All the Way (2 page)

Blake scraped a long lock of hair out of his view and grinned over the pool stick, perfecting his aim at the eight ball.
“Better start praying, since I’m a little off my game tonight—my shoulders hurt from carrying this team.”

The brothers were playing a set of contenders who had no chance of winning, but Tanner scowled at the dig.
“Okay, hot shot, next game I’m taking you on solo.
But score this one already, will you?”

“I plan to.”
Blake drew back to take the shot.

Suddenly he did something he’d never done.
His eyes left the cue ball, concentration severed by a commotion at the bar.
He froze.

Then he straightened to his full height of six-three in steel-toed boots.
His sights locked on a pale, beautiful face that startled him with recognition.
Dark hair spilled down her back in a long slow wave.
Those arcing cheek bones and almond-shaped violet eyes made a stunning impact.
The exotic combination could only belong to one woman.

What is Layla Farrell doing in the Handle Bar?

The sight of her tugged inside his chest as it always did.
The first time she walked up his drive, he’d tripped heart first into those huge violet-blue eyes.
That wasn’t like him.
Blake Desanto didn’t fall all over himself for any woman. Apparently with one exception.

It took him six months to decide he was okay with that, one of those things that came along about once a lifetime.
It took four months to realize she was unlike any woman he had ever known.
The two months they dated told him she might even be the one.
But it took only one night for the whole thing to get shot to hell, his emotions still shredded from losing her.

He’d spent the past year forcing her out of his head—and, if he stopped to examine how deeply she affected him, he might have said his heart, too.
But he didn’t.
He couldn’t, and still maintain the cool detachment he’d perfected around her.

Quickly, he absorbed the scene at the bar, the panic in her eyes, the crowd of males converging, Dan “The Man” Greene putting his filthy fingers on her.
Blake felt his self-control snap.

An emotion spilled through his veins, chilled his blood.
It crawled up his spine and prickled across his scalp.
Jealousy.
The raw, possessive, consuming kind.
Something he’d struggled against most of his thirty-four years, and dealt with by never letting women get too close, never letting himself care too much.

But telling himself not to care about Layla Farrell was like telling him to chop his hair, put on a suit and work nine to five.
It would never happen.

The corners of his eyes tightened along with his jaw.
He thrust the pool cue at Tanner.
“You make the shot.”

“What?
I can’t.
Out of order means the game’s forfeit.”

“Then don’t.”

Blake had better things to worry about than losing a pool game.
He’d pay Tanner back the hundred tomorrow morning before they headed for the bike rally in Sturgis, South Dakota.
The two of them had to go over his designs for the latest landscaping job up for bid in Barrington Estates, the gated community that boasted multimillion-dollar homes, golf course views, and a few Cleveland Indians baseball players in residence.

A few more contracts like this one, and Desanto Landscaping and Design would earn the most solid reputation in greater Cleveland. Hand his brother those figures to crunch in his head and Tanner would forget tonight’s wash. It wasn’t about the money, anyway. It was all about the thrill and skill of competition. That competitive streak sent him shoving through the crowd toward the bar.

Nobody messed with a Desanto, or what a Desanto put his claim to. Right now Blake would do something he’d been aching to do since the day he lost her.

Claim Layla Farrell one last time.

He hoped the prick cop she called a boyfriend would hear about it.
The animosity that thrived between him and Jack now resembled scathing hatred.
If Johnson stepped up, Blake had a can of whoop-ass waiting for him, for the heartbreak he’d caused the Desanto family, the blackmail last year, and the stunt Johnson pulled six months ago, slapping him with false charges and putting him through hell.

Blake couldn’t wait to return the favor.
Starting now.

*

Layla whipped around, clutching her jacket up to her chin.
Who did this guy think he was?
Maybe if she ignored the groper he’d get bored and go away.

Wrong
.
She cringed as his hand lifted her hair and sifted through it.
She stared hard at the WMMS radio station poster plastered to the bar mirror.
Its buzzard mascot leered at her with a taunting smirk.

Coming here was a lousy idea, but she’d been desperate to find Robby before he left town, as the letter she found on the kitchen counter that morning foretold.
She had to change his mind about selling his soul to a biker gang.
Of all places, this would be the one to cater to the band of devils who had stolen her little brother.

But no one looked familiar or friendly enough to ask. That meant one thing. Time to leave.

Layla devised a quick plan, on the verge of enacting it when she heard rustling and what sounded like a shove behind her.
Two hands with long tanned fingers slapped down on the counter, trapping her against the bar.

A sexy voice spilled down her neck.
“Baby, I’ve been waiting for you all night.”

That was it.
Layla couldn’t stand the humiliation burning through her.
She picked up her full shot glass in a death grip, spun around and aimed up.
She prepared to bolt.
Instead, her feet fused to the floor.

Her eyes flew wide.
“Blake?”
The shot of tequila splashed him full in the face.
“Oh, no…
I didn’t know it was you!”

Scraping a hand down his face, he shucked the droplets.
His eyes opened and narrowed, the antique bottle-green depths staring down the slope of his straight nose.
Then he lifted a tequila-soaked finger to the seam of his lips, sucking off the flavor.

He shook his head.
Brushing his finger across her lips next, he stepped forward.
“I think it would taste better on you.”

