BILLIONAIRE BIKERS: 3 MC Romance Books (41 page)

"Go to hell." I sound exhausted. I wish I didn't sound that way. I don't have to look at him to know that infuriating smile is probably growing by inches with every betrayal of just how hard he rode me. "As far as I'm concerned, we didn't
knock
anything."

"But we're a 'we' now?" he asks casually. I could slap my forehead, but I don't know who I want to punish at this point: myself, or the man I let take me. I keep my hands busy, hunting down what remains of my clothes and making certain I can find my badge. If I can just find my
badge,
I'm certain I'll be better able to remember who I am and why I'm here.

We realize in the same instant, then, that it's more than just the terms of our engagement that have changed. My eyes shoot to Wolf the same instant his seek mine out in the darkness; he's wearing an expression that I'm certain must mirror my own, one of wide-eyed alarm that borders on both hope and horror.

The truck has stopped. While we were distracted, giving in to our explosive attraction and desperation in the dark, we arrived at our destination…or least at a stop along the way.

I hear the crunch of footsteps outside on gravel. The sound might as well be a spray of bullets for the reaction it gets. Wolf, who has been less hurried about gathering up his clothes, lunges for them now as the back door rattles ominously.

I have the opposite reaction. He must know what I intend before I even start moving, because I hear him whisper-shout after me:
"Laney—"

              The back door of the truck slides up, bathing me in a square of brilliant bright light.

WOLF

I've always known Elizabeth Lane was a firecracker, but
wow.

             
And that's not even counting the incredible sex we just had—which I fully intend to count, by the way. No, my current reaction is in response to her striding straight for the door to our makeshift prison cell as it rolls upward and opens. I watch helplessly as her incredible, all-too-womanly figure is illuminated from the front—at least she's fully dressed again, which is more than I can say for myself.

              But there's more important shit hitting the fan now than the fact that I just hit that from behind.

             
"Lane!"
I don't even pretend to try and hide myself this time. I rise up from behind the crate, trousers half-open and torso bare; I clutch the bundle of my sweat-stained clothes to my chest like some old-fashioned woman from a movie discovered in the midst of a torrid affair. Her footfalls hit the floor of the truck harder; her legs and arms pump; she sprints right into the square of light. I hear a man's voice cry out in Spanish, but it's far too late for that poor guy to do anything to avoid the avenging angel racing toward him.

              Lane doesn't emit a battle cry; she doesn't emit a sound. She hurls her body out of the truck, feet first, and lets gravity do the rest. She comes down on the driver like a battle-axe, and I scramble after her as we both make our escape from the truck.

              I thought I would be relieved to finally have that door open. I was wrong. Hot midday air hits me like a blast furnace, nearly knocking me back into the bed of the truck. I hop down from the back, strong calves catching me on the ground; the soles of my own bare feet are immediately burned by the scorching blacktop beneath.

              "Oh shit," I mutter. These circumstances stand in huge contrast to the world we left behind us up north. Just how far south did our unwitting captors take us?

              Lane stands over the man she dropped, hands on her hips as she considers the pathetic heap of unconscious muscle and bone he makes. I crane a little closer to get a better view. I think I recognize him from the warehouse, but can't say for certain. I take the initiative to toe him onto his stomach; he rolls heavily, and I can see all too clearly the Devil’s Bastards' shitty patch leering out at me from between the man's thick shoulder blades.

              "Nice catch," I mention to Lane. She snorts—whether or not in amusement, I can't exactly say. She combs a hand through her blond tresses, pulling her hair out of her eyes and letting it tumble like a wave down one shoulder. I've stopped looking at the man at our feet now, obviously, to take in the blinding sight of the woman I've just had fantastic sex with. Jesus, it was well worth it, all these years of torture never knowing if I'd have her beneath me,
moving
with me, collaborating on the one thing a man like me and a woman like her might actually agree on. God, we were good together. And I know she agrees: she told me herself, the way she moaned my name and begged frantically for her release. Now that we're literally released, I find I'm starting to miss the boxed-in little world of the back of the truck. I wonder if I can get her in there again, just for old time's sake…

              "Put some clothes on," she orders irritably. My vision of the woman I want is shattered by the less-forgiving reality. Her hair hangs the way it does because of saturation; her face looks ghastly pale beneath the bright sun, and there are dark circles under her eyes. Her lips are dry and look as if they ache for moisture, and even the commands that should normally come so easily to her sound raw in her throat. She needs water, badly. We both do.

