BILLIONAIRE BIKERS: 3 MC Romance Books (16 page)

              "I love you, Flint Carter."

              I don't just hear the words as they are spoken; I feel them reverberate in my ribcage, my heart. Ana might be riding behind me, but I know exactly where I'll be keeping her from now on.

###

NANCY

When I first see the man enter through the revolving front doors of the bank, I immediately drop my pen. Thankfully, it's attached to a silver chain moored to my desk, so nothing comes of my clumsy maneuver save for the chain snaking out across a pile of papers and tightening as it arrests the pen's fall. I deposit the pen back in its holder to avoid any further mishaps and quickly smooth my hands across the front of my pencil skirt for good measure.

              My reaction doesn't come because I've seen the man before. Oh, no. I think I would remember that leather ensemble, creased and black as midnight and creaking with every echoing bootfall. My reaction comes because from the moment he enters, his eyes meet mine—as if he's locked on and zeroed in. I don't have to lift my gaze again from searching for nonexistent wrinkles to understand that he's headed my way.

             
Is this man really a customer?
I wonder.
Don't be ridiculous…of course he has to be.

But then, why have I never seen him before? Maybe he's just a stranger to this branch. We're a small operation, but it's not as if I work for the only Grand National Credit Union around.

He arrives at my station. I clear my throat and glance up from pretending to straighten an already neat stack of papers. The man bypassed the sign that instructed him to wait until called. Somehow, I don't think he is used to playing by the rules.

              "Good afternoon. How may I help you?" I inquire. I keep my greeting formal, maybe even a little sterile, just to be safe. I try to make myself as automated as the various machines that sit on my desk.

              His mouth flexes a little and when he speaks, I'm treated to a flash of straight, pearlescent white teeth. "That remains to be seen, Nancy."

              I blush as my name slides easily past his lips, but save myself from making my bashfulness come across any worse by not asking how he knows who I am. As a bank teller, my name is broadcast on my reflective gold nametag for all to see. There is no hiding who I am from him even if I wanted to.

              It's a strange thought to have in that moment, but it occurs to me nonetheless. I have extensive experience dealing with rude customers, sure, but never any that I felt like hiding from. That's part of why I'm so successful at my job despite being an introvert: I'm good at putting on my best winning smile and not shying away when it counts. I know how to be accommodating without being completely yielding; I know how to deal with personalities more aggressive than my own.

              But this man doesn't put himself forward as being aggressive. None of the body language that I have grown accustomed to is present: he carries himself straight in his shoulders, but stands a little more loosely around his torso and hips. Maybe that's why I feel my eyes drawn to his body below the belt, but I keep them resolutely trained on his face, leaving my character study incomplete.

The man gazes back at me and maintains eye contact; though, from the corner of my eye, I see that his pale lips twist in a slight, amused smile. There's no way my reaction to him is any sort of secret…at least, not to him. The way he stares at me, I suspect he is conveying that it will be kept between us.

This makes it much worse for me in the long run. This isn't the first time, nor, I’m sure, will it be the last, that I curse the youthful expressiveness of my own face. It makes my job that much harder for me nine times out of ten.

"Whatever you need from me today, sir, I am happy to help," I respond automatically.

"I would like to open an account," he says. "Is that something you can do for me?"

"I…" My eyes move away from his momentarily to attempt to track down one of the representatives qualified to screen him, but all of them appear to be busy. My neighbor and senior teller, Christian, is also engaged with a customer, so I can't just claim rookie status and pawn this handsome stranger off on him—even if flamboyant Christian might thank me for the generous pass at the end of the day.

This recent guest is
incredibly
handsome. He looks like he just rolled out of a 1950s Hollywood lot, fresh off the set of
Rebel Without a Cause.
While he has the good looks to rival James Dean, I somehow sort of suspect he would wind up playing the villain of the piece. His hair is too blond, almost platinum, and it’s shaved close up the sides in an undercut. I notice a nick in one ear, and wonder if this is the result of an unsteady, careless hand, or if it's an old injury. His pale blue eyes bore into me as he awaits the completion of my sentence.