“What—?”

His mouth clamped over hers.
He stole her breath away, branding her with his lips in an aggressive stamp of ownership.

He began to pull back, but their lips clung together.
For reasons unfathomable, they couldn’t force themselves apart.
His hands cupped her shoulders, and she felt a nudge backward, but in the next moment he closed the distance between them.

Suddenly he demanded deeper exploration.
He shifted his weight, pulling her into his arms, their bodies compressed airtight.
Her heels lifted off the floor.
Her head fell back into his palm.

Blake’s breath came in hot bursts against her cheek.
He tasted like wheat beer, a hint of tequila, and a big bad dose of sin.
His tongue dipped inside her mouth for a quick taste, then slid the length of hers, a thorough, possessive sweep.

Her heart nearly pounded out of her chest.
Layla discovered the wild speed of his pulse matched her own when her wrists touched the scorching sides of his neck.
Her fingers curved under the fall of his hair.

What was she doing?
She was in the middle of a packed bar, with Blake Desanto kissing her like he owned her soul.
And he’d come to collect.
Layla owed him nothing.
He’d let her down in the worst way, and not even a mind-erasing kiss could wipe away that memory.
This had to stop.

Stop!

Layla tore herself away.
Blake’s teeth scraped his bottom lip, as if savoring her taste.
The passion in his eyes hinted of vulnerability never before revealed.
The glimpse of emotion hardened quickly, like he’d thrown up a shield.

Resentment doused the flame he sparked low in her abdomen.
Cold reality chilled the heat he pumped through her veins.

Furious beyond words, her hand flew on its own toward his cheek.
He must have sensed her intent.
He seized her hand and threaded his fingers through hers.

“Hey, girl,” the bartender piped up.
“Why didn’t you say you’re with the Chief?”

“Slipped my mind,” Layla said through clenched teeth.
She couldn’t wait until they were alone so she could let him have it.

Blake stared down every guy within a five-foot radius of Layla, his fingers tightening territorially around her hand.
His glare lingered on Dan Greene, who looked away first and walked off like he’d never laid eyes on Blake’s woman.
Smart man.

Of course, Layla wasn’t his woman. Not anymore. It took less than thirty seconds as he tugged her away from the bar toward a private corner before she exploded.

“You had no right to do that.
How dare you—”

“Spare me the self-righteous act, sweetheart.
I saved you from the wolves.”

“Some rescue.
Everyone probably thinks I’m your girlfriend.
And don’t call me sweetheart.
You make it sound like an insult.”

“Is ‘baby’ okay?”

“Blake,” she warned.

“Hey, I’m just making sure we’re straight,” he said coolly.
“We can do kinky, but I’m not into tequila baths.”

When they made it to a dark corner she yanked her hand from his.
He pulled her in front of him, flattening his hand on the wall above her head, his back poised like human armor to deflect any curious stares that may have followed them.

He hooked his thumb through a belt loop of his Levi’s.
“And what makes you suddenly think you’re my girlfriend again?
Because I kissed you?” he asked, his tone purposely careless.
He wanted her to think the kiss meant nothing to him, even though it had twisted his insides into a fiery knot of desire, still burning steadily but now under control.

“No, I don’t think—
Ooh
…”
She let out a strangled sound of frustration, more adorable than intimidating.
It made him want to plow his fingers into her hair and take her mouth again.
“I hate you.”

Blake dropped his hand from the wall.
The amused grin died on his face.

“You heard me, you big, stupid, Harley-Davidson riding—”

“Watch it with the name calling,
sweetheart
.
I may have no pride, but that doesn’t mean you have to bring HD into this,” he said stonily.

Layla turned away and folded her arms around herself.
“It always comes back to his obsessions with music and motorcycles. And you only encourage him. You should’ve kept your stupid hobbies to yourself.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just forget it.”
She swiped the wet trail glistening down her cheek.

Blake’s eyebrows dropped. When she didn’t elaborate, he exhaled, put a hand to her shoulder and turned her around. Yep, she was crying, but her jaw looked rigid like she was trying not to. She raised those big blue eyes to his, and Blake forgot himself long enough to open his arms, for Layla to burst into tears, and for him to rush her out a side door onto the patio. The muggy night air of late July clung to them.

“Shhh. Everything’s going to be okay.” He smoothed a hand over her back as he held her, wondering how he’d wound up as a human Kleenex. She’d never broken down like this in front of him, had never let him see the depth of her emotions, her thoughts, her fears. He had to get her out of his arms before the need to hold her infected him, before this craving conquered his immunity. Glancing around, he saw they were alone.
“Layla.”
He lifted her chin with a finger. “Tell me what happened.”

Layla took two refreshing gulps of night air, wiped her tears, and came to her senses. She walked out of Blake Desanto’s arms for the second time, definitely the last.

“Don’t act so innocent,” she said with a glare.
“How else would Robby have wound up in a biker gang if you didn’t introduce them?”

“What gang?”

The puzzled look on his face drained her bravado.
She’d convinced herself she could pin this on Blake, who seemed the convenient source of her problems.

She stabbed a finger at the center of his chest.
“
You’re
the one who introduced my brother to those chrome monsters.
Now he’s leaving town with a biker gang on a motorcycle
you
helped him build.”