BILLIONAIRE BIKERS: 3 MC Romance Books (18 page)

LESHER

I honestly didn't think this part of the plan would be so fun.

              Maybe "fun" isn't the right word for it. Hostages are tricky. When they aren't pissing themselves in fear, they're almost always mouthing off to distract attention from an escape attempt. Hostages are intractable, unpredictable factors in any plan.

              But taking a hostage was a part of the setup from the beginning. It was Marcus who, in the heat of the moment, tried to diverge from the original plan. I had almost completely forgotten the need for a hostage until I listened to Nancy talk him down, and then the solution to all our problems became crystal clear.

              Unfortunately, that involved giving Nancy a very big problem of her own.

              The woman has no way of knowing that I don't intend her harm. I haven't given her any promises on that front, and she hasn't asked for any—then again, that might have something to do with the fact that her face is currently jostling upside down in the crevice of my back.

              "Let go of me!" she finally protests. I assume she perceives that we've left the bank behind and gone outside; daylight breaks across us, oiling the black leather of my coat and pooling in its crevices. I ignore her, and turn to signal the men in masks filtering out quickly behind us. I know firsthand that the security cams are down, but it won't be long before they're restored—probably about as long as it will take for the boys in blue to get here, which I estimate offhand to be about ten minutes.

              "Get back to the warehouse," I order as the men clamor inside the panel van. "No distractions or detours. And you cretins better drive the fucking speed limit."

              "What about her?" Marcus nods pointedly to Nancy. She's gone as limp as a sack of potatoes over my shoulder, which signals to me that she's calculating what her next move will be. I can practically hear the gears grinding away in that pretty little head of hers.

              "Marcus," I say patiently, "I really hope your questioning me isn't becoming a trend…because it's starting to seem like it's becoming a fucking trend."

              If he thinks I'm about to forget what happened back inside the vault, then he's in for a very rude wakeup call once we get back to base. As if sensing this, his eyes narrow at me; then again, it might just be the glare from the sun stinging him more than my thinly-veiled threat. Whatever the reason for the look, he complies and stays silent. The men slam the doors to the van closed and engage the ignition as I carry Nancy with me across the parking lot.

              "No." I hear it when the panic enters her voice once more. "No way."

              "I thought we already established that the leather jacket wasn't just for show?" I respond mildly as I ferry her over to my bike. From somewhere around my tailbone, I hear her swallow audibly.

              "I've never…I've…are you sure that thing is safe?" she asks. "It looks like it's missing pieces."

              I've had the bike for almost five years now, and carried out a lot of dubious runs on it; it's enabled me to dodge the law at every turn. If I'm in a position to be worried about anything coming off a bank robbery, it’s not the safety of my ride. I lower Nancy down until she's stabilized herself once more, but make sure to place myself between her and freedom.

              "It's an Ural sans sidecar," I reply. "Which means you'll be riding on back."

              "How am I supposed to ride anything with my hands tied?" She holds her wrists up, which is all the better for me. I mount the bike and yank her up behind me; she cries out in surprise at how easily I manage it. Her arms are up and over my head before she even realizes it, and I soon have her lodged securely behind me on the bike—with her hands still tied. She clenches them around my waist, and I grin.

              "Comfortable?" It's a rhetorical question.

              "Go to hell," she breathes, but the fearful edge in her voice takes all the power out of the invitation.

              I rev the throttle and clap my mirrored aviators down over my eyes.

              "Anything else you'd like to say?"

              There should probably be rules against baiting the hostage; granted, it's not something I've ever enjoyed enough to pursue before.

              "Yeah," Nancy says as the engine roars to life. "Yeah, I've got a lot to say,
very
loudly, to everyone we pass! Do you really think you can get away with this? Kidnapping an innocent woman and taking her against her will?"

"You can scream all you want," I say. "No one's gonna hear you."

