BILLIONAIRE BIKERS: 3 MC Romance Books (43 page)

The door snaps open, and the elevator bounces slightly, although this time it thankfully holds beneath us. Wolf's hand finds my back, and I start; I hadn't realized he moved nearer to me during the commotion, and that my attempts at trying to separate myself from him were met with complete and utter failure. He touches me: a last, fleeting moment, snatched and then gone again, as he pushes me forward into the waiting hands of the first fireman. The latter helps leverage me of the compartment, holding me steady as I find my footing. It doesn't take long. I'm not some fairytale damsel in distress who will require years of recuperation in a tower at the end of all this.

I'm standing on my own soon enough, and I stand back, straightening any eye-catching or eyebrow-raising wrinkles in my dress as Wolf follows me out. "Took you guys long enough," he told the firemen jovially—
ever the rich, over-privileged asshole when he has an audience.
There's a small crowd of charity-goers gathered around us, and several have the gall to laugh and start applauding at Wolf's words.

"He'll need a ride home," I tell the fireman nearest to me. "He's drunk.
Extremely
drunk," I quickly revise my story as Wolf glares daggers at me. I'm ever the unwelcome storm stealing the wind out of his sails. "He broke a glass while we were in there. Thought he could break down the door with it. I tried to tell him—"

"All right, honey. Let's get you refreshed," Wolf simpers as he steers me away from them. "How about something out of the fondue fountain? Oh, wait, weren't you just saying something about how upset your stomach is after all that rich chocolate? Maybe you had better stop by the restroom instead. We wouldn't want you to—"

We're far enough away from the crowd that there's no chance of anyone seeing when I haul back and punch him in the side. I don't use full force—I don't want to level him, I just want to instill a warning. Wolf doubles over sideways as I remark, "You know, I think I
will
use the restroom. Excuse me."

Moments later, I'm standing over an expensive porcelain basin inset into the wall of the lobby bathroom, splashing water on my face and muttering what I'm sure aren't grammatically coherent sentences of encouragement to myself. I haven't had a moment to collect my thoughts about this encounter since laying eyes on Wolf. I'm determined to come out ahead. What's more, I'm determined not to let him get away again.

But what is it you want?

I study my reflection in the mirror, glaring at the ridge of raised flesh around my button nose that comes of wearing a disdainful expression for so long. My mother once warned me that one day it would stick…and with Wolf around, I'm certain that day must be coming hard and fast. It's only a matter of time before I wake up one morning with a permanent, unattractive glower fixed to a face that's otherwise pretty decent.

It's easy enough to try and distract myself with self-deprecating thoughts, but all I can think about is
waking up in the morning
on a constant loop.

Why do I keep thinking about it? About sleeping in a strange new room that fast becomes as familiar as my own, with someone beside me? Surely I'm not
actually
entertaining the idea that that someone might be Wolf?

And even if I am, what hope is there for making such a scenario a reality? Maybe it was over for us before it had a chance to begin. We're too incompatible as professionals, as people…yet when our naked bodies intertwine and hit the mattress, if we can even be bothered with mattresses, we're like fire and gasoline coming together to light a beautifully destructive blaze.

I have to say something to him. I may not know what it is yet, but I have to say something to hold him, keep him…

…aaand he's gone.

Hindsight tells me I should have expected it. I exit the bathroom, and Wolf's nowhere to be seen. I search the lobby for a visual, and even poke my head in the ballroom, but none of the men who meet my eyes—and there are many with looks of interest—are the infuriatingly handsome perp I'm looking for.

"Excuse me," I ask the man at the coat check. "Did you happen to see where Mr. Larson went?"

"Why yes, miss. He just left on that bike of his in a hurry. I'm afraid I didn't make out which way he went." The hotel employee grimaces in apology. "It's started raining out, you know, and they say conditions are only going to get worse this week. Would you like to take an umbrella with you when you go?"