"Sure!" I announce suddenly perky, if only to interrupt the train my own thoughts are taking and thrust my stammer back into retirement. "At least, I would be happy to get the process started for you. May I see your ID?"

"Sure," he responds. After rifling through his wallet, which is just as leathery as the rest of him, he pushes a plastic card toward me. I notice that he wears black leather gloves. It's something we're supposed to look out for—it helps people avoid leaving traceable fingerprints—but in the context of
this
man, the gloves make sense. I unfold my readers from where they hang in the collar of my blouse and push them up my nose as I accept his identification.

"Thomas?" I read aloud in surprise.

The man folds his arms and leans them on the counter. This, too, is against regulation, and something we're trained to look out for, but I don't see any harm in it. It's hard to find fault with the amused way he's looking at me.

"Is there a problem?" he asks.

"It's just, uh…you don't seem like a Thomas." Not good, and very likely insulting. I backpedal quickly. "I mean, Thomas doesn't really strike me as a biker's name."

Oh God, that's even worse. Christian is looking over at my window now with an expression of mixed fascination and horror that I could be so insulting to a customer.

Thomas is being an incredibly good sport, however. "What makes you think I'm a biker?" His lips stretch and his eyelids lower, and he looks like a snake basking on a rock just waiting for its next meal to wander within reach. If I didn't think I could dig myself in any deeper, he's just showed up with a spare shovel and a ready-and-willing inclination to help.

"I just assumed by all the leather…and the fact that it's eighty degrees outside…" I say. "I mean, if there wasn't a logical reason for dressing that way, wouldn't you be hot otherwise?"

"I could say the same for you," Thomas notes as his eyes travel down my front. "There must be a
logical
reason for what you're wearing, but the logic sort of escapes me. I can only assume your dress code is different from my own. Is it in the handbook that they make you button all the way to your neck? I don't see a single hole that isn't filled."

A blush sweeps across my face, and I am aware that this observation comes from directly looking at my chest.

"And I can't see over the counter…" Thomas cranes forward in an attempt to look anyway, but his view continues to be thwarted by the desk. "… but I bet you're wearing leggings. Pity. I'm sure they're terrific."

"My stockings?" I ask automatically. I really hope that sound I hear on the right isn't Christian sniggering at my expense.

"Your legs," Thomas replies.

I walked right into that one, terrific legs or not. I notice that Thomas has used the excuse of fact checking his theory to lean further forward on my desk. I remove my glasses and tuck them back into the pocket of my blouse.

"Mr. Smith," I respond carefully as I return his driver's license, "I am afraid I am unable to open an account for you today."

His smile twitches, and I catch a first glimpse of what a frown might look like on his face. It might actually suit his features better, I muse, which is a strange thought to have—especially about someone I've just met. "Why not?" he asks as he takes his card back. "If you don't mind my asking."

"Oh, I don't mind at all," I reply with a ready smile. "It's only because I am in no way authorized to do so. But if you'll have a seat over there, I'll notify the first available representative of your request."

The smile returns almost at once. "Then why did you ask to see my ID?" Thomas inquires. He's getting it now. The cat thought he was toying with the canary. From his station, I can see Christian glancing between us incredulously.

"Seeing as you're not wearing a nametag, I felt at a disadvantage," I respond, still giving him the full array of my teeth.

"So you decided to waste my time because you were curious?" He doesn't sound angry. In fact, seeing the grin that flexes across his face now, I would almost say the evanescent ones leading up to it were inauthentic—but this is just an observation made in hindsight, and I can't be sure of anything. He's leaning on the counter again. I feel so stiff standing before him by comparison, but there is no professional reason to attempt to bring my face closer to his. I pull out a drawer and withdraw several files as I continue to speak to him.

"I decided to help you pass a few minutes in enjoyable conversation," I say. "You may be seated now if you choose."

"Oh, I think I'll be just fine standing here," Thomas responds. "You're not doing anything, are you?" He casts a conspicuous glance at my already conspicuous files.

"The customer always comes first," I reply pleasantly.

"We'll see about that."