Any protest she might have felt like lodging against my claim is lost the moment we take off, like two bats out of the gates of Hell, forced together by circumstance and unable to let go of each other—in her case, very literally. I feel the bound arms wrapped around my waist squeeze instinctively, and I flex my abdominals in a similarly instinctive response. It's not that she's a woman, I tell myself. As her captor, I need her to understand my physical strength. I need to minimize any future ideas of escape.

I feel a warm pressure between my shoulder blades, and realize the woman has buried her face in my back. I had already guessed she would make for an unwilling, frightened passenger, but I don't know why this gesture now should take me by surprise.

It has nothing to do with me,
I reason as I hang a tight corner and jolt past the parking lot's ineffectual stop sign.
She's just forgotten what to be more afraid of.

"What is this?" I feel the shape of the words muttered into my back more than I actually hear them. "The symbol for your gang?"

She must be face-to-face with the grinning skull insignia patched onto the back of my jacket. I don't turn from our speedy flight down the backroad to confirm this.

"Something like that."

"Well, I think it looks ridiculous. And cliché."

"Well, I agree," I respond. "And if your aim is to try and pick a fight with me right now, Nancy, you're failing miserably. I'm in complete control of our situation. You should be begging me for release."

              "What are you going to do?" she challenges suddenly. "Throw me off the back? You need me, in case you've forgotten. That doesn't count for nothing Mr. Lesher."

"The need for you ends when the ride's over, sweetheart," I shout over my shoulder. The wind is picking up now with our speed, and I want to make myself heard, plain as day. I want us both to understand exactly what sort of standing she has. "Don't press your luck!"

"What luck?" I hear her mutter to herself, but we're roaring down the road much too fast now for the conversation to continue.

It's for the best. I shouldn't keep encouraging this sort of thing between us just because I don't see the point of
not
baiting her. She may be my prisoner now, but there's no denying she's amused me from the start. But the time for amusement has passed, even if it could be easily argued it should have never existed at all. The business I had at Grand National Credit Union is concluded, and the outcome exactly as I intended. The success of the mission definitely didn't depend in any way on how much I was
enjoying
myself.

Nancy falls silent behind me. I think I've finally managed to shut her down, at least for the moment, until I feel the hands locked together around my waist slowly starting to descend between my legs towards my nuts. I feel a moment's surprise at her boldness, before I ultimately realize what she intends. She wants to try and hit me where it hurts before the bike gains too much speed out on the open road. She's willing to risk my crashing, and serious injury to us both, over remaining captive.

I snatch her roving hands and shove them roughly between my legs, helping her find the finish line and abruptly bringing her little escape plan to a satisfactory end.

"Hey!" she exclaims. "What the—"

"You don't need to wait for someone to give you a road map," I say. "You want a feel, Nancy? Go for it. And by all means, give it a little more pressure."

"Stop. Stop!" The panic enters her voice once more, but I don't stop. I press the cupped palm of her hands down into the heat between my legs, forcing her to feel the shape of what she mistakenly identified as a weakness.

This, of course, provokes a tingling, molten feeling to ignite in my own stomach. I try half-heartedly to ignore it, but there's no denying how Nancy's touch, inadvertent as it may be, floods me with a warmth that threatens to heat to lust. A lesson needs to be learned here, but it's proving all too easy to forget what that lesson might be…or exactly who is teaching whom.

"Please. Stop," she begs me, and I release my grip on her all at once. I hadn't intended to give up that easily, but something about her heartbreaking plea proves impossible to ignore. If I was a better man, I might even feel sorry for pushing things this far.

"We gonna keep our hands to ourselves from now on?" I ask as I take the bike seamlessly around another corner. I feel her nod, and feel her lean with me uncertainly as we go. Her unintentional cooperation aboard the Ural is better than none, and I already feel us riding better together for it.

Not that this is a situation that will ever be repeated between us. The plan still stands, although I've purposefully glossed over the details of Nancy's release. If she still thinks she'll be disembarking and running to freedom as soon as we reach headquarters, she's even more naïve than that pristine blouse of hers lets on.

