the contents of their conversation impossible to decipher. I step outside the apartment and seat myself on the stairs, gazing down toward the parking lot. Flint's bike winks at me in the afternoon sun. I've almost grown to love it as much as the man who owns it.

And there's that word.
Love.
I've been anticipating and dreading its emergence in my thoughts, but it was there all along, waiting, ever since I first laid eyes on and struck a tentative partnership with the man who found me at the bar. There's no denying it anymore.

I'm in love with Flint.

And yet, I can't afford to be in love with Flint. Not when there's so much risk involved. Not when every outcome seems stacked against me. I may have moved outside the claustrophobic apartment, but it still feels as if the walls are steadily closing in. I once vowed I would never be at the mercy of men again, but isn't that what falling in love is? Surrendering yourself to the whims of someone else, and allowing yourself, in your newfound vulnerability, to be at their mercy…how could I let this happen?

The door to the apartment opens and closes, quietly, behind me. Telltale, heavy footfalls, and then Flint eases down on the top step beside me. I don't turn to look at him. I don't want to see the expression he wears on his face. I don't want to know what he knows about me, and by extension, how his feelings may have changed. And yet, all I want to do is lay my head against his shoulder. It's so rare that we sit side-by-side. When will I ever get the opportunity to do so again?

I resist. And Flint, if he has any similar inclinations to reach out to me, resists also.

We sit together for a long, silent moment. Through the open window of the kitchen, I can hear Lesher moving about. Richards' suitcase is conspicuously missing; I assume it was left with Mr. Vance. It seems like they managed to reach an agreement after all, then. I want to feel happy for Flint, but I can't help the sense of dread that's slowly but surely welling up inside me.

When the silence between us is broken eventually, it's Flint who does the breaking. "Who are you, Ana?" he asks quietly.

I'm not sure he expects a response. He must know that I can't give him one, and that all I can feel in the wake of his question is relief that Lesher kept his lips sealed tight and his knowledge concealed on whatever he knows.

The question is now, how long can I keep this up?

FLINT

It's more apparent to me than ever that the woman riding on back, with her arms wrapped around me, is still a total stranger.

              It was all I could do to keep myself from pressing Lesher on what he had hinted at knowing about Ana. The question was on the tip of my tongue the entire time I watched him pore over the papers I had snatched from Richards' home in Omaha. The information was never pertinent to me, not before…

              … but what I failed to reveal to Ana is that Lesher Vance, most contested member of the Robber Barons, is currently one of the most wanted men in America. He's been on and off the list for as long as I've known him, operating under different names and through different miscreant mugshots of the men acting as vehicles for his crimes, but he knows the underworld as much as every other billionaire I've worked closely with knows the world of legitimate business.

              And I don't doubt in which world he found information relating to Ana Ryan.

              Could she be a prostitute? A criminal? If she's as infamous as his snide comments seemed to imply, why have I never heard about her before? Is it just that I've been so wrapped up in my own selfish pursuits that I've failed to keep up with the important players in the outside world? Is that it?

              Well…failed to keep up with them until I find myself in bed with them. Even now, the constriction of Ana's delicate arms around my torso sends a primal heat shooting straight into my belly. It hasn't even been twenty-four hours since sex with her, and already I find myself craving more, almost to the neglect of everything else. I yearn to bury myself in her, to relish the look of pure helpless bliss on her face at the pleasure I alone can bring her. You don't have to be a sex scientist to know that our chemistry is off the charts. There was nothing quite so rewarding as seeing that look of surprise mingled with complete carnal relief on her face the moment we first became one.

              That sort of sex is dangerous, and addictive. I feel so tangled up in not knowing who Ana really is that the only way I can see myself achieving any sort of clarity is by seeing her physically laid bare before me. I've always been a driven man, but this level of primitive desire for something I'm not sure I can claim ownership of completely is driving
me
mad.

              How can I accept Ana in her every beautiful, challenging nuance, if she won't let me in? I still don't know the first thing about her—or the forces that for twenty-some odd years pressed on her continuously to create her.

              This line of thinking, of
force
and
being pressed against
her, really is not helping the tightening in my jeans.

              I feel a slight squeeze, and tense my jaw to keep from groaning. Even the lightest touch under this much stress threatens to send me over the edge with thoughts of her. I read the signal easily enough, and in a half mile I turn off toward the rest stop.

