Saved by the Outlaw: Motorcycle Club / Hitman Romance (22 page)

My breathing quickens despite myself as my gaze is forced upwards. He’s just a hair’s breadth away from me, and if I leaned forward just a little, my chest would be pressed against his abs. It’s tempting, for all the wrong reasons.

“Why did you desire to save me?” I ask, surprised at how quiet and shaky my voice has become.

He’s still holding my hand, and though I can no longer touch his jaw where he keeps it, I could reach out, touch that broad, hard chest of his if I wanted. If I wasn’t quaking before the towering Russian.

But that question seems to stump him a little, or maybe he’s just not sure if he wants to be honest, because he doesn’t answer right away.

“Because I chose to, that’s all there is to it,” he says, releasing my arm. But even this stoic brute doesn’t do a good job of hiding the truth this time, because I can tell there’s more.

It hangs between us, but I don’t push. Not this time. Not if I hope to have him let me go from my prison cell.

And do what?
that voice in the back of my mind nags at me. I want to be free just because I don’t like being trapped, but even I understand the risks if those men are actually after me. But on the outside, there’s people I can go to for help. People I know and trust, like Brad. He has been helping me work my way up in the Congressman’s office, so surely he’d have some information.

“I can’t stay here, Mikhail,” I say softly. I don’t know if it frightens me more to stay with him or leave, but at least on the outside, I’m free.

“But you have to all the same,” he says to me with a tone of finality, stepping around me and going right for the door. “There’s plenty of leftovers, and more food in the cupboards and fridge,” he reminds me, but I don’t care about those things.

“Wait!” I say, and try to follow after him, tugging at the door. But it’s no use, he pulls it shut tight against my resistance, undaunted by my feeble attempts to stop him. And it slams shut. Leaving me alone inside.

“Damn it,” I curse, and I find myself staring at the closed door, picturing him on the other side, filled with a sense of longing that definitely should not exist. I can still feel the imprint of his hand on my wrist, and I touch it tenderly before my heart drops and I return to my bland captivity without the spark of his presence.

S
he’s
a pain in the ass
.

So why am I putting myself so out for her?
I don’t kill women
, I tell myself.
No different than my sticking up for Nikita years ago.

But that doesn’t mean I have to go out of my way to save her. I could have just dumped her off somewhere with a warning, leave her fate in her hands. But I know a girl like her has no way of understanding the trouble she’s in, or how serious it is.
Ditching her in anywhere with a simple warning would have been the same as a death sentence. That’s all.

Why did I just sit and eat dinner with her? That’s a question I can’t answer as easily. I’ve never sat down and ate a meal with Nikita, not in all the years since I helped her upon arrival. When she was emaciated and starving after her trip over, I brought her food and left her to it.

I can’t even remember the last time I actually sat and spoke with a woman casually over dinner. I may not hurt women, but I don’t deal with them either.

Yet this one…

I have to get her out of my life quickly.

T
hings were so
quiet in my little hideaway-slash-prison that I just cried myself to sleep after a news report about the murder of the Congressman, and the search for a missing witness. Me.

That’s why it struck me as so odd I guess, when I awake in the early hours of the morning to the sound of movement. I’m put on edge immediately, because it could be anyone. Maybe it’s my captor come back, or maybe it’s the police. Or worst of all, it might be those mobsters out to eliminate the last witness.

That last possibility is the one that sticks out in my mind so much, and makes my heart thump noisily in my chest, because it’s the stuff my tortured dreams had been made of all night.

I get up, still dressed in the simple silk nightdress I’d found in the closet, my bare feet padding over the hard floor as I make my way out of the room.

I can hear the sounds, but they aren’t coming from inside. It’s like the sound of scuffing, mixed with the sound of a metal. My heart is going haywire, and I creep closer to the door to hear. Light streams in from beneath, along that very narrow crack.

Grunting.

Oh lord, what if there’s a fight happening outside my door right now?

I want to run and hide, but I know if they’re here for me, hiding is only delaying the inevitable. If I’m going to live, I need to run.

But the door is locked…

I reach out with trembling fingers towards that cold metal door knob, and gently wrap my hand about it. I do my best to be quiet, but I’m no pro. I only hope the scuffle outside keeps them distracted as I turn…

And it opens. It’s not locked.

I’m more surprised than thankful at first, but I very slowly open the door and peer out. The light blinds me for a second, but I squint through. Outside is a large brick hallway, and it seems to be empty but for the light spilling out of the room across the hall.

I creep out, my bare feet helping me stay quiet as I look to the elevator at the very end of the hallway. My heart leaping for joy!

But now curiosity is getting the better of me and I peer into the room across the hall. There, my captor awaits.

His back is mostly turned, but he’s alone. All alone. The sounds I heard seem to be him working out. The room itself is just a bare bones chamber, filled with gym equipment. Weights, pull up bar, and others. But there he is, almost naked but for a pair of black boxer-briefs clinging to his thick thighs and groin.

I’m hypnotized watching him, frankly. He pulls himself up as those glistening muscles bulge, biceps swelling so large as he seems hoists up then releases back down, all control. He’s well over six feet tall, and must weigh in excess of 200lbs of sheer muscle, but he moves with a certain grace that comes with that practiced workout.