"No, thanks. That's fine." I stride into the revolving door and let it spit me back out outside. The man is right: dark clouds bubble thick and ominous overheard, and the air is heavy with the threat of a downpour more humid than the one I'm used to weathering further up north. I gaze out across the parking lot, watching as small drops begin to dot the asphalt. It's only going to start falling faster, but I'm not worried about weather conditions interrupting my pursuit. I've already lost the man I was looking for.

But not for long.

"Go ahead," I whisper. "Disappear, Houdini. I'll find you."

My purse buzzes, and I pull the strap around my shoulder to hunt through the compartment with fumbling fingers. For the moment, all thoughts of Wolf Larson and how mad he makes me in every sense of the word are forgotten. I pull my phone free and stare down at the caller ID, the cold hand of dread clutches at my heart. It's time to face the music. After this phone call, I'll know what my fate in the department is. I tap to accept the call and raise the phone to my ear.

"What's the verdict, Chief?"

WOLF

The California Clubhouse isn't too shabby a retreat from the world. It's nothing compared to the one just past the upstate border—the one I always tend to crash in near the Oregon coast—but hey, it's a mansion, and tequila tastes mostly the same wherever you drink it.

              Except, maybe it tastes a little sweeter in Mexico, in the company of a beautiful woman who may or may not like another shot at having her hand between my legs. But I need to forget about all that now, especially when all I'm wearing are my swimming trunks.

              The RBMC's California HQ is the perfect place to get my shit together. And it's the perfect place to try and give myself amnesia about all things Elizabeth Lane. The bar on the property is always well stocked, and the firewater flows.

              "Wolf," Dash Holden calls out to me from the kitchen. "Need you to come here for a minute."

              I turn my head in disinterest. My disinterest mainly stems from the fact that I'm brooding over a woman I know I stand no real chance of ever having. If I had just left well enough alone between us, things might have been different…and by that, I mean the same. I would have never met Elizabeth Lane face-to-face, and she would have chased a living shadow on into forever if she had to.

              Would I really trade what passed between us these last few days for a chance to go back to the way things were? I'm not so sure. But I wanted to gain some clarity before I got out of the pool.

              "Bring whatever it is out to me," I call. "Or better yet, don't bother me at all!"

              "Can't," Dash calls back. "Anyway, you're going to want to see this."

              All I want to see is the city of Los Angeles laid out down below me from our vantage on the hill. I want to lose myself in its lights and take in the heady smell of the rain that falls; it's been storming for the last ten minutes, a summer shower that occasionally booms with thunder in the distance, further out over the metro area. I want to see some lightning. Maybe beholding the real thing in nature will help me forget that I once held it in my arms.

I sigh in irritation, taking my elbow off the marble side of the pool only long enough to grasp my latest drink and down it in one fell swoop. I've enjoyed sitting here undisturbed for the last half hour now—I should have known, after finding another Robber Baron here—it was only a matter of time before my thoughts were disturbed.

              Dash Holden isn't usually the talkative type. Get the two of us alone in a room together, and I'm happy to say I'll be using up most of the oxygen. He's a few inches taller than I am and a lot broader; he’s built a little like a linebacker—although I noted upon first seeing him that he's lost a lot of weight in muscle since the accident, weight that he doesn't appear in any hurry to put back on again. A trimmer Dash is still someone I would rather not go up against, even though he's got the temperament of a teddy bear when you get to know him.

              I drag myself out of the pool, and Dash meets me in the living room. He's pale for a guy who calls California his home, a lot whiter than I am, and I roam the Pacific Northwest practically chasing bursts of sunshine where I can find them—then again, even his personality is less than sunny. He's let his beard—a thick red-brown bush—grow out, which only adds to the ursine effect. His eyes are big and dark and probably intense enough that they make the ladies go nuts; his lips are full and generous, for a man, and probably his most marked feature, otherwise I wouldn't think about them at all.

              I'm as straight as an arrow, but I'm not beyond admitting—to myself, at least—that Dash is a good-looking man. Outside of pretty boy Flint, he's probably the best-looking Baron of the bunch. Not that I would ever include myself in a matchup between brothers—the results would be completely unfair to them.