              I zip up and slip my boots on, not bothering to tie the laces, but that's as far as I'm willing to go. The sun beats down on my naked back, settling on my shoulders like a molten-hot mantle, but the shirt stays off for now. I'm sure I'll be glad to have it within the hour, if only to keep my hide from roasting, but right now it's fucking
hot.

             
"We better get out of here," I mention as I glance around me. We appear to be stopped at some sort of weigh station, but I don't see anyone else around operating it. Lane pats down the unconscious body of our driver, divests him of the handgun she finds holstered in the seat of his pants, then drags him into the shadow of the truck. I watch with arms crossed, admiring her compassion; she rounds on me, glowering as if she can read my mind.

              "The cabin," she suggests. "Check it for water. Then let's get the hell out of here."

              I walk around the broadside of the truck, as instructed, and leverage myself up into the driver's seat to check out the situation. There’s nothing to be found except empty fast-food bags and Styrofoam cups of stale rest-stop coffee. I pull a face, before snooping in the back where the bunks are. I manage to find two one-liter bottles of water, unrefrigerated, but I'm so beyond giving a shit that the temperature of the water doesn't even register. I guzzle half of mine, before pocketing it and bringing the other unopened out to Lane.

I watch her throat work as she drinks; then she pulls her full, wetted lips free with a gasp. My stomach lurches, and I can feel myself growing hard again already. I initiated sex with her because I knew it might be my only chance to have her; now, I can see that one session will never be enough. Officer Lane is sex on legs, and the glare she fixes on me only makes me harder. I want to take her issues with me and help her work them out in the bedroom, again and again and again, until she figures out that she's crazy about me. At least, that's how I hope this story will end.

"Start walking," she instructs. I snort, but it's in my best interest to comply. Judging by the location of the sun in the sky, it doesn't intend to set any time soon. The only immediate relief we might find from it involves finding shelter, and I'm not especially keen to remain at a seemingly abandoned weigh station that is likely Devil’s Bastards' territory.

My suspicions are confirmed as Lane and I start walking, and I notice their sigil spray-painted onto the side of the building facing away from the road. I keep an eye out for signs after that, and I'm the first to find one along the road as we walk.

"Tijuana," I mutter. Lane makes a wordless noise of desperation in her throat, almost as if someone is strangling her. I turn back to her, but she clearly doesn't share my enthusiasm at the realization of where we are. "We're in Mexico!" I exclaim.

"Oh, God." She stops walking long enough to drop her head into her hands. I approach her to take her by the shoulders, meaning to comfort her, or at least shake her from her doldrums. She pulls away, mistrustful eyes analyzing me, as if she expects me to have an ulterior motive for touching her.

"This is good news, Laney. This is great news," I emphasize, as her eyes flicker warily from my grinning face and back again to the sign. "We'll just stop off in the city, grab a bite, and maybe stay overnight if we run out of time. El Chaparral is where we can cross back over to the border."

"You've been here before," she notes.

"Hell yeah, I have. It's a nice town. You'll like it."

"No," she interjects suddenly as we start walking again. She hurries to catch up with my longer strides. I turn my head in surprise, raising an eyebrow at her denial. "No, you don't get to do that," she states. "You don't get to pretend you know what I like now: my personality, my preferences...none of it!" She makes an 'X' with her arms and cleaves downward. "You don't know a thing about me, Wolf. If that even is your real name."

"Wolf Larson," I confirm. Then, because I can't help myself: "Sounded real enough when you were screaming it ten minutes ago."

"What...that's...!" Lane splutters. She looks adorable on the rare occasion she's reduced to speechlessness. I think privately that I should ensure it happens more often. "I was dehydrated, okay? I was delirious. Whatever...that was..." She gestures back down the road behind us with her hand. "...it won't happen again."

"Whatever you say." Let her insist as much as she wants if it puts her mind at ease, but I have plans for us as soon as we hit the city limit. I'm going to wine and dine her, and see to lodgings, no expenses spared. I'm going to treat her exactly how a woman of her caliber deserves to be treated. I'm going to make her fall for me before we leave Tijuana.