He’s engrossed in his routine, and now is the time to make my getaway… but here I am, staring at him instead. Gawking like a schoolgirl seeing a hunk working out for the first time. And in some ways, that feels so true. Because no guy I’ve seen before looks anything like this Mikhail.

He’s tall, dark and ruggedly handsome, sure. Ripped from head to toe, yeah. But those scars, those strange tattoos of his… all so unique. I can’t deny the attraction and the curiosity I feel about him. Especially not since I’m standing here instead of running out into the street and finding my way home, like I should be doing.

I don’t know if it’s just the stress of the past few days, either, but watching him work out is getting me hornier than all hell. Not that cute kind of horny after a drink or two, or when you’re with someone new. This is more primal than either of those things, and I catch the scent of his fresh sweat in the air, and that only helps to ignite the fire burning within me.

Everything he’s told me has been the truth. He’s been protecting me from someone far worse than him. But he’s a killer. The conflicting thoughts swirl within me and then fade away to pure, simple, easy passion.

I can make a run.

Or I could walk into his gym, grab him through his boxer briefs, and work out my aggression on his body.

* * *

T
o find
out what happens next, make sure you’re
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T
he last person
in the world I ever expected to hear from again is my wicked witch of a step-mother.

Yet here I am, sitting in her fancy office’s reception area, flipping through a magazine as I keep eyeing the receptionist who promised me for the tenth time that Rebecca will be right with me.

My legs are covered with goosebumps; the summer heat outside is sticky and damp, so I dressed light in a skirt and a tank-top, but now that I’m in her office building, I feel like I’m stuck in an icebox. My nipples press against my bra uncomfortably, and I’m trying not to shiver.

I have to appear strong, Confident. All the things I’m not.

I don’t even know why I agreed to meet her.

Curiosity, I guess. My dad always said that’d be my downfall, that I can’t ever let anything go no matter how much I should.

No, I know the real reason. Because she’s my link to Dimitri.

My step-brother.

The man who I looked up to most in the world, and who ditched me just as fast as his mother.

He broke my heart, and now Rebecca’s opened the wounds again. I tried to ignore her message on my phone, but every time I came close, I thought of Dimitri’s dark eyes filled with devilish glee.

I remember that last night we spent together before my life came crumbling down around me.

The magazine in my hands is filled with glossy pages of fashion and people who don’t look like themselves. I don’t understand that. Why bother hiring a famous celebrity for a photoshoot if they’re just going to manipulate the lighting and the makeup to the point she doesn’t look like herself?

It’s the type of things that bored women pay to do, to live as someone else for a little while. Not celebrities being
paid
to do it.

I roll my eyes and glance up at the receptionist again who gives me a smile tighter than her bun. I feel kind of bad for her, honestly. If Rebecca is a boss like she was a mother? Then she’s colder than ice, and crueler than Cruella.

How long have I been waiting?

I glance at my watch, and my lip twitches. She’s kept me here for over fifty minutes after insisting I come. I throw the magazine to the side with a huff and fold my arms beneath my chest. She hasn’t changed at all. Not even a little, since she kicked me out with nowhere to go and not a cent to my name.

From a mansion to the street in one night. I know, poor little rich girl, right?

Well I’m not rich anymore, and I don’t want pity. For the past two years, I’ve been building up a life for myself. Something I’m proud of.

Something she can’t take from me.

The clicking on the floor of stiletto heels draws me back from my stupor.

“Sarah, darling!” Rebecca exclaims with that mild, Russian accent, as if there were nothing wrong between us.

I glance up at her, and my expression goes sour. She looks even better than I remember. I suppose good plastic surgery isn't so much a luxury of the rich as a necessity, and her blonde hair is pulled back to reveal her sharp cheeks and button nose. She looks younger than her forty-five years by at least a decade, and I'm instantly jealous.

My platinum hair tickles my cheeks, and I lift my thrift-store purse to my shoulder as I move to her, coolly.

Don't let her rattle you,
I plead with myself, trying to exude casual calm that I certainly don't feel inside. Inside, I'm terrified. This woman is a viper, and she'll chew me up and spit me out with no more thought than most people give to what they eat for breakfast.

She puts her hand on my shoulder and I can feel her glancing there, noticing the wings between my shoulder blades, the black ink a bit faded over the years. I was only seventeen when I got it, but I don't regret it, and I won't let her make me regret it.

I won't let her control me. I just came as a courtesy to my father. It's what he would've wanted, and regardless of the path he went down when he was alive, I owe it to his memory to try to be a better person.

Her office, though, makes me want to be anything but a better person. It's bigger than the entire building I work out of, which barely makes sense. Who needs a penthouse suite as an office? There's a bar over on the far end, a meeting table and couches and chairs littering the room, but she leads me to her desk and an uncomfortable chair that I have to wonder if it was brought in just for me to sit on.

I take a seat across from her as she smiles at me placidly. It's a strange look to her face, like resentment barely hidden by a veil of civility and good manners.

She simply stares at me in silence and I'm forced to speak.

"You're looking well," I say, my tone flat and displeased.

