BILLIONAIRE BIKERS: 3 MC Romance Books (17 page)

"You're trusting," I reply.

"Damn it!" she exclaims as she slams the phone back down into the receiver. So much for keeping quiet. She looks panic-stricken by her outburst, but possibly she takes a cue from my cool, blue-lit expression, and gets ahold of herself quickly. "It's dead," she informs me, something I had already guessed she discovered. "I think those men might have cut the lines. And for the record, I'm not
that
trusting. I just care about the people who come in here."

"Enough to ask them out on dates?" I turn away to hide a smile of amusement.

"I didn't say it was a date," she corrects quickly. "I said I would buy you a drink. What are you doing over there, anyway?"

              I hear a commotion outside the door then, and Nancy freezes mid-step on her way to join me. Her wide eyes glisten with animal fear as suddenly, irrevocably, the light on the vault's inner panel turns green. The door swings open.

              I turn to meet the intruders as Nancy whirls. One of the masked phantoms shoves a man wearing a suit into the vault, alongside the male teller from earlier. Both hostages stiffen when they spot us.

Upon seeing us, the man in the ski mask pauses a moment, before levelling his gun right at me. I meet his eyes.

Suddenly, the view of my assailant is obstructed. I see the back of a wild head of red-brown hair bob in front of me, and take a startled step back. Nancy, the teller girl, has placed herself directly in the path of the man's gun—right in the line of fire. She's one trigger-click away from a bullet she thinks is meant for me

Luckily for her, the bank robber is equally startled by the move. The eyes behind the ski mask widen, and the man doesn't pull the trigger, although he keeps the gun trained on her.

I stand close enough to see that Nancy is shaking.

"Please," she finally manages to force the word out. "Please, don't hurt anyone. There's no need for violence. I'm just a front desk employee with Grand National Credit Union, and it's…it's my job to try and keep my customers safe. We only came back here to hide. I can assure you that no phone calls were made, and that—"

"Shut the fuck up!" the masked man interrupts her. I see the muscles in the arm holding the gun tighten, and watch as he steadies his aim once more. Nancy shrinks back, but she still doesn't move from her chosen position as a human shield directly in front of me.

"Marcus," I say finally. "Lower your weapon. She's meaningless to us." I lower eyes as callous as the muzzle of a semi-automatic weapon as Nancy turns to look at me, horrorstruck. "She's exactly who she says she is."

NANCY

She's meaningless to us.

              "'
Us
?" I repeat, and I'm certain my face is as panic-stricken as my voice. My eyes track back and forth between Thomas and the thief who blocks the entrance to the vault. But Thomas has his gaze locked on the ringleader, and he won't look at me.

              I don't want the facts of my situation to come together as they appear to do. I don't want to realize, in one emotional sucker punch, that I've allowed this robbery to happen. Every customer and fellow employee in the next room over is still being terrorized, and it's all my fault. I left them there—and trusted a dangerous-looking stranger to guide me through a situation that I felt was completely over my head.

              And now it turns out my first impression was right, and Thomas is not only dangerous, but
in on the whole thing.
So that’s what he meant when he accused me of being too trusting! Was he trying to warn me this whole time, all the while delivering lie after lie in the same breath?

She's exactly who she says she is.

But exactly who are you, Thomas?

The stranger who stands beside me looks exactly like the man I first met in the foyer of the bank—but still, there is something completely changed about him, something different and yet almost indefinable. As I gaze up at him, I realize I am looking at a totally alien personality inhabiting the man I thought I was just becoming acquainted with. It's an eerie feeling, and I find myself shivering physically as the full realization of his betrayal breaks over me like wave.

I've been used. Completely and totally used, and I'm the one who let it happen. His wasn't the only betrayal responsible for opening the vault at Grand National Credit Union.

I try not to make eye contact with Frank, our branch manager. I'm sure I've broken a ton of rules by coming back here, much less allowing an unauthorized customer entry…much less allowing that same customer to be in league with the men robbing us.

Who are you, Thomas?
I wonder again. A moment later, I second-guess whether I might have accidentally asked the question out loud.