I hear Christian give an audible, approving gasp, but I admit whatever has just been implied passes over my head completely. I wonder if Thomas' comments could be considered sexual harassment, but Christian is here, and I've done a good job of deflecting his come-ons so far with a little professional playfulness. I've been bank telling long enough that my naturally shy nature now comes second to my ability to redirect.

All the same, I find it's become increasingly difficult to raise my eyes from Thomas and return to the outside world. We're locked in more than just conversation, and despite my first, intimidated impression of him, I find that I'm starting to enjoy our exchange.

But the outside world seems determined to invade, whether I want to pay attention to it or not. Thomas' eyes break from mine first, and he turns to observe a group of men coming through the revolving glass door.

My stomach plunges at the sight even before my brain fully comprehends what I am seeing. There are five of them, all dressed in black—unlike Thomas, it isn't leather riding apparel that they are wearing. Each individual wears a ski mask pulled over his head to disguise his features, although I can tell from the breadth of their shoulders and the size of their combat boots what gender they are.

"Everyone get down on the fucking floor!"
the man in the lead shouts as he raises his semi-automatic rifle. Screams fill the entryway of the bank as bullets fire from the mouth of the weapon, shattering lights in their fixtures and the lenses on our mounted security cameras. Bodies drop, all uninjured, in obedience to his demand.

I stand stock-still, petrified, too afraid to comply with even this simple request. The masked man's eyes meet mine as he lowers his weapon and he trains its smoking muzzle directly on me.

"This is a robbery," he informs me.

LESHER

I crouch down immediately and raise my hands, but from my new vantage, I continue to gaze coolly at the men in ski masks. There are five of them; I watch as they array themselves about the enormous foyer of the bank, seeking out employees and patrons alike to continue their intimidation tactics. There is a very small window in which they can assert their dominance over their hostages and ensure that no heroes rose up to take them on.

              One of the men begins to walk swiftly in my direction, and I realize he is headed for Nancy. I glance up to see the woman's terrified face still hovering over the station above me.

              "Get down," I hiss the order. She blinks, as if broken free from a spell, and quickly drops down to comply. I shift toward the side of the desk as she edges out on her hands and knees to meet me; when the masked man points the muzzle of his gun directly at her head, she quickly lifts her hands to demonstrate her compliance.

              "Easy, tiger," I mutter to the trigger-happy robber. "She's coming out."

              "Do I look like I fucking have time to wait?" the man growls his response, although his words and steely gaze are still directed at Nancy. I raise my hands a little higher to further express their emptiness, before reaching to help the terrified woman down onto the floor. She takes my hand without a second thought and allows herself to be reeled in beside me. I can clearly see that she's in shock.

              "What's wrong, Nancy?" I ask as the masked man steps away to see to another couple hunkered down by the entrance. "Never been involved in a bank robbery before?"

              "I appreciate your attempt to inject some levity into our situation, Mr. Smith," Nancy returns. Her voice shakes, and I can tell she is more frightened than she is letting on. "I just ask that you please not feel too offended when you realize it isn't working."

              "Call me Thomas," comes his automatic reply. "And thank you for putting on a brave face anyway. As a patron of your establishment, I appreciate it."

              "I hope this doesn't change your mind about opening an account with us," she replies. I feel a smile stretch across my lips before I can suppress it. Inappropriate, given the circumstances.

              "All work and no bank raid, huh?" I ask. "Rest assured, if I survive this, I will still have money for you to look after."

              "I wouldn't be so sure about that," Nancy mutters as one of the men, the ringleader, crosses back to the center of the floor. "But what could they possibly want from our branch? We're small-time! It's not as if we keep all that much physical money available to our clients…"

              I can see that she is thinking aloud, and doesn't really expect an answer from me. I shoot her a look all the same to assess her expression. The thin, elfish face that I was drawn to upon first entering looks even more pinched with anxiety, and the cute auburn bob that had previously looked so pristinely styled is completely disheveled. She looks like the adrenaline dump has just woken her up from a long nap.

              I really can't imagine how boring her life must have been up until this point. Maybe there is a bright side to the robbery for her after all, one that she can benefit from in the future moving forward. Maybe life in her little town will never be the same for her again.

