by Sylvie Kurtz
He fitted the helmet to her head. His hands wrapped around her hair and pulled it behind her. As his fingertips brushed the skin of her neck, her pulse jumped.
“It’s a club event and you’re my guest.”
“Mike’s guest.”
He tugged playfully on the tail of her hair he held in both his hands. “Either way, it won’t do for you to get there under your own power.”
His forearms were heavy on her shoulders, but the weight didn’t seem forceful. He could throw his size around to bully her into doing what he wanted. The fact he wanted her willing cooperation was a telling trait. “I’ll follow you. No one has to know.”
He tweaked her chin the way he’d tweaked Hannah’s nose. “It doesn’t work that way, sweetheart.”
She threw him an annoyed glare, which he ignored. “That isn’t necessarily true. My research—”
“Research is words on paper. Every group works up their own rules. Come on.” He swung onto the black monster he called a motorcycle and patted the seat behind him. The smile he slanted her was half amused, half daring. “Ride with me.”
She wasn’t sure which half had her walking toward the steel contraption or why she was so willing to trust him when he didn’t return the favor.
Awkwardly, she hitched a leg over the saddle of the black lacquer and chrome monster and perched behind Ace, leaving as much room between them as she could. A thrum of excitement fluttered involuntarily in her stomach. There was something sensual about straddling a powerful machine. Don’t go there. As Ace started the motorcycle, her hands reached behind her for something—anything—to hang on to and found nothing but air.
Gasoline fumes and heat rose from the growling engine, enveloping her thighs. Her heart beat in double time. If she died, who would take care of Hannah?
“Hang on,” he said over the engine’s noise.
Her fingers curled around the edge of the seat. She gulped. What had she gotten herself into?
He accelerated the bike abruptly. Biting off a scream, she grabbed whatever part of his body was handiest.
“Easy,” he shouted, and had the nerve to laugh. He pried one of her hands from his biceps, slid it to his waist and patted it. “Just loop your arms around me.”
But looping her arms around him required her to lean forward and slide in closer to him, thigh to thigh, soft front to steely back. The scent of him, leather and wild honey, the feel of him, solid and warm, should have made her feel safe. Instead, it had her whole body tingling. Anger, she told herself. At him for pushing her into a situation she wasn’t comfortable with. At herself for being such a chicken. If Felicia could drive her own motorcycle, then she could sit on the back of one without tossing her dinner. And wasn’t she the one who’d insisted on going to this blasted party?
He gunned the engine, popped the clutch and laid the bike over sharply. It exploded around the corner at the end of the town common. Pressing her lips tight, she closed her eyes and hung on for dear life.
“Lean with the bike,” he shouted over his shoulder. “You ride like a sack of cement.”
“You drive like a maniac!”
“You don’t drive a bike. You ride it.”
“Whatever.” He was having entirely too much fun at her expense.
“Biker chicks are into bikes, too.”
“I’m not a biker chick. I’m here to find out what happened to Felicia.”
“You want people to talk, you’re going to have to make them trust you. Riding in with me is a start.”
If she didn’t die of a heart attack first. She was surely paying back enough karmic debt for three lives.
Wind whipped around her, flapping her hair like a shredded flag and breathing the leather of her jacket in and out like a hyperventilating lung.
“Another thing,” Ace said, “don’t argue with me in there. Women know their place. Man is supreme. If you defy me, they’ll be looking at me like I’m not real and that’s going to blow the whole operation. Got it?”
“But you’re—”
“No buts, Rory. I know you’re upset and want to find Felicia. But there are hundreds more Felicias that these guys are hurting every day. They have to be stopped.”
“I’m going to ask questions.” She had no intentions of being compliant.
“If Taz is there, it’s my chance to get closer to the lab.”
In other words, watch whose toes you’re stepping on.
She understood she could not emasculate him in front of the group. She would have to appear to be his subordinate. She ground her teeth. His biker chick.