She'll continue to play her part, like it or not; just as I will, and just like the expendable men who find themselves temporarily in my employ. This dark episode in both our lives isn't anywhere near concluded, and I don't intend to release her until I get what I want.

Her bound hands hover just above my groin, reluctant to make the same mistake twice. The crotch of my riding pants feels tighter than usual, and I'm finding it more difficult to concentrate on the plan I've conceived and memorized for almost as long as I've made my career by riding.

No, I don't intend to release Nancy until I get what I want. I'm just not sure what all that entails.

But I'm willing to find out.

NANCY

I'm not sure this day can turn out to be any more mortifying than it already is.

              I'm not even sure if
mortifying
is the best word to use to describe my situation at present. Is it really so next-level embarrassing to be kidnapped and whisked off on the back of a speeding motorcycle by a complete psychopath? It's not as if it was within my power to stop him, and God—and my manager—knows I tried my best to avoid that fate. After all, these men have
guns,
and obvious homicidal intent. What choice did I really have at the end of the day?

              Maybe I'm in shock. Yes, that
definitely
has to be it. It explains more than one inappropriate feeling I'm having in regards to my situation.

              Because the reality of Lesher's muscular back, his broad shoulders, and the sleek lines of the hard and immobile alien waist residing between my legs, and the inescapability—in more ways than one!—of my arms wrapped around said waist, only increases my awareness and discomfort of how close we are.

              No…not discomfort. There's another word for what I'm feeling, maybe several, but I staunchly refuse to acknowledge them now. I remind myself that I'm in shock, that nothing I'm experiencing is conventional or makes sense in this unimaginable context. It's better not to try and force a definition. It's also better not to pay too much attention to the way my tight skirt rucks up around my thighs, and the way I can perceive my cotton underwear coming up against the small of Lesher's back. My stockings may be ripped and beyond repair at this point, but at least they are acting as a shield between me and the man who has forced my compliance.

              By the time we arrive at our intended destination, the sky is streaked quartz-pink with the impending arrival of sunset. The bike slows beneath us, and I crane as far back as I can to take in every detail of my surroundings. Who knows how valuable knowing the terrain might be in the coming hours, even if escape from Lesher and his gang seems momentarily beyond my reach.

             
Nothing is impossible,
I remind myself.
Not for daring bank teller Nancy Cardigan, willing to sacrifice everything for the safety of her patrons.
My mental pep talk sounds ridiculous, even to me, so I decide to shut it down for now and find encouragement in the fact that I'm still alive and not blindfolded.

              Then again, if Lesher isn't worried about me surveying in his gang's headquarters, what does that mean for me?

              Lesher rolls us up outside a seemingly abandoned warehouse. The building stands several stories tall over a gravel parking lot choked with weeds. No…that still isn't good enough. I squint my eyes as I gaze up at its derelict façade, and count three rows of windows broken up into seven columns. The warehouse is three stories, then, with multiple rooms, the exact number of which remains incalculable considering I can't see around the sides of the building.

I'm frustrated with the limits to my sleuthing, but I suppose my knowledge of the structure is about to change. There are no other buildings in sight, much less any indication of easy access to a main road…which means this is our stop.

Lesher and I both have to deal with some unexpected awkwardness when it comes to dismounting the bike. We try to rise as one, but this proves less easy for me, considering the restrictive material of my skirt, and the fact that, oh, I've never had to struggle my way off such a death machine in my
life.
When his second attempt to rise out of the seat proves more violent, I snatch hold of his waist with all I'm worth and allow myself to be pulled to my feet.

"Let go of me," he commands.

"I can't!" I exclaim. "My hands are in
zip ties,
remember?" Unbelievable that he would try to order me around when I can't so much as pull my own skirt back down!

"Lift your arms up over my head, then. I thought you were a bright girl, Nancy. Remind me how this is hard?"

"You're too tall," I protest as my face turns a deep, frustrated burgundy. I've had about as much of his condescension as I can take, but realize I'm in no position to call him out on it. I doubt a man like Lesher would feel chastised anyway by someone he considers half the time to be
little Nancy.
"You need to bend down."

