BILLIONAIRE BIKERS: 3 MC Romance Books (35 page)

I pull her to her feet, probably more indelicately than her tiny dress warrants. She struggles to yank it down her thighs as I drag her after me across the abandoned lot.

"Get off me!" she snaps. "I
will
tase you!"

"I don't doubt for a second that you will,”
I snap back. Once again I feel thankful for the helmet disguising anything that might be a remotely familiar affectation in my voice.
"At least this way you won't be shooting me."

"Why are you pulling me away? This is a crime scene!" She tries to hold herself back, but as strong as her personality is, it's no match for my brute strength. I give her arm another hard yank, and she stumbles after me against her will. I have a feeling if she could dig those ridiculous heels of her into the ground, she would.

"This is my
job!"
she exclaims. "You are directly interfering with an officer of the law!"
             
"In case you hadn't noticed, that wasn't just any fire."
I whip her around in front of me, and she hits her hip against the side of her vehicle. I'm half-tempted to follow her, to back her up against it, to make her listen to reason with every inch of my physical presence, but it would too closely mirror the moment we shared earlier. Even now, as I stare her suddenly the eye, I can't let Elizabeth Lane even begin to suspect who I am.

"There were drugs in that container,"
I state.
"You can smell it in the air. I have no idea what kind. The longer we stay out here, the better chance we have of finding out…and I don't personally relish the idea of unknown substances circling around inside my body, especially when I have to drive."

"You're not driving anywhere." She doesn't sound any less certain without her gun. I consider her for a long moment, finally settling my hands on my hips. She crosses her thin, bare arms. I think she must be cold, even though she doesn't let on. I think that if I were anyone else, I could do something about it.

"Who's going to stop me?"

"Backup's on the way." She jerks her head out toward the main road. "In fact, I think I hear them now."

In the distance, I hear the faint wail of a police siren. I realize then that I forgot to turn the radio inside my headset back on. Lane must have called in backup on her way over here, while I was distracted trying to take in details of the perimeter. I could smack myself for being so stupid, but it's nothing new. If there's anyone driving this highway who stands a chance of outsmarting me, it's her.

"I've got contacts you don't."
I finally decided to settle on diplomacy.
"Resources. You let me go, and I'll have access to the answers you need."

"What resources?" she scoffs at my claim. "And anyway, how do I know I can trust you?"

God, she looks beautiful when she wears that face: sharp brows drawn together, lips puckered, the expression she tries to conceal behind the steel of her eyes is one of almost girlish naïveté.

"You don't."
It's terribly cliché.

It's also the truth.

The sirens are drawing closer. I move to go, reaching for the handlebars of my Hawk. Her hand shoots out to arrest my departure, but I notice she doesn’t pull any cuffs out of that sexy dress she’s wearing. That's all I need to know. As much as I love the thought of her surprisingly delicate fingers restraining my wrists, I jerk my arm out from beneath her as I steer my bike a safe distance away. I can't have her changing her mind about our arrangement, especially when I'm not certain we have an accord in the first place.

I'd like to continue this, but my odds of seeing her again without a jail cell between us are significantly less if I stay any longer. As much as I'd like to deepen the moment by thrusting her back against her car and letting her know all the things this piping-hot potential-lover can do for her without taking his helmet off, I don't.

I throw my leg over the seat and take off, leaving the woman I'm crazy about—and the one I know I can't have—there to clean up the mess we've made.

I'll make it all up to Lane…somehow. I have no idea what the Devil’s Bastards are up to, but I can't shake the creeping feeling that Lesher's showdown with them months ago has something to do with their new resurgence on the scene now. And despite my fellow bikers' insistence we stay estranged, I happen to know that MC's stick together…

…and that means whatever affront the DBMC thinks was committed against them is my responsibility. Their actions, the drugs and trafficking, are now are
my
responsibility. I'll protect my territory even if it kills me.

And even if it means not taking what I really want.