              Good. We need to talk.

              "Don't go anywhere, handsome," Ana says as soon as she dismounts, but the usual teasing tone of her voice rings a bit lackluster. I can tell that she has been as occupied with her own thoughts as I have been…and I can't help but wonder how much they might have been in alignment. I remain astride the bike and watch as she sashays and disappears around the side of the building. Once I'm certain she's out of sight, I park the bike and dismount to follow.

              The rest stop is mostly abandoned. In the distance, I can see a plump older woman walking her small dog on the lawn, with her husband sitting behind the steering wheel in the idling car. The feeling of isolation makes me secure in what I do next.

              As Ana comes back around the side of the building carrying snacks she's purchased in the vending machine, I make my move. She only has time to drop the bag of pretzels she is holding before she finds herself on the lean, mean, pent-up end of my six-foot-two frame.

I carry her back and pin her against the brick wall beneath me, enjoying the feel of her in front as opposed to behind. She gasps lightly, and then glares at me, as if what I have done is absolutely outrageous, but I can tell her mood picks up immediately at my physical show of dominance. Maybe she thought that in her secrecy she had something to be forgiven for; now, I let her know loud and clear that isn't the case.

"If I was just some stranger who pinned you at a rest stop…" I murmur darkly into the shell of her ear, "What would you do?"

"Knee you in the nuts," she answers at once. I can tell that in her time on the road she has thought of this scenario before. "And then run screaming for help to that little old lady and her Pomeranian."

"What the hell is a Pomeranian?" I ask, with very little real interest in an answer, as I bend to kiss her neck.

"Something the human race will have to answer for one day," Ana murmurs. I can tell from the catch in her voice that the press of my lips is having the desired effect, but she still hasn't lost any of her usual sharpness. I can't help but chuckle at her response. Who but Ana could come up with something like that? Even if I don't always show my mirth, there is no denying that she has a fairly firm hold already on what constitutes my sense of humor.

Speaking of holds, I draw away from my worship of her neck to cup her chin in my hand. Against the material of my riding glove, her skin looks even paler in the shadows of the building wall, like that of a porcelain doll. It's hard convincing myself that it isn't just as fragile.

"I get the self-preservation thing, Ana," I say severely. "But I can't protect you if you don't tell me what's going on. You want to tell me who you are?"
Or who Lesher thinks you are?
I amend privately. Ana turns her head away, but I still hold her chin fast. Finally, her lips move in a firm answer:

"No."

"How did I know that would be your answer?"

"Because you know me," she whispers. "You may not think you do. At least, not in the ways that matter…but you do, Flint. You know me, the
real
me. In the last few days I've been more open with you than I…" Here she pauses, and I'm certain she would fully turn from me if she could.

But I'm not letting her go willingly. Not any time soon.

"…we slept together," she finishes lamely. "Of course we've been open with each other."

"That's not what you mean," I reply. Maybe it's cruel to put her on the spot like this, but I crave hearing her true feelings on 'us' as much as I physically crave to be closer to her. "Somehow, I knew it would never be just
sex
with you."

"You knew, huh?" Her mouth twists in amusement. "Were you counting on sex with me all along,
Flynn
Carter? Is that it?"

"You are
very
good at dodging questions with more questions," I growl as I thrust the evidence of my need against her. Her head falls back, and she gazes up at me with hungry, half-lidded eyes at the display. "Not so good at dodging getting pinned against a wall by an unpredictable man who may or may not have his way with you right here in a public space, in full view of anyone who might pass by."

"Oh, I don't think you're
that
unpredictable," Ana mocks me. "Not in this regard, at least. Although I admit finding you waving a gun in the face of a former coworker was…surprising. I'm curious what you have in store next, Flint Carter."

The statement rings surprisingly sincere, and I take in every detail of her face, my gaze flickering from her pensively smiling mouth to her eyes, which appear to be studying me in turn. I don't want to say we've
lost
the moment, but it's evolved into something different.

In her own way, Ana is asking me if we will continue together. I don't know how I know it, but I do. It's like reading her signals when we ride together, and time on the road—and lying with her locked inside my arms—have taught me to interpret the smallest details of her speech and facial expressions.

More than asking, I think she's just put in a request. She wants to see firsthand what comes next. And I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel the same.