"I'm turning around," he decides, and in the next instant, he pivots in my arms to face me. Now I'm certain the blush overtakes my expression completely. I avoid making eye contact, and try my best to avoid noticing the male chest now placed within an inch of my nose. Anyone viewing this at a distance might mistake me for actually
hugging
the man I'd rather be running screaming from. I must look like I'm practically begging to be kissed.

This thought makes me momentarily thankful for the seclusion of our location. The odds of anyone seeing us are slim to none…then again, those are also the odds of my being found by someone passing by. Not good.

Lesher locks his hands behind his head and waits patiently, until I finally remember what I'm supposed to be doing. I quickly inch my arms up his sides and over his head until we are both free—or at least somewhat less a prisoner, in my case.

"Move," he says. I turn and start for the warehouse. Lesher has yet to hold a gun on me personally, but his tone of voice is enough to ensure my complete obedience for now. No wonder a group of such hostile-looking men are clamoring all over themselves to follow him.

Just how hostile looking these men really are becomes apparent to me as we enter the main room of the warehouse. I squint in the naked, glaring light—a stark change from the unlit corridor we entered through. Steel beams cross and re-cross high overhead; the ceiling seems miles away.

Once my eyes have adjusted to the change, I return my gaze to earth to take in the faces of those around me. There are five men arrayed about the enormous chamber, leaning up against tables and workstations with their arms crossed. The ski masks are gone, and I try my best to memorize their features in case I am called upon to provide an eyewitness account later; but, it's difficult to concentrate when my heart is hammering so loudly in my ears. I notice the duffle bag from the heist thrown almost carelessly aside on one of the tables and disgorging green bills onto the counter.

"What have we here?" one of the newly uncovered men quips, and I recognize him instantly as Marcus. I don't wait for Lesher to push me into the light; I go myself, hands still bound in front of me, standing as erect as I can manage. "Thought for sure you'd ditch this one along the road. She hasn't outlived her usefulness?"

The men share a chuckle at my expense, and my frantic pulse suddenly ratchets up an additional beat or two. What is he talking about? I feel as if I've been thrust into a private conversation where I don't understand any of the inside jokes. I try to play it cool, unwilling to let them see just how wary their laughter has made me.

Lesher doesn't join in. My eyes dart to the side as he strolls forward and runs his hand along the table propping up the bag of money.

"Is it all accounted for?" He sounds as if he couldn't care less. I blink, certain I must be hearing things or missing some detail in his expression, but the disinterest carries over to his face.

What the hell is going on?

"It's all here. That pussy bank manager wouldn't fuck with us—not when I told him we'd be back if he didn't deliver the first time. But no, we haven't counted it all yet." Marcus takes his eyes off me for only a moment while he lights a cigarette. "Me and the boys will get to it. Where are you taking her?"

"I want it all in the briefcase," Lesher commands. I realize he is deliberately ignoring Marcus' last question, and find myself feeling grateful for the lack of information.
Wait, why am I feeling gratitude toward the man who kidnapped me again?
I shoot daggers at him as he crosses to me, but he doesn't appear to notice the poison in my look. "And a full report when I get back," Lesher adds as he takes me by the elbow. "No divvying up shares before then."

The men groan in disappointment as I allow myself to be reluctantly guided toward the stairs. I'm not sure what I'll find wherever he intends to take me, but I'm thankful to be taken out of view for now. Something about the hungry looks on the men's faces makes me think they might be spoiling for more than money as a reward. I shudder at the thought, and try not to let my imagination get away from me. I'm not likely to find anything that will comfort me down that path of thought.

It’s strange that I should now look to the man who kidnapped me as my sole protector in all this. I try to study his face as we walk up the stairs, but it's as unreadable as it was when his back was turned to me on the bike. What if he means to keep me to himself in a secluded back room; and his only reason for withholding my location is to ensure total privacy while he does what he wants with me?