LANE

"Lane! Coffee run! Now!"

              I groan and drape myself back in my desk chair.
This
is my punishment for "losing" my firearm at the Jefferson warehouse—playing coffee runner for the entire department for the foreseeable future.

             
It could have been a lot worse,
I muse as I angrily snatch up my coat and stride out the door amidst a chorus of male sniggers. Not a single sympathetic look follows me on my way out, but it's just as well—I don't need to be coddled for my mistake, even though it
clearly
wasn't my fault to begin with.

              It's all that maddening, infuriating Houdini's fault. Did he really think I was going to shoot him? Even if he turned out to be obviously in league with the DBMC and whatever two-bit operation they were deciding to run the night of the fire, I have a feeling now I couldn't bring myself to go through with the threat he perceived in my obviously brandished weapon. I suppose neither of us can afford to take chances with the other, even if things between us are
different
now. Complicated.

              I actually spoke to him. Houdini. I haven't told anyone yet. I don't know
why
I haven't told anyone yet. It would have been easy enough to point to the smoking carcass that was my handgun and blame it all on the rogue biker that's been plaguing our department for years. No one in the PD has any sympathy for him; the most I risked by outing him was actually gaining a modicum of sympathy for
myself.

             
Could it be I really consider him an ally? An informant? One I still intend to see in cuffs, admittedly, but if what he promised me was true…

              Why do I feel like I just made a deal with the Devil?

             
No,
I reassure myself as I pull up outside the local donut joint.
No deals. I didn't even say anything in response to his offer. I'm just waiting to see how things play out.

             
And so what if playing the game with a wanted criminal means keeping silent? Something that decidedly
isn't
me? If it means being a better cop and serving the interests of justice, then so be it.

              If it means seeing Houdini again, speaking to him, then so be it.

              I keep my reflective aviators on as I stride through the doors to the donut shop; when I exit in five minutes, it's with decidedly less grace. Balancing two boxes and three carriers of coffee wasn't how I had envisioned myself when I graduated from the academy, but if it's what I have to do to keep my position on the force now, I'll keep my head down without a word of complaint. Again, it could have been a lot worse—I could have had no evidence at all to show for what actually happened, and turned up empty-handed with an empty holster and been accused of gross negligence.

             
So thanks for that, Houdini.

             
I don't like how much the rogue biker is factoring into my thoughts this morning. I like it even less when I hear a familiar voice hail me the moment I step down off the curb toward my car.

              "Could you
be
any more of a stereotype?"

              Just goes to show much I'm thinking about men I shouldn't: for a split second, I'm almost
certain
it's Houdini's voice calling after me. I whirl with all the speed of a cop about to make a long-awaited arrest, the tower of take-out boxes only minimally cramping my style.

              Wolf Larson stands on the sidewalk, wearing a green, checkered shirt and denim, the hands that held me against the back wall of Mal's Dive hitched in his back pockets. He grins his lopsided, infuriating grin.

              I try to pull it together quickly. I crash and burn as hard as a container fire on Jefferson, but I have to at least
attempt
to not know exactly what he's talking about. "I beg your bargain?" I demand. I try to pitch my voice differently, maybe make it a little lower—a little more no-nonsense—than it is naturally, but I realize the next moment how ridiculous I must sound. I curse myself for my stupidity. Even with my blond locks tied back and my makeup a lot more conservative—and less like dive-ready cake batter, shall we say—it must be obvious who I am.

              "Lane," he greets me. "Or is it
Officer
Lane? Need any help with those?" he offers. I whirl away, heart crashing against my all-too-apparent badge like a cymbal in the orchestra.

              "I'm in a hurry," I state noncommittally as I struggle for my keys, and try really hard not to set off the police siren in the process. I've done it before. Then again, if it stands a chance of chasing off my stalker…

              "Hey, no judgement," Wolf says. "Even officers of the law have to let their hair down once in a while.