"Lesher, you get what you needed?" The gunman—Marcus, I remember him being called—demands.

Lesher. So that's who Thomas really is. Maybe I should feel pride at the fact that I questioned his name from the beginning, but all I feel is dread pooling in the pit of my stomach.

I could have prevented this. I
should
have prevented this. But no, I prioritized
flirting
over going with my gut instinct. I completely ignored the first uncertain signals I was getting, and now look where it's landed me.

The man of many names shifts beside me, and I feel a familiar hand come up to grip my elbow. Only seconds before, that same hand reached out to catch me when I fell. I shake it off before I can think to do otherwise, and brace myself in the aftermath for some sort of retribution. None comes. Thomas—
Lesher
—lets me slip away from him.

But he doesn't allow me to go far. He follows behind me like a second shadow, and I know without a word spoken between us that it's a threat—no, a
promise
—that if I act in any way he doesn't approve of, he'll have no problem taking action. I guess the only question I have remaining then is:
what action?

"Names," Lesher says in a warning tone of voice as we're herded all together near the center of the vault. I can tell from the way Marcus' ski mask flexes that he grins at this.

"What? You're not actually worried about keeping a cover now, are you? I didn't think you were, considering you were the one who walked in here without a mask on."

"I didn't hear anything," Christian pipes up quickly. Marcus whips toward him, and I'm so afraid he'll strike Christian with his gun, or worse, that I cringe away and shut my eyes. My cowardly retreat causes me to brush up against Lesher's once more, and I quickly jerk away. No way I'm going to let him touch me again.

"Doesn't matter," Marcus says after a moment. I relax a little when it appears he has decided to suppress his more violent impulses for now. "
Dead men tell no tales
. Isn't that what the pirates say?" He chuckles as he waves his gun around. "Get a move on, Frank!" he barks suddenly. The branch manager springs to life and moves at once toward the safe door where the money is stored. He's taking the path of least resistance, I realize, by catering to the terrorist's demands—something we were all trained to do.

Too bad we were never trained how to handle ourselves in the event that we
inadvertently
aided the thieves in the robbery.

"What do you mean 'dead men tell no tales'?" I hear myself blurt out suddenly. I'm not even sure why I'm asking the question, why his phrasing is something I've picked up on that my mind can't seem to let go of. Then I realize the horrible truth, and it's as if someone has dumped a bucket of ice-cold water over me to complete the terrible day I'm already having. "Does that mean you're going to kill us?"

"You think the gun is just for show, frumpy?" Marcus taunts me. "Huh? You think this is a prop? How about now?" He lowers the muzzle to my face once more, and I wince so hard I accidentally bite down on my tongue. The taste of blood immediately floods my mouth.

"Of course we're going to fucking kill you," Marcus continues.

"No. No." Even as I protest, I can see Christian shaking his head and signaling for me to shut up. But what good is it to keep silent when our fates are already sealed in the minds of our captors? "You don't want to do that. Listen to me. If you murder us, there's going to be a manhunt on a national scale. They won't stop looking until they find you. Right? Right?"

I turn to look at Lesher, and instantly regret doing so. He's gazing at me, his leather-clad arms crossed across his chest, his expression unreadable. Why am I looking to him for confirmation? For someone logical to appeal to?

Then it hits me: he's not only involved.
He's the ringleader.
That's why I look to him instinctively and make my appeal to
him,
and not the man holding the gun. Our lives aren't in Marcus' hands—they're in Lesher's.

"We stick with the original plan," Lesher says. I feel as if someone just ripped the pen free from the chain on my desk and rammed it straight into my heart.

"You don't want to do that," I beg. "Please. You can't hurt these people. I'll do anything!" I 'm rambling, almost incoherent. I barely know what I'm saying anymore. I just know silence on the matter will only condemn us to a swift death here in the vault, and that any chance we stand of surviving depends on our ability to strike a deal with our captors.

But what chips do we have to bargain with that these men can't just freely take from us, dead or alive?

