BILLIONAIRE BIKERS: 3 MC Romance Books (33 page)

"Take a look around you!" Wolf gestures wildly, but I don't comply. I stare angrily at a fresh splash of blood on the filthy wall, tracked there courtesy of a busted biker skull. "These are just a bunch of fat assholes in their mid-life crises! What is there on the patches you see on these particular specimens that at
all
indicates they’re DBMC? You should have realized you fucked up the moment you walked in here. Hell, you could have fucked up worse—you could have actually
found
a Bastard."

"I think I already did!" I shout. I could care less about who hears us at this point; what's another fight in this blood stained back hallway to these people? "And anyway, I wasn't aware I was talking to an expert! What is all of this supposed to make you? Somehow
more
legitimate?" I scoff on a mocking laugh and slap my hands on my hips so I don't feel compelled to use my fists for anything else, like punching this unbelievable jerk-off in the face. "It's like you consider yourself some sort of superior biker when you certainly don't look or dress like one. What do you know about the Devil’s Bastards, anyway? You're not wearing their patch. You're not wearing
any
patch!"

"I know a hell of a lot more about them than you do, sweetheart." I wish I didn't hate that nickname, and all the patronization it entails. I wish it didn't dig beneath my skin like nails to hear him use it now.

"Yeah? Then tell me, what do I only
think
I know?"

"This Houdini guy." Wolf surprises me yet again by invoking the name. "You really think he's a Bastard? You really think you stand a chance of finding him here?"

"Not that I expect it to mean
anything at all to you,"
I state, in a voice pitched just under a scream of frustration, "but I'm here to prove to some very important people that he
isn't!
And maybe, just
maybe,
my efforts would have actually stood a chance of clearing his fucking name if I didn't run into some two-bit stick-shift who insists on letting his dick drive!"

After a very long moment, Wolf chuckles. "That's a good one. Actually. Damn it." He runs a hand through his wild hair as if trying to tame it—and his tickled sense of humor—back into place. I don't want my anger to diffuse by one iota, but I can't help it. How am I supposed to continue this one-sided argument without him?

This night has turned out to be a massive failure on all fronts.

I sigh. Blown or unblown, the clock is running down on my mission, and my cover is no good to me now. I'm going to have to try again: another time, another place, and with plenty of donuts and understated groveling to my superior. At least the knowledge that Wolf claims to have of this murky underworld seems to reinforce my own intuition: that Houdini, while still a law-shirking, infuriating Evel Knievel, has nothing to do with the drug-running and sex trafficking rumored to be the Devil’s Bastards' golden goose. Now I just have to bring back the hard proof.

              I'm a lot closer to Wolf's face than I remember our argument bringing me. Maybe it's all the red I'm seeing that didn't allow me to notice it at first. My eyes flicker down to his amused, encroaching mouth, but I get the sense he's still reliving my sterling insult. He doesn't appear to notice our proximity, anyway.

              With another sigh, I pull a cocktail napkin out of from the bust of my dress. I had stolen them unnoticed from the bar to use them to further plump up my assets, but there's really no point anymore. I tilt his head slightly, ignoring the way he freezes at my touch, and dab at the split in his lip. There's some residual blood, but it looks to be healing over already. It could have been a lot worse for him, if he didn't so clearly know what he was doing when he…

              Wolf reacts with the same swiftness with which he entered the fight. His eyes drop to me, and I only have a split second to notice them darkening once more before his hands take possessive hold of my waist.

             
"Hey!"
A breathless protest escapes me as he turns and thrusts me up against the wall between bathrooms. The crumpled napkin drops from between my fingertips.

              Wolf's sudden response to me feels nothing like an assault; if anything, it feels like it's been a long-time coming—ever since he sidled up to me at the bar, in fact, and I tried my best to appear disinterested in his presence. I'm not sure that either of us was fooled anymore.

              My own body's reaction to his, now, is equally intense. Suddenly, all of the adrenaline leftover from the altercation with the bikers, and my subsequent argument with this infuriating man, surges through me once more with a vengeance. I'm hyper-aware of his hands, and of how little ground they have actually covered.