              He turns from me without a word and lurches into the next room. I follow, noting the way he walks now with detached curiosity. A person might not even know he walks with a prosthetic, except for the way he has trouble turning occasionally, but even such a tiny spot of trouble maneuvering can easily be mentally glossed over. Dash lost his leg in a terrible crash, and he was lucky that was all he lost—still, I'm not sure I would have recovered as well as he did, if I were in his position. I love every bone and muscle and sinew that constitutes my own frame too much. What would I do with all this energy if I couldn't ride or run or punch a DB motherfucker out to the full extent of my capabilities? I don't know how he does it, and I consider that I should probably ask him sometime. Dash is tight with Bentley, so I guess he always counted on having another Baron to lean on during recovery…then again, Bentley is a cold piece of work himself.

              We've all got our emotional problems. Too bad that as soon as we round the corner to the study, mine is revealed starkly to both of us in a black and white flickering picture on one of the mansion's security screens.

              It's Lane. There's no denying she's been on my mind, but she's
here,
outside
the mansion gate, pacing back and forth impatiently beside the intercom. Even from this weird, invasive angle, I can see that she hadn't prepared for the summer storm: she clutches a thin cotton bolero jacket around her pointed shoulders, pausing in her tight little strut only to blow into her hands or make a fist and pound impatiently on the gate. Her flaxen-blond hair is pulled back in a high ponytail; I imagine that it must spill like gold down her back, though, of course, I can't see it on the screen in all its luster. It looks several shades darker from the rain.

              "That's your little cop friend, isn't it?" Dash leans back against the desk and crosses his arms. "What's she doing here?"

              "I have no idea." I'm having a hard time disguising the awe in my own voice. "And she's not a cop. Not anymore."

              "Maybe someone like Lesher would care about that, but I certainly don't." Dash shrugs his shoulders to prove his indifference; then, in stark contrast to his disaffected attitude, he says, "You better go out and get her. One ill-timed lightning strike is all it takes to electrify that gate."

              "Already going," I say as I turn to hustle out the front doors. It hadn't even occurred to me to run upstairs to change—and anyway, from the looks of things, she's been standing out there long enough. No time for a detour.

              I'm within a few yards of her, strolling barefoot down the walk, trying to appear unhurried now that I'm within sight. My wet swim trunks cling to the muscles of my legs, but it's not as uncomfortable as it could be, considering that unlike Lane, I'm clearly dressed to get wet. Rainwater drips from my hair into my eyes, and I slick my waterlogged locks back as I arrive at the gate to meet her.

              "How did you find me?" I demand, trying to ignore the way her eyes light up once she recognizes me. I imagine it's not something she would probably want me to notice, although I file it away for later consideration.

              She holds up a tiny receiver that I'm almost certain no longer functions due to exposure to the rain. "I planted a tracking device on you," she explains.

              I scoff. "What? Like hell you did!" And then,
"When?"

              "When we had our moment together in the elevator." The gate slides open. She smiles innocently, and I swear that must be the expression a venomous viper gives its victim before striking. It's not a bad look, but one that almost guarantees I'm going to regret letting her back into my life.

              But what choice do I have? I may not have much in the way of honor, but obviously even Lane knows I can't resist helping a woman in distress—even if it is her own damn fault she's standing out here in the rain in the first place.

              I've brought nothing to shelter her with, so I settle for wrapping my arm around her slender shoulders and letting her hunker down beneath a partial embrace as we head back toward the mansion. The electronic gate slides shut behind us.

              "Isn't that gate remotely-operated? Is someone else here with you?" she inquires curiously as we hurry up the front steps.

              "That'll be Dash," I admit as I hold the door open for her. "He's just in here."

              It doesn't occur to me until it's already too late that I'm actively aiding in her investigation into my private life. The moment Lane's eyes fall to the other biker standing in the doorway, I realize what I've done. I can practically see the gears turning in her mind as she tries to put two and two together, and we all know how basic an equation that is. At least Dash isn't wearing his jacket, and his tattoo bearing the brotherhood's crest doesn't show in the T-shirt he's wearing.