She opened her eyes once she realized she had no idea where they were going. He drove fast, barely slowing for traffic, always first when the light turned green. Soon even the comfort of traffic lights was left behind. There was nothing but dark around her. Dark road, dark trees, dark sky. All that darkness blurring around her gave her the impression of rushing through a black hole and muddled her sense of direction.
And then like a space station in a faraway orbit, bright lights appeared out of nowhere. Ace slowed and parked his monster along a long row of equally mean machines. “We’re here.”
He patted her thigh as a signal for her to slide off. “Watch your legs. The pipes are hot.”
He dismounted and gave her an assessing look, as if he was trying to gauge how she’d survived portion one of this evening’s entertainment. He didn’t think she could handle this, that’s why he’d made her ride with him. Well, he didn’t know her half as well as he thought. She lifted the helmet off her head and shook her hair as if she’d ridden like this a thousand times. She wasn’t about to tell him she couldn’t feel her face or that her legs would probably shake all night from the vibrations of the engine. She handed him the helmet and turned to look at the clubhouse.
The structure looked as if it could not have passed a fire inspection any time in the past decade. It was little more than an oversize cabin tacked up from a collection of leftovers. A hundred people—bikers and their ladies—were crammed inside. The dust-covered mirrors behind the bar added to the impression of overcrowding.
The party was already in full swing. Colors were flying. Music blared. Beer flowed. At one end of the bar, a drinking contest sprang up. Don’t leave me, she wanted to tell Ace, but could not scrape pride aside long enough to give him another reason to laugh at her.
Mike, with a shiny purple bruise ringing one eye, greeted Ace, then shook hands with him, elbows bent, hands clasped thumb to thumb. They were led to a table and handed a beer. Deacon was already seated there, one arm in a sling.
Nothing in her strict parochial education had prepared her for this. She felt as if every move she made was forced, clumsy. How could Felicia have felt at ease in this intensely primitive male environment?
Rory didn’t belong here. She wasn’t one of them. She didn’t fit. How on earth had she ended up playing a biker chick at a biker party?
For Felicia, she reminded herself.
As she looked around, Rory sank a little deeper into her chair. Even though she’d raided Felicia’s closet and borrowed a slinky spring-green T-shirt with a deep scoop and tight black pants that hugged every inch of her legs as if they were support hose, her clothes were still wrong. She looked like a little girl playing at call girl.
With her by his side, Ace stood no chance of earning the gang’s confidence. Who would believe he’d choose such a fake? He should have shown up with someone sexy and stacked like the blonde and the brunette eyeing him from the bar.
It doesn’t matter. She wasn’t here for Ace’s benefit. She was here for Felicia. But if they didn’t trust Ace, would anyone bother talking to her?
She shouldn’t have worried about Ace. In no time a cluster of females congregated around their table. Didn’t take a genius to understand why. Ace was every woman’s fantasy outlaw with male magnetism to spare and an incredible body. It wasn’t just the sleek lines of his shoulders or the striking contrast of his dark hair against th
e white of his T-shirt. It was his presence.
Charisma.
Even she was reluctantly pulled in by it. She had to curl her fingers tightly around the beer bottle to keep herself from pushing away the brunette who all but poured herself over him, from batting away the blonde who sidled up to him like a pesky mosquito.
Buzz off. He’s with me.
But she didn’t say anything and kept her hands to herself. She’d never felt this possessive toward a man and that bothered her. Especially since he was lapping up the female attention as if he were a jungle cat starved for cream. An act or the real thing? She shook her head. It didn’t matter. She didn’t even like him.
Forcing herself to lean back in the wood chair, she tried to remove the squirming snake of emotions determined to choke her. Her mouth was dry. Her hands were sweaty. And a cold knot had taken up residence in her stomach.
What she was, she realized as she toyed with the bottle of beer, was plain scared, and she couldn’t let even an inch of that fear show. Not if she and Ace were going to get anything out of the evening.