He's forced me back this far. Why doesn't he go further? Why doesn't he thrust his clear need between the long line of my legs and make me feel what I suspect is there already? Why doesn't he press every inch of that deceptively muscled, all-male body against me?

I gaze up at him wordlessly. For maybe the first time in my life, I have nothing scathing to say. I can't speak, let alone
think,
with this stranger so close to me. If he decided to have me right here, would anyone stop us? Is that what infiltrating this world means?

And what does it say about me that a shiver of anticipation, not fear, courses through my body at the thought?

              "You're in over your head, little Laney." Wolf bends his own head down to whisper in my ear. A gust of hot breath across the bare skin of my neck causes my skin to erupt in goosebumps. "Get out while you still can."

              I don't turn my head away; my lips part wordlessly at the sudden change in his personality, and I gaze over his right shoulder toward the far wall. I feel the press of his nose, and then the ghost of his lips, in the hollow of my throat.

              I close my eyes.

              The sudden blare of a siren startles me back to reality. Outside Mal's Dive, a cop car screams by; red rotating lights flash in a burst outside the shuttered window, and then they're gone again. I barely have time to register the first car before another hurtles past. No further triggers are required to remember who I am.

              "Hey…"

              But whatever Wolf has left to say to me stays unfinished. I buck myself out from underneath him and push off from the wall, not even trying to disguise my haste as I break for the door. The chorus of sirens in the distance grows in number.

              My mission is off. There is something going down out there, something that has already drawn half of our number out into the night.

              There's no way I'm going to miss this.

WOLF

Officer Elizabeth Lane is a terrible actress.

              It’s not that she's not beautiful enough to be one, of course. That woman more than hits the gorgeous quota; she knocks it out of the park. But her
personality.
While it's a personality I've suspected all along—one that a guy like me can definitely grow to love, even—she's going to have to learn how to tone down the crankiness if she wants to continue working undercover. You know,
schmooze
a little.

              Not that we weren't getting close toward the end.

             
"Damn it."
I curse below my breath as the woman I've been waiting years to meet in person sprints out the front door. That sort of obviousness, too, is going to get her killed. Rather than follow her, I stride rapidly toward the back of Mal's Dive and throw the parking lot door open.

              It's dark out, well past midnight, and as warm as can be expected on a late summer night in the Pacific Northwest. My Honda Nighthawk is parked a significant distance from the other remaining bikes in the lot, listing slightly left and well hidden in the shadows beneath the bar's crooked roof. Love that puppy. At least
she's
predictable.

              I can't stop thinking about her.

I was
so
close to Elizabeth Lane tonight. I never expected to get that close. So many times the truth of my identity balanced on the tip of my tongue, anticipating an opportune moment to be let out—but there were no opportune moments, not in the world that myself and my favorite officer inhabited. Her focus bordered on self-absorption. She thought she was seeking Houdini, the notorious stunt driver and accomplished Chief Agitator of police departments all across the Pacific Northwest.

She never stopped once to think that maybe Houdini was also seeking her.

              I strip off my jacket and suit up, donning the midnight-black of my real riding uniform. I mount my bike in a hurry, wincing slightly as I feel the uncomfortable press of my erection against the seat. I rearrange myself accordingly. God, when she
touched
me in the hallway, I almost lost complete control of myself. I had no idea I was riding with such a pair of blue balls beneath me for the little woman in blue this entire time. Our fox-and-hound dynamic evolved into something more when I wasn't paying attention. Why else would I risk it all to seek her out tonight and meet her?

             
You're in over your head, little Laney.

              Yeah, maybe she isn't the only one.

              I curse again softly to myself, but the oath gets buried in the interior padding of my helmet. It's a new prototype I purchased at an exorbitant cost from a friend in Silicon Valley; I set him up nice to make sure he never made another one, and he was all too happy to comply. This prototype is not only as aerodynamic as a freaking bullet fired right out of the chamber, but it taps directly into the police radio frequency. My unfettered access to what's happening out there on the roads makes Smartphone Siri look like amateur hour.