              "I was…"

              I can't tell him I was undercover, can I? How much do I know,
really know,
about this guy without a background check? Civilian friends and family might accuse me of being paranoid—accuse me of being excessive—but I like to think I'm just using the tools at my disposal in my professional life to inform my personal one. So what if I've looked up the police records of a few potential acquaintances in the past.

              "Look." I spin around after unceremoniously dumping my sugary cargo into the passenger seat. "I don't know who you think you met at Mal's Dive the other night, but that…definitely wasn't me. I had my reasons for being there, same as you."

              "I remember." Wolf's penetrating gray eyes look me up and down. I don't see disproval in his expression, and I definitely
don't
appreciate the feeling of minor relief that swims through me at the fact. If my being a uniformed officer of the law and an independent career-driven woman turns him off, then all the better for me, right? That gets rid of one nuisance, at least.

              "You were looking for some guy," he prods. "What was his unlikely name again? Merlin? Was it Penn? No wait…Teller?"

              "Houdini." The name escapes my clenched teeth like a hiss of steam. "You're awfully good at choosing all the wrong names for all the wrong people."

              "What? I thought you liked 'Goldilocks'!" Wolf crows. "I was sort of growing fond of it myself."

              "I seem to recall
she
wasn't the one who had to deal with a wolf." Why am I even still engaging with this man? The door to my police vehicle is open—all I have to do is slide on in and flip this guy the proverbial bird by driving off and getting the paperwork started on a restraining order. Sure, it's probably all a coincidence that we run into each other in town—but then again, if he's a local, why have I never seen him before?

              "Too bad my name isn't Bear," Wolf pretends to lament as he steps down off the curb to join me. "Then maybe I'd stand a chance of finding you back at my place. Eating my porridge, sleeping in my bed…"

              I scoff. It sounds too much like a laugh for my liking. I try not to think about what a relief it is to be talking to someone at least semi-intelligent, despite his near constant insistence on injecting sexual innuendo into the proceedings.

              "…or maybe just a date to start," Wolf amends as he stops short in front of me. There's no way I've backed off or backed down, of course, so we're standing almost pressed chest-to-chest. I remember too well how his body felt aligned with mine, and how I had found myself desperately craving more. Limbos and impasses, gray areas to the black and white orderliness I prefer, drive me absolutely crazy. Why do men always hold back when they have me pinned to a wall? Not that I've ever exactly found myself
pinned
that way recently outside of the training room…

              But this is a bad mental road to go down. I don't want to get to know anyone right now. I don't want to date, and I definitely don't think I want to have a one-night stand with someone I've just met. Not that I haven't done it before, but I'm just not satisfied by it. I need a man who is unafraid to take charge of me, not worship me for my looks and treat me like I'm delicate flower whose petal he's plucked.

              Assessing Wolf, I'm honestly not sure where he would fall on the spectrum. Better not to find out.

              "I'm all booked up," I mention, trying to keep from sounding amused. He's certainly persistent. It should feel annoying, but it feels more like a breath of fresh air.

              "You can always book me," he jokes. "If that's what it takes to spend time with you. What do I have to do?" He glances about himself in amusement, as if looking for a crime to commit. He points across the street to an elderly woman rolling herself along through the intersection with her walker. "What about her? I could go push her down."

              "To win yourself a date, Mr. Larson?" I chuckle blackly as I fold myself into the cop car. "You're going to have to do better than that."

              "A felony, maybe!" Wolf protests as I start the car. I hook my elbow on the rolled-down window and back out of the parking lot, departing with a two-fingered salute. At least I managed to depart with more dignity than I had intact when we first saw one another.

              "See you later, Big Bad Wolf."

              The scruffy man in the green, checkered shirt returned my wave. He didn't appear at all despondent, like the men I usually turn down—if anything, I swear his chiseled, darkly-stubbled jaw looks honed in determination, like he more than intends to take me up on my enigmatic offer of meeting at a later date.

I wish I didn't feel as if I looked forward to it myself.