              His dark eyes meet hers evenly. Maybe he knows what she's up to, and maybe he doesn't, but he keeps himself a closed book to her.

              "Why don't we get you out of those clothes?" I suggest finally, to break the standstill.

              "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" she scoffs, but I watch as she's overcome by a violent shiver, and I feel somewhat justified in my suggestion. Dash detaches from the doorway and walks back into the lounge, disappearing from view as I take hold of Lane and steer her out toward the back deck.

              "I would," I confess, "but it also makes the most sense given the circumstances. What do you want to drink? Water? Whiskey? Whiskey-water?"

              "Definitely the last one," Lane says as she studies the panorama through the glass door. "Wow. You're really r-r-rich, aren't you? she says, shivering."

              "I can't take all the credit." My heart wavers to match the cold-induced stutter in her voice. "This is a…shared facility."

              "It's a clubhouse," she guesses. "And that other guy, he's part of your secret MC."

              "I can neither confirm nor deny Dash's involvement in anything," I say as I open the door for her. "But I can confirm that we probably aren't going to find any lady's swimwear around this place."

              "Because this is your secret MC headquarters," Lane accuses again. She hangs back a moment more, until I take the initiative of grasping her shoulder and pushing her out under the outdoor overhang. She objects with a little cry of protest as she stumbles, but we both know she's not the type to be treated with kid gloves. I grin.

              "Get out of those clothes and get into the j-j-jacuzzi," I mock her shivering stutter as I turn back for the kitchen. Strange, how just seeing her has made all the difference in the world—and we didn't exactly leave things on amiable terms. Maybe Officer Elizabeth Lane sometimes amounts to a personal problem for me, but she also amounts to the solution.

              "I'm not going to get naked," she protests.

              "Please. It's nothing I haven't seen before," I reply as I stoop behind the bar. "And if you're really worried about it, turn the jets on high."

              I hear her answering growl of frustration, but the next time I peer back over the bar, I see she's disappeared. Despite the nonchalance of my words, the thudding of my heart increases at the thought of what she may be up to. I hurry to get her drink, pouring an extra heavy shot and throwing an ice cube in as I make my way out to the back porch.

              Lane's clothes are piled in a wet heap on the concrete, and the woman herself is immersed in a bubbling, chlorine-scented froth. I hang back in the doorway a moment to watch as she reaches back behind her to pull the elastic band from her hair and shake her yellow tresses out; they hang flat around her bare shoulders, clinging to her skin with the weight of rainwater and perspiration.

              And there goes my heart again, p-p-palpitating away. Jesus, maybe I need to see a doctor. Wasn't I just meditating on how much this woman drove me crazy, and how if I ever saw her again, it would be too damn soon?

              "Feeling better?" I ask quietly as I approach. She turns her head, and I hold one of the tinkling glasses out to her. I decided to make two. God only knows I'm probably going to need it.

              It's a rare moment that passes between us as she accepts the drink. Maybe it's the weather, or her exposure to the cold, but Lane appears sedated, and she's found me in a contemplative mood myself, so I can't find it in me to try and ease some of the tension between us with my usual relentless teasing.
Something's up
. All I can do is wait patiently for her to tell me.

              I climb into the Jacuzzi and sink down into the scalding-hot water, wincing only mildly at the pleasurable sensation. I move to the opposite side of the hot tub to allow her a little room; I note, to my satisfaction, that she's stopped shivering.

              "They released me from the PD," she says finally. "Suspended, actually. I mean, I guess I knew it was coming. I wasn't able to explain that whole stunt in Mexico, not without giving you away. I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner, is what I'm saying."

              "I'm sorry."

              After a moment, Lane shakes her head. "It would be easy to blame you. I mean, I came here
wanting
to blame you—wanting to pick a fight." Lane holds her untouched drink out in front of her, gazing at it meditatively. I take a sip of my own as I wait for her to continue. "But I think all the fight's gone out of me, Houdini."