A shudder courses through me; but, in the next instant, I feel a heavy weight settle across my shoulders to suppress it. I look up again in surprise, but Lesher has turned his back to me once more. His leather jacket is missing, and I instantly realize what it is that now sits on my shoulders to keep the chill off.

He carries on as if his own gesture is beneath his notice, leaving me more confused than ever about his intentions. If he perceived I might be cold all along, he waited until we were out of sight of his men to do something about it.

Lesher leads me down another back hallway, this time on the second story, and I can see now firsthand why Marcus had asked about my intended location—the warehouse is labyrinthine, full of enough empty rooms and offices even on the second story to make the search for my prison an hours-long effort. Again, I feel comforted; again, I know I really, really shouldn't.

I try to distract myself from my mixed emotions by tracking our path through the warehouse. By the time we arrive at the end of another long corridor, I think I have studied the terrain enough to know where the exit might be located—unfortunately, I will need at least five minutes of escape time, through an endlessly winding maze of what are most likely locked rooms to make it to freedom. With nothing to conceal myself behind and the likelihood of encountering at least one of the roving gang members, I would say my odds of leaving the warehouse unnoticed are, at the moment, akin to a snowball's chance in hell.

Not to mention my hands are still bound. Not to mention that
Lesher
is still here with me.

My captor stops abruptly in front of an unremarkable door, two away from the end of the hallway, and unlocks it with a key. The window in the door is misted over, I notice, a feature of the glass panel inset into it. That means anyone walking by won't notice that I'm here.

The door swings open, and Lesher steps aside to allow me to pass through first.
What a gentleman.
I hope he doesn't expect me to feel anything but revulsion for his gesture. I breeze past him as if it was my intention all along, with or without him, to enter the room that is to be my prison.

"You don't trust your men," I say as he switches the light on. The room was small and windowless aside from the door; there is a cot in the corner that appears clean but undressed for prolonged company, as there are no sheets. There is a desk nailed to the floor in the corner, and a folding chair that looks as if a strong wind or heavy weight could splinter it into pieces. So much for any weapons.

I know who the cot is meant for, but I ignore it. I pull up the chair awkwardly, trying to maneuver it with my bound hands, and settle into it at once. Lesher closes the door behind us and leans against the wall. Without his jacket, I can clearly see just how sensuous the frame he kept hidden beneath it is. Not only is he well-muscled—he doesn't look as if he has an ounce of fat on him, and the tightness of his wife beater would have revealed this fact to me immediately—he's completely and totally at ease in his own skin. Only looking at him now do I realize how rare a trait this is to find in a person. Tattoos twine up and down his arms like black demonic lacework. I shift uncomfortably beneath his amused stare.

"Well?" I prompt him. "Am I right?"

"No," he replies, but I soon realize it's in agreement to my claim. "I don't trust them. Especially not with female company."

"Great. I'm company now." I sigh hard enough to blow my hair out of my eyes. "Why did you bring me here, then? I feel like a piece of meat that just got thrown into a den of ravenous wolves."

"Don't flatter yourself. You're pretty, but not enough to stir an appetite."

"Well, that's…good?" I ask tensely. The way Lesher keeps looking at me makes me think he might be lying. I'm not sure what I hope for. I'd rather be insulted, I decide. There's nothing good that can come from his being as attracted to me now as he seemed to be back at the bank.
I didn't feel on even ground with him then, and I certainly don't now. Where the power structure between us before had been murky, given my position at the bank, now it's become all too clear who the dominant party is.

"So now that I'm here, when can I go home?" I ask hopefully.

"When I say you can." Lesher crosses the room to me, and I cringe back instinctively. He surprises me by dropping to his knee to start working loose one of my shoes from around my aching heels. Now would be the prime time to kick him in the head, but I have a feeling this would only make things worse for me. If I'm going to hit someone in this situation, I need to make it count—I'm not going to take action unless I can ensure I leave the other party unconscious.