Pretend this is a book you’re reading or a play you’re watching. She was an observer. She would take it all in and remain untouched.
The front door opened and a man stepped in, followed by an entourage worthy of a rock star. Start now.
The pseudo-rocker was not as tall as Ace and Mike, but he was well muscled in spite of his expanding waistline, and commanded the attention of everyone in the room. His face was pockmarked as if buckshot had used it for a target. He had a third eye tattooed on his forehead. The bottomless dark eyes below the tattooed one sent a chill through her as his gaze flicked assessingly over Ace. Was Ace in any danger?
With a deep breath, she forced her pulse into a slower cadence. Observe.
The man’s nostrils seemed to scent the air around him. The slit that served as a mouth had a scar like lightning on the right side. And like an attack dog on duty he was listening intently to all that was going on around him. He moved as if violence was the norm—as if he’d received and administered pain and understood all of its nuances. He didn’t say much, but when he spoke, everyone around him wasted no time obeying his raspy commands.
Even Ace who was not easily intimidated, she noticed, was on guard. Was this the Taz he wanted to meet?
That’s it. Observe. Take it all in. She forced her attention around the room, cataloguing details of background, dress and behavior with the care of a sociologist. Who should she approach with her questions? Who would be most receptive? The fey girl who seemed ostracized by the rest of the women? The wannabe looking to make an impression? The bartender?
Then, as she was trying to unpuzzle the use of a room from which men came in and out one at a time at regular intervals, someone tapped her on the shoulder.
“You’re up.” Mike’s cold jade eyes centered on her chest.
“Up for what?”
His grin was lecherous. “The wet T-shirt contest.”
WORKING UNDERCOVER was a balance of confidence and fear. Overconfidence could lead to a slip-up and that would lead to disaster. To survive, Ace had to dominate other men and certainly other women—especially his woman.
He wanted to save Rory from the embarrassment of this contest, but he couldn’t. For her to refuse would be bad enough. If he were to back her up, he might as well pack his bags and go home. The Sons would have nothing more to do with him. She wasn’t in any physical danger—he’d made a promise to keep her safe and he always kept his promises—but she’d have to deal with this bit of public humiliation.
Her gaze met his, and in her eyes he read a whole novel of emotions. You want in, he tried to telegraph to her, this is the way.
How could you? he read in the fire sparking the amber of her irises. Then came another of those frightening clicks that seemed to slip a curtain between her and the world. You think I can’t do this, her eyes seemed to challenge. Watch me.
“Better get that jacket off before someone does it for you.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair.
Slowly, she stood. The beat of AC/DC pumped with his pulse. For a second he thought she would turn on her heel and march right out the front door. Instead, she removed her leather jacket, folded it and placed it just so on the chair. Without releasing her hold on his gaze, she unfastened her bra and slipped it out from underneath her T-shirt with a touch of modesty that had her interested audience howling wolf calls.
Shouts and whistles increased with every movement she made as Mike boosted her up onto the bar. Led Zeppelin now pounded from the speakers. The half dozen contestants already on the narrow bar started to move to the music. Her gaze still glued to his, Rory sent him the smallest of smiles. It made his heart lurch and his muscles tense. What was she up to?
Then she moved, and he forgot the rest of the room. Forgot he needed to keep an eye on Deacon, Mike and Taz huddled in the corner, deep in conversation. Forgot everything but Rory.
She wasn’t the tallest, but she was the most graceful and most attractive of the women up there. She had a fresh innocence about her that no other woman in the room could hope to match. The pale green of her T-shirt added warmth to her eyes. The sleek fit of black leather gave her legs length, her hips and rear sensual curves. With each sway, the bar’s bright lights slid over the slinky material of her shirt, over the tight leather of her pants like a lover’s hand. Her wild red hair took on a life of its own, rippling as if it were a living thing. Her fine bone-china face was intense, yet serene. And that relentless golden gaze would not cut him loose. How could he have not noticed how incredibly beautiful she was?