What can I say? I'm a Robber Baron: I like exorbitant things. My tastes are as insatiable as the rest of my brothers', and I'm sure as shit better at keeping my connections and putting them to good use. Between them, Flint and Lesher have burned more bridges in recent days than there were flammable books in the Ancient Library of Alexandria.

Guess I better watch myself. Bentley's at the end of his rope with most of us, and I doubt the dude spares any sympathy for his riders who don't wear the patch religiously. The grinning skull emblazoned on the scarf I tie around my neck now has a gold tooth where my own broken canid is; I like to think this little conceit is enough when I'm trying to fly incognito.

Besides, Officer Lane is too fucking smart. She would dig deep, I have no doubt, if she saw me riding and wearing my own MC's enigmatic patch. Bentley sure as hell wouldn't like her sniffing around asking questions and digging up answers that put the secrecy of the brotherhood in danger.

No, better if I do the sniffing.

It's not as if I was trying to take her home tonight. It's not as if I was even really trying to
meet
her, because that would be clearly stupid. No, what I was trying to do—at least toward the end—was scare her off the scent. It was easy enough to find out she was going undercover, but finding out her motive for doing so? A little less easy to figure out.

              If there's one thing I know about the enigmatic woman behind the badge, it's that she'll keep pushing this thing…and when the Devil’s Bastards are pushed, they push back.
Hard.
She doesn't have the protection of an MC like I do, nor does she have the deep pockets that can buy her the friends and influence to get her out of whatever mess she's about to make.

              If she thinks she's doing Houdini a personal favor by putting her life at risk to clear him of false connections and unsubstantiated rumors, she is sorely fucking mistaken. All she's managing to do at the end of the day is give him a heart attack.

              I peel out of Mal's Dive with unnecessary gusto, shredding tire and churning gravel as I take off after my sexy nemesis. She arrived at the biker bar in an unmarked vehicle, which is about the only successful step she managed in her first fated undercover mission. Now, as I speed through the darkness to gain on her, I see the muted strobe of lights in the cabin of her car. Call me romantic, but my heart palpitates a little in time with them as I pursue her into the night.

              Also, my raging hard-on has abated for the time being, making my joyride a lot more enjoyable. Call me romantic.

              It's raining only lightly; the droplets lash the visor of my helmet and wick off it as if it never fell to begin with. Say what you will about riding barefaced—and I will usually, very vocally; I’m not saying it's the safest way go about things
but why even bother if you're going to be a total pussy about it?
—this helmet is a Godsend. And speaking of God…

             
"Rodney, this is Officer Lane,"
an angelic voice comes over the built-in receiver of my helmet.
"I'm in pursuit following you guys."

"Got a visual. Welcome to the party."

"Is it Houdini?"
Gotta love the way she says my name, caressing it with her tongue and teeth in what I like to imagine as a loving tone of voice. Reality doesn't always match up with my expectations, of course.

              "Negative, Lane,"
comes the significantly less-angelic voice of Officer Rodney Whoever
. "Actually, should state at this time we're not sure. If this boyfriend of yours is running with the Bastards like the Chief seems to think he is, then you might have to break-up with him tonight."

             
Several sniggers follow this assertion. Now that I've been so close to her, it's all too easy for me to picture Laney rolling her glacial-blue eyes at the unimaginative trolling of her coworkers. My heart goes out to her having to deal with thuggish personalities both inside and outside of the precinct. They don't know a good thing when they got it and they definitely don't deserve her.

             
"It's not him."
She sounds confident in her claim.
"Believe me, gentlemen, I don't think he's going to make an appearance tonight."

              "All the better for him,"
another male officer responds back. I recognize his voice but can't put a name to him at the moment. There's only one name and badge number I care about anyway.
"There's some trouble at the truck stop. Reports of shots fired. We got another call that a container a few miles west is on fire. Could be related, or could be isolated incidents, but we're not taking any chances in Bastard territory."