"I suppose that depends," I reply as my hands slide to the curve of her waist and grip it possessively, "on how you feel about getting out of these clothes and putting on a revealing dress. Any color preference?"

Her confusion translates in her face, and how she holds every delicious inch of herself beneath me. I grin crookedly. It's a small victory in the sensuous war our personalities continue to wage, but I'll take it…just as I will take her again, later, far from road rest stops and prying eyes.

My revenge mission against those who wronged me has evolved into something greater than myself. I'm not going to burn Green Star to the ground—and the lives of all the thieving bastards who stole her from me—I'm going to retake what is mine.

I'm about to enact the next part of my plan, and this time, Ana is going to help me.

#

Phillip Tannenbaum is overweight. He appears to exist in the world to take up the space that the shrinking, mousy Richards always seemed to forfeit in the boardroom. Profiting off my stolen company and living in the lap of unearned luxury for three years has only seen him amass more bulk…and an aura of entitlement as enormous as a planet's gravitational pull to go with it.

              The club I find him in is luxurious—the exact sort of place he doubtless believes is perfectly suited to a man of his station. The clientele, too, appears equal to his extravagant tastes. When I find him, he is seated in a shadowed VIP corner of the main room, one that I can clearly see is just shy of being roped-off. I assume he grants relatively easy access to outsiders on account of the sort of outsiders he is receiving; a steadily revolving door of women wander in and out of his orbit, taking sips off his martinis and turns sitting on his expansive thighs.

              I sit at the end of the bar proper, a calculated distance away. Even in my glory days as celebrated CEO, I always preferred occupying a quiet place at the bar rather than a spot in the club limelight—it enabled me to think, to plan, to innovate…and to, yes, occasionally be approached by beautiful women.

My outfit now makes any outside interest from the opposite sex a stark improbability, or so I think. I wear a baseball cap with the bill trained down over my eyes, and a pair of dime store sunglasses that don't appear out of place in the club despite the lack of light. There are plenty of young hot shots who keep their shades on here. I left my jacket, too, back with my bike, which is parked in a back alley a few blocks away. I'm already incognito and inconspicuous, but I exude an aura of unapproachability just to be sure; I lean heavily over my drink and square my bowed shoulders, creating a self-imposed barrier between myself and the rest of the patrons of the club. Even the bartender seems to get the message loud and clear, and doesn't make a move to approach me as I slowly nurse a whiskey on the rocks. I intend to make it my only drink of the evening. I'm not here for pleasure, after all.

I'm here on business.

The crowded room doesn't fall silent when Ana enters, but it might as well have to my mind. It's as if a shaft of light has broken across this murky tomb of the lascivious and condemned, and despite my efforts to avoid notice I feel powerless to look away.

She breezes through the front door and, after a moment's quiet consideration of the room, descends the staircase into the basement of the club—exactly as we planned it. Her fiery red tresses hang in their soft, natural waves, plump and voluminous and glossy from the quick shower back at the motel room I rented for us. I purchased her makeup at her request, along with the expensive red dress that now sheathes her body, and she has fashioned herself after every man's boyhood fantasy of Jessica Rabbit: a swelling bust and tiny waist, a sweep of hair that falls luxuriantly over one eye, and full red lips that look naked without your own pressed against them.

She's a real vixen, absolutely irresistible in her presentation, and my cock lurches at the sight. No sooner have I seen her in the dress then I ache to have her out of it and pressed into a sweat-soaked tangle of bedsheets, reduced to something base and wanton, something that stands as a stark contrast to the poised woman she is now.

God, I need to fuck Ana.
It's more than an ache that afflicts me—desire has set my every sense on fire and I positively burn for her. Why didn't I take advantage of our time back at the motel room to make her my own once more? My confidence in our arrangement is hardly shaken at the sight of her now, but there's no denying I'm not the only one sizing her up privately and laying filthy claim to her in my fantasies. Every working set of male eyes has turned to the seductive Cinderella—even most of the women have turned to look.

She strides slowly to the bar, crossing her arms and leaning against the cool marble surface as she allows herself to casually occupy the space beside me. The bartender hastens to throw down a cocktail napkin and a drink on the house for the woman who is sure to start attracting the barflies. She is like human honey.

We need to get our plan into motion sooner.