              I almost wish I could stick around to watch, but there's no way in hell a town like this and all its boring little dramas could ever keep me. I have a strong desire to reach out and smooth her hair back, which with every nervous sweep of her hand is beginning to resemble a bird's nest more and more, but I don't act on that impulse, either. I keep every move calculated.

              "Where's your branch manager?" I mutter. In the next instant, the masked man at the center of the room demands the same:

              "Get me the branch manager! You!" he bellows as he singles out the male teller who had previously occupied the station beside Nancy. The teller swallows audibly and shoots a wild look about the room, as if hoping the robber could have possibly been indicating someone else.

             
"Christian,"
Nancy moans mournfully as the male teller grips his podium and rises to his feet. He doesn't so much as shoot a look her way to acknowledge he's heard her as he moves toward an alley of back offices with the masked man marching behind him.

              I decide to make my move now. There's no use waiting. Before Nancy can raise a cry to object, I yank her against my side and clap my hand over her mouth. I feel her lips open against the material of my riding glove in protest as I drag her back behind her own podium and out of view of the room. Everyone else is too preoccupied with Christian's forced exit to notice that his neighboring teller has also vanished.

              Nancy stops struggling immediately when she realizes what I'm doing. We take shelter behind her desk, wedged between the chair and the table. I pull my hand back as she turns to face me, dark eyes wide and expectant. The front of her blouse rises and falls with each laborious breath, but I appreciate her efforts to keep quiet as she awaits the formation of a plan.

              "What? No secret button to call the cops?" I ask as I scan the underside of the desk without real surprise. I'm not interested in sticking around while we wait for the boys in blue to arrive. Nancy shakes her head in quick affirmation, and looks like she might want to be sick. I grasp her shoulders to keep her anchored in the present, and keep steady eye contact. It's easy when the eyes gazing back into my own are so pretty, thickly lashed and fluttering. "It's fine," I say. "Don't worry about it."

              I watch as her head bucks a little and she swallows; I have a feeling she's trying not to laugh. If ever there was a situation she found herself in that called for worrying, this is probably it. I have to convince her she's going to be fine if I expect her to work with me. I need the Nancy I was just getting to know before the interruption, and not the one I first met hidden behind a plastic, professional smile. I need the one who was just starting to trust she could hold her own in a situation where she perceived she was outmatched.

              "Is there a room we can get to from here? A back room?" I ask. "Something like a conference room, or a vault?"

              "The conference rooms are back toward where they took Christian, and they all have windows," she replies. "And the windows extend all the way to the floor. Even if we hide behind the table, someone only has to pass by and look in to spot us."

              "So much for that plan," I mutter, but she shakes her head quickly.

              "You're right about a…a vault," she says slowly. "And it's down that opposite hallway. There." She points, and I crane my head to look. The entrance is located behind the empty podium to the left of hers.

              "Is there a key to get in?"

              "A code," she corrects. A pale hand flutters once more through her hair, making it stand on end.

              "And I assume you don't have the authorization to open it," I intone.

              "I do, actually," Nancy corrects me once more; then, she hesitates for a moment. "It's just that…" she murmurs. "Do you think we can get back there without anyone seeing?"

              I turn away from her only long enough to peer around the side of our hiding place. The leader hasn't returned, and the remaining four men continue to patrol the perimeter of the foyer.

              "The one who spoke to you directly isn't here anymore," I say. "And the others haven't noticed us missing…yet. We might have a window to move when their backs are turned." I return my gaze to her. "I assume that the vault is reinforced?"

              "Yes." She still looks at me, terrified, allowing herself to be led through the motions of my logic.

              "And I assume there's a phone installed?"

              "Yes. But what about everyone else?" she whispers, and I'm surprised by her sudden ferocity. "We can't just leave them out here!"

              "Sure we can." I'm a tactician at heart, and I have to confess to myself now that I hadn't anticipated her conscience to rear its noble head. Still, it's not a hitch that I see any problem in overcoming. "We're mounting the rescue effort. The cops can't do anything if we don't put the call in."