Everyone is staring at me now—even Frank, who is in the process of unloading bundles of cash into the duffle bag Marcus provided for him. I can hear my own pulse pounding in my ears so loudly it's a wonder no one around me comments on the deafening noise. I wonder, too, why none of my coworkers are speaking out or backing me up on this. Both Frank and Christian are my superiors—why aren't they asserting themselves as strongly as I am? Why do I feel suddenly alone in this?

"That sounds like a volunteer if I've ever heard one," Lesher says. "Thoughts, Marcus?"

"You're the boss, Lesh." Marcus lowers his gun, and it feels as if everyone else in the room breathes a collective sigh of relief. "But I stick by my idea. I can't see how it's worth it, especially if you think
she's
the one."

"What do you mean 'volunteer'?" I interrupt quickly. "What do you mean I'm the one—?"

I shouldn't have stood so close to Lesher. Even now, when my trust in the man registers as a solid negative on any chart or graph, I still find it almost too easy to be in his proximity. And that, in turn, makes it easy for him.

He yanks me toward him, harder than he has in previous interactions, and I cry out a wordless objection. He forces my hands to the front, and I can feel the rough bite of his gloves as he grips me, his strength unrelenting. My wrists look tiny and breakable by comparison. I suddenly find myself wishing I had done more than just push pencils leading up to this moment. Why didn't I ever learn anything in the way of self-defense? Did I always just assume others would stand up for me instead?

Christian takes a step toward us, but stops short. None of my coworkers come to my defense. Frustrated tears spring into my eyes as I finally, fully realize the predicament I've put myself in. I thought I could make amends for my mistake with Lesher by speaking out, but now I can see I've only managed to land myself in hotter water.

"Hold your hands together. Lace your fingers," Lesher instructs. I comply, and soon enough the force of his grip is replaced by the bite of plastic zip ties. He yanks them until he is satisfied, just shy of cutting off my circulation.
He's done this before,
I realize fearfully. Probably many times before. How many banks has this man robbed? How many women has he taken in completely? In my imaginings, the devastation this evil angel has wrought across the country is incalculable. Maybe I'm exaggerating his infamy, but I'm not imagining that I’m the one tied up like a damsel by cartoon villain.

"We're leaving now, and we're taking you as a hostage." Lesher stands before me now, his pale eyes fixed upon my face. He doesn't blink, and I begin to feel winded from the sheer unrelenting power of his gaze. Maybe he really did tie my bonds tighter than I first thought.

"Don't you love it when plans align?" he continues, mouth flexing into a coldly pleasant smile that succeeds in eclipsing his eyes from view, finally breaking his spell over me. Unfortunately, any cleverness I may have had doesn't return as easily as my good sense.

"No," I state bluntly. I wish I could have done something bolder, like spit directly into his face. Now, too late for me to wrangle my courage, I watch as his frigid expression breaks in the wake of a surprised laugh. His voice is deep, but his laugh is even deeper, and as smooth as chocolate. I feel a flush come over me that only half has to do with being the butt of whatever joke he is privately enjoying.

The next instant I am off the ground. Lesher loops an arm around my waist and hauls me up over his shoulder easily—more easily than Marcus, who is currently doing the same with the full duffle bag.

My face turns beet-red at the manhandling. I'm certain my curves through the pencil skirt must be outlined for all the room to see. Now is definitely not the time for modesty, but I can't help but be conscious of how close certain parts of my body are being forced to Lesher's face.

"You don't have to do this." I panic as my captor carries me to the open door. "Wait! I—I have no assurance you won't hurt them!"

"You have my assurance." Lesher gestures with his free hand for Marcus to precede us out. The masked man sighs, as if he's a child who has just had a toy taken from him, but he complies and exits first. I feel instantaneous relief that he is no longer waving his gun around inside the vault with my coworkers.

Lesher pivots and presses the abort button on the keypad. The last I see of Frank and Christian is their pale, terrified faces as the door swings closed behind us.

When women lament about finding men who are ready to sweep them off their feet, I'm a hundred percent certain this isn't what they have in mind.