She calls me all the way to Manhattan to make me squirm? Well I'm not going to squirm. I might not have had an easy time of it the past two years, but I worked hard for everything I have and I won't let her take my pride away.

"Thank you," she says cordially, not returning the compliment as she smiles.

And then, it's like she remembers herself. Remembers the fact that she asked me to meet with her, and that she had something she clearly wanted of me. What that something is, I haven't the foggiest idea, but it seems to wipe the resentment from her expression and she looks nearly desperate.

"Sarah, darling, I won't waste any more of your time than I have to. You remember my son, Dimitri?"

I stare at her as if she's just said the stupidest thing, and honestly, she has. He's been my step-brother for seven years, and I lived with him for four. After my father passed away, he was the only real man I had in my life, and even though he's three years older than me, we were close as siblings.

Until she stole him away from me.

My eye twitches as I nod my head.

"Good, good!" she exclaims, her smile so phony I want to smack it off her face.

"Are you two still in contact?"

Again, another stupid question.

"No. Not since you ensured I’d be getting a dose of homelessness for my eighteenth birthday," I reply with a sneer, and her eyes narrow at me.

Whatever it is she has me here for, though, must be important. I've seen her lose her cool over much less than that, and I can tell from the way she's tightening her fists that she's pissed at me. But she doesn't say anything, just staring at me with that angry expression.

"Well, good," she says coldly before trying to soften the blow with a smile, "because I have a task for you and it's better if you remain... unattached."

"A task?" I can't help the curiosity eking into my voice. What’s she want from me, and what does Dimitri have to do with any of it?

Her smile broadens at my interest and she nods.

"Mmm, yes. I've heard from my sources that you work at Upstream Co. as a... receptionist or some sort?"

What the hell? Has she been stalking me? How does she know where I work? Since she kicked me out, I haven't heard from her or thought of her since. The only reason she was even able to get ahold of me is that I didn't get rid of my old cell phone. It has a voice mail my dad left me and I didn't want to lose that. Surprise, surprise when I found a new call from her, though.

"How did you know that?"

She sweeps off my concerns with a bat of her hand and a venomous smile.

"Oh, don't worry about that."

"Well your
sources
are wrong. I'm a bookkeeper."

She rolls her eyes at that too, though part of me gets the feeling that she knew that and was just testing my reaction.

"Regardless of what it is you do there, I have something more important for you, and something I'm willing to pay for. Lord knows if this wasn't dire you wouldn't be here today," she says with another sneer marring her puffed up lips.

The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and with it I stand to leave.

"I'm not going to sit here and be condescended to when you need a favor. I'm not a little girl anymore,
Rebecca
. And I made it just fine without your handouts this far. I only came to see if you realized that kicking an eighteen year old girl out with no support was a bad idea, but apparently, you're fine with your choices."

"Well of course I am," she says, standing as well and looming over me. "You said it yourself. You've done fine without my handouts. You're intrepid. Determined. And that's why I'm willing to pay you an exorbitant fee just to keep doing what you're doing, except instead of working for Upstream, you'll do it for Marala Corp."

Dimitri’s company. She’d bought it out a year before she kicked me out, and gave it to Dimitri as a birthday present. It was all over the news.

"You don't have to reply to me now, but it will put your skills to the test. You'll be able to use your photography, your bookkeeping skills, and in the end, I'm willing to part with half a million dollars for six months of work."

My lips part.

I want to protest, to tell her that she can't intimidate and control me with money, but it's like my mind and my mouth are disconnected. After struggling for so long, it would be so nice to just have a nest egg. To not have to worry where rent is coming from, or how I'm going to pay my grocery bill.

And I'd be lying if I said a little part of me isn’t curious about what this has to do with Dimitri. Just the memory of him brings back such scandalous thoughts that I have to push away. It was easier to ignore them when I'd cut them all off. Hell, he doesn't even have a Facebook account — I checked.

"So here's what I need you to do," Rebecca says, taking my silence as agreement, and I don't have time to interrupt her. "I need you to approach Dimitri. Tell him that you've missed him, whatever," she says, brushing off emotional displays as if they are nothing more than an annoyance. "You're curious about his work, and would love to help him manage his books. And then you'll look at those books, you'll bring me photocopies of those books, and you will be well compensated."

She makes it sound so easy, but I know there's something she's not telling me. A lot of somethings, likely.

"What would I be looking for?" I ask, careful not to make it sound like I'm agreeing with her.

"That's nothing you need to concern yourself with. Just make me the photocopies. And don't let him trick you into thinking there's only one set of books. There's not, and you need to get access to it all. If you don't, well, you can wave your payday bye-bye. I will however," she adds with a roll of her eyes, "pay you a pittance slightly above Upstream's hourly rate, regardless of whether you prove yourself useful or not."

I bristle at her words, wanting to fight back and argue, but she has me right where she wants me, though not just for the reasons she expects.

The money, the freedom that would afford me? No one could rationally turn that down.

But Dimitri? I've never been able to say no to him.

“Wonderful,” Rebecca smiles fondly at me, handing me a stack of documents. “I just need you to sign these, and we’ll be all done.”