              "I suppose so," Nancy mutters as she shifts closer to me. "So when do we make our move, Mr. Smith?"

             
"Now."

              I breathe the signal in the same instant I motion with my hand. I've had my eyes trained on the activity in the main room, and I perceive now that no one, criminal or otherwise, is looking in our direction.

I don't wait to see if she'll follow, even though I'll need her to move through to the second phase of my plan; I rise halfway into a crouch and duck across the aisle to the next podium. When I turn back, Nancy nearly crashes into me. I'm glad to see she's keeping close.

I motion with my hand once more, and we dart into the back hallway together, keeping low all the while. As we pass by the employee breakroom, I wonder suddenly if she will divert from the plan to hunt for a cellphone—but she continues to head for the vault with the determined, single-minded conviction that she is leading at least one patron to safety. I let her take the lead, following behind her with only one fervent glance behind me. No one has noticed our escape.

I follow her cues now, and stand when she does. She has brought us before an immense reinforced door, one whose presence—that, when taken alongside the lack of panic buttons—only speaks to the bank's age. I raise an eyebrow in passing surprise when her dexterous fingers flip open the keypad mounted alongside the door; it looks much more recent by comparison. She flashes an ID card attached by a retractable string to her waist, before allowing her fingers to fly across the numbers so fast I can't see what she's typing. The blinking light flashes green, and the giant door swings open soundlessly.

"In here," she invites in a victorious burst of breath, and I slide past her to comply. She closes the door behind us, giving me only a moment to assess the vault before the room is once more plunged into blackness.

The darkness isn't complete, however. The mute mechanical glow from various consoles, as well as from the screen of my wristwatch, provides us enough light to see by. I move into the room as Nancy hunts furiously for the phone.

"No, no, no…" I hear the panic rise in her throat like bile as she shifts papers aside and pushes pencil cases. Several files fall to the floor during her search, but I don't raise my voice to silence her. "This can't be happening. Where's the phone?"

"Over here," I direct in disinterest. Nancy stumbles to me, but her shoe catches on an extension cord and she plunges forward. I reach out to catch her beneath her elbows before she falls all the way over.

"Thank you," she whispers quickly as I draw her in.

I hadn't been expecting my own response to the woman. Maybe it's the adrenaline, or maybe it's the mood lighting, but Nancy in her button-up blouse feels a lot better than I guessed pressed against me in the dark. I steal a moment to savor the feeling, and allow her to cling to me as she regains her bearings. For the first time since entering the bank, I allow myself to momentarily lose track of time. I feel the tantalizing outline of breasts, surprisingly heavy despite her thin frame, seeking me out for additional support. If my hands weren't already occupied with the rest of the woman, I just might oblige them.

What would little Nancy do? Would she put up a fight and resist my come-on? Would she risk calling for help? Would she let me push my questing hands up beneath her over-starched blouse out of self-preservation? Or would she give herself over to the intimate touch, maybe even encourage it?

Her breath comes in short, hot bursts that tickle the skin of my neck and arouse my senses in the oppressive dark. My hands slide down the sides of her ribcage infinitesimally, bringing themselves a bit lower.

"You can let go of me now, Mr. Smith," Nancy breathes.

"Not my name," I respond as I release her. It was a fleeting, momentary distraction, and it's gone the moment we disengage. Next time I'll just have to let her fall and risk the runs in her pretty stockings.

"Sorry.
Thomas,"
she stresses as she turns away. She fumbles across the workstation for the landline I had previously called to her attention. "If we get out of this, you really have to let me buy you a drink."

Her invitation surprises me, and I pause in my idle exploration of the room. "Nancy, you don't seem like the type to invite men out for drinks," I reply, my voice blunt. "No offence."

"I'm not the type to try and thwart bank robberies, either," she replies as she picks up the phone. "And none taken. I assume that's a rejection?"

"You assume too much," I say. My eyes narrow as I pick up on something of interest in the dark. "And you care too much about other people. You want to watch out for that."

"What do you mean?" she asks.

I can tell she isn't fully committed to our conversation, and her energies are more directed toward getting the phone to work. That's fine. I'm just trying to pass the time.