"Put a shirt on," she mutters. We continue walking together in silence. After a long moment, I reach out to drape my shirt over her head like a shawl to keep the sun off. She doesn't protest, just fishes her water bottle out of her pocket to douse a little water on the shirt.

The city skyline shimmers into view. Another half hour and we're inside the metropolis, strolling down the main trafficked corridor. Lane offers my shirt back to me; I'm half-inclined to decline, considering most of the male tourists we pass are going shirtless, but it occurs to me that the "no shirts" rule probably applies across the border as it does in the US. I pull the damp cotton fabric over my head and settle it on my frame; then I hold my hands out, inviting Lane's inspection, and immediately thinking this is probably a mistake.

She takes me in with her cool blue eyes, and I swear I feel some of the heat relent beneath her gaze. The cold line of her mouth twitches, and she steps forward; to my surprise, she reaches up to run her fingers through my unkempt locks, feather-light in her touch. She rearranges them until the reflection off a nearby shop window shows that I'm looking more respectable than I can ever remember appearing. My eyes aren't for my own improved looks, though; I fasten them on the woman before me, grinning approvingly down at her. She snorts quietly through her nose and takes a step back. We both keep silent, knowing the choreography of the banter that would normally go here, knowing that it's useless. The push-and-pull isn't getting us anywhere anymore. Someone's gotta give, and it sure as hell isn't going to be me.

"Where are we?" Lane asks as she turns to assess the shops nearby. "You seem like you know where you're going. Then again..."

"Just around the corner." I cut her off before she has time to complete what I'm sure is an insult. "I need to stop by a garage."

"Garage?" she asks curiously as she follows me. "Shouldn't we be worried about more pressing things, like food and water?"

"We've entered the country illegally. And I assume, like me, you're without a passport," I remind her as we round the corner. "We're going to need to get out again as stealthily as possible."

"And you think this is stealthy?" she deadpans when she sees the shopfront of the cycle shop.

I grin. "Wait here." I push through the door. The man at the front desk greets me in Spanish; I manage to speak the language passably well, enough for him to realize exactly who I am and what I require.

Less than five minutes later I exit the store.

"That was fast." Lane sounds genuinely surprised. She leans in the shadow of the awning with her brown arms crossed; I can see she's already getting a deeper tan than she had before, and it looks damn good on her. It's not the first time I find myself wondering how a girl that looks like that came to be a cop in the soggy realms of the Pacific Northwest.

"What can I say?" I reply as we started walking again. "I'm a fast guy."

"I noticed."

I wince. I totally gave her that opening, and I can't resent her for taking it. Still, to a guy like me, that sounds an awful lot like a challenge. I measure her with a stealthy look out the corner of my eye, but her expression doesn't make it immediately obvious to me what she's thinking. She's not wearing the usual cold mask I'm used to; she looks tired, sure, but almost like she's close to enjoying her unexpected vacation.

"Let's grab lunch," I suggest. "I know a place. Then we'll figure out what our next move is."

"I need to get ahold of the chief," Lane says to herself as we cross a busy intersection. "Today was supposed to be my day off."

"Didn't know you ever took one."

"What I'm trying to say is they won't notice I'm gone until Monday," Lane says in exasperation.

"Right. I follow you," I say. "And the boys in blue at the precinct are really going to miss their donut errand girl."

"Oh, get bent, Houdini," she snaps. "Need I remind you, the whole reason I'm in the doghouse at all is because of the little stunt you pulled with
my
firearm. So thanks for that."

"Hey, didn't know if you might shoot me," I reply. "How was I to know you were looking for something a little more crass and enjoyable?" Lane glares at me, harder than she was glaring before. I didn't know it was possible, but she's definitely not a woman you want to get caught underestimating. "Anyway, we're in Tijuana now! You want a piece to carry? Look no further!" I throw my hands up at the expansive city, frightening a nearby mother and her child; she shields the little girl and they hastily turn into a nearby store.

"Let me guess, you know a guy?" she quips.

"I know several."

"Ugh. I don't want to hear about this." She pinches the bridge of her nose. "This is out of my jurisdiction. Out of my jurisdiction," she mutters to herself. I can imagine the mental anguish she must be going through. The fact that she's forced to keep company with someone like me—who flouts the law and believes in a kind of justice a lot more dubious than hers—must be making her crazy. Best to vent some of that tension between the sheets, but I know better than to suggest as much.