              "Where?"

             
God damn it Lane. Why couldn't you have settled for a scorching-hot make-out session with me, your handsome barroom stranger, rather than running headlong into an
actual fire?

              "Thirteenth and Jefferson. The…"

              "Warehouse. Got it."

             
I can't say I'm surprised when I see the unmarked vehicle in front of me swerve all at once without signaling, taking its occupant down a little-known shortcut toward main. As obscure as this district is through the back streets of town, it's well maintained, mainly because it's so rarely driven—I should know. I've used it to escape plenty of police chases in the past.

              It's also the road where Lane and I first met. I wonder if she remembers. She was the rookie cop who knew exactly what hidden road I had disappeared down, and the rest is history. She's been chasing me ever since.

              At least, that's how it usually goes.

              I execute a tight turn, half-braking with the heel of my boot as I whip the Hawk around beneath me. I'm already punching it before I've even completed my turn. I start down the side road after her. She pushes sixty…seventy…my own speedometer inches up much faster than she can hope to accelerate until I'm about to overtake her.

              Time to make myself known

              I veer out of the darkness behind her and flip my headlights on. One of my most basic tricks—and possibly the stunt I'm most hated for by the cops—is my ability to night-ride without them. I suspect they think I do this all the time, but really I only ever ride "blind" when I'm tailing them down the road close enough to see by the light their vehicles cast. This stunt usually scares the shit out of them, and it looks like tonight is no exception.

             
"Shit!"
I hear Lane yell. She must still have her thumb on the radio button. Glad I made the executive decision to move to the side, because she momentarily brakes
hard.
She would have smeared me across her back windshield if I hadn't anticipated her reaction.

              I hold one hand aloft in a wave as I sail past her. To her credit, she doesn't stall long; almost immediately upon being passed, she guns it as hard as I did a half-second ago. Just like that, the tables turn: now
she's
following in
my
dust. I couldn't be happier about our new arrangement.

             
"Lane?"
Rodney again.
"Officer Lane! Do you copy? Were you in an accident? It sounded like—"

              "It's fine, Rod."
Lane sounds more collected this time. Maybe I'm just fooling myself, but does she sound like she's trying to suppress some excitement as well?
"It's Houdini. Don't know how long he was behind me, but I've got him in my sights now. I am in pursuit."

              "Lane, do not pursue this guy! I mean it: do not pursue!"
Rodney hollers into his radio.

              "Lane, he ain't worth it,"
the male officer from the second vehicle cautions.
"You know he ain't. You've got bigger fish to fry. Burning truck trailer, remember? Stay focused!"

              I can't have them sweet-talking my gal into ditching me. As soon as the message cuts out, I rev my bike and jump a few yards ahead of her; just to add insult to injury, I take the Hawk up onto its back wheel to provoke her.

             
"Oh, you son of a bitch,"
I hear Lane mutter.
"He's taunting me, guys."

              "Ignore him. Stay focused on your mission,"
Rodney insists.
"We've got a firetruck en route to the scene—"

              "I'm almost there,"
Lane interrupts him.
"I know the roads around here. Right now visibility isn't great, so the boys in red are going to be late. The rain will do a better job of putting out the fire than I can on my phone."

              "Lane!"
Rodney all but shouts again. Articulate guy, that officer.

             
"That warehouse is abandoned!"
Lane yells back.
"I'm taking a quick detour and then I'm on it!"

             
There’s a burst of static, and my connection to Elizabeth Lane goes dark. I register a parting, furious
"God damn it!"
from Rodney before I drop back down onto two tires and reach up to adjust my helmet.

             
Off you go.

             
And off I go, having once more successfully diverted Officer Lane from danger. Because despite her claims to the contrary, I happen to know the warehouse on Jefferson is
not
abandoned. In fact, the last time I went out there, it was all I could do to avoid getting myself and a certain blond-headed Brother Baron of mine killed. That's ignoring the fact that the woman he kidnapped—and subsequently decided to woo as his girlfriend—was squirming around on back making me fishtail all over the place.