“Satisfaction” by the Stones blistered the speakers. The bartender hopped on the bar and began pouring pitchers of cold beer over the women. Rory gasped and threw her head back as the liquid hit her chest. The cold maximized nipple erection. The beer rendered her shirt nearly transparent. The line to the train room suddenly snaked with impatience. The noise rose to a crescendo. And still Rory held on to his gaze. Heat spread through him at an alarming rate.
He was wrong. She wasn’t dynamite. She was a damned nuclear device. And if she kept this up much longer, he was going to vaporize.
The bartender stopped at each woman with a hand behind her head, asking for a popular vote from the audience. There was a smattering of applause and catcalls. Until he reached Rory. Then the noise became deafening.
Rory was voted the official queen of wet T-shirts and proud “possession” of the Sons of Steel Motorcycle Club. A few of the women slanted her lethal glances as they hopped off the bar. Ace made his way to Rory and helped her down. With an act of pure will, he kept his hands from sliding up from her waist to the round globes outlined so baldly against the wet T-shirt.
Around them couples started to dance, pushing them into the center of the floor. He met her unflinching gaze with his own. Her silence disturbed him. Was she expecting an apology? An explanation? Or was she still in that faraway place where she hid from the real world? Talk to me, sweetheart.
For a few measures, he moved without touching her. Every stir of hand, every shift of foot he made caused a static spark as if she were plugged into a socket and emitting some sort of electric field. When he couldn’t stand not touching her for a moment longer, he took her hands, controlling her steps through spins and half-steps. That only caused the buzz frittering between them to intensify. Once, the top of her hair brushed his cheek and he was surprised it didn’t scorch him. He dug his hands into the writhing mass of fiery curls and breathed in their cinnamon scent. He wanted the people to disappear. He wanted the walls to crumble and the earth to swallow up their crudeness. And he wanted to take every stitch of clothes off her body, lay her down on the cool, wet ground, take in all that pale, smooth skin bathed in moonlight and—
The thought shocked some sense back into him. You’re not sleeping with her, are you? He wasn’t here for sex. He was here for leads. He spun her around, looking for Taz and found him h
eading back toward their table.
At the end of the song, he put his arms around her, placed his lips on hers, tasting the fire he couldn’t feast on, and lifted her easily off the floor. “Gotta make us look right. Nobody’s going to look like you and not be handled.”
The look she gave him was much too vacant. Smile for me, sweetheart. And she did—a smile with an acid edge. “Did I behave like a proper biker chick?”
Oh, yeah! “It’s all part of the game,” he said, by way of apology. “Would you rather someone else paw you?”
“The Neanderthal you know is better than the Neanderthal you don’t,” she said much too quietly as he put her back down.
“You wanted to come.” Fully in control again, he teased her earlobe with his teeth.
She pushed herself from his arms. Her lips curled into something that to anyone else might look like adoration. But it lacked all life, all fight, and jabbed a cold lance of dread through him. He’d pushed her too far, and she was going to fall apart.
“You’re right.” She brushed his lips with a kiss for the audience watching their every move. “I did.”
She turned from him. He tried not to look at her, but found he could not unglue his stubborn gaze from the slender breadth of her shoulders, the smooth curve of her spine outlined by the wet T-shirt, the long line of legs. She grabbed the jacket from the chair and headed toward the ladies’ room, where he sensed, she would cry her heart out. The thought bothered him more than it should. She’d wanted to be here. She’d wanted the chance to fit in. She’d wanted the opportunity to live Felicia’s reality. She’d got what she wanted. And he hadn’t let anyone hurt her.
Except him.
She’d counted on him, and he’d let her down.
Raking a hand through his hair, he turned back to Mike and Deacon who had joined Taz at the table. He needed to get his butt over there and join the conversation.
He’d put in face time, then he’d think of some reason to take Rory out of here and back where she belonged.
