But Michelle was confident, competent, self-possessed, and so very British, the opposite had happened. By the time her façade cracked and he got a peek at the displaced, lonely, lost girl beneath her frosty rebellion, he was ready to tumble her down to the dirt and have her right there on the side of the road.
But he still didn’t understand why.
Yes, he could admit that he was tired of the silly just-sex kind of women. He could envision himself finding someone who was more of a companion to him, enjoying her company and talking to her about real things. But he hadn’t thought he’d want to attack a sensible girl. It was delightful and frightening all at once. As they rode back to the clubhouse, he entertained the fantasy that cool and reserved Michelle would come undone in bed, and that when she moaned, it was authentic.
Not that he had plans to find out.
They pulled up in front of the clubhouse and he killed the engine, took off his helmet and set it on the handlebars. Now it was time for her to peel herself from his back and go inside.
But she didn’t, at first. She lingered a beat too long. So that when she finally stirred, he’d already reached behind him and clamped a hand to her thigh. He heard the sharp breath she took, felt her still, one small hand braced against his shoulder.
All traces of the independent, indignant girl from before were gone when she whispered, “It’s not real.” Her hand tightened on his shoulder. “Whatever’s happening right now. It’s just because it’s new. And because…I’m lonely…and…”
He twisted his head and could see the glint of the security light in her golden hair. “We could go inside and test the theory, though. If you want to.”
“I thought I was supposed to be careful around you.”
“You are. Doesn’t mean I can’t offer.”
Her other hand joined the first, and she pressed both between his shoulder blades, digging in with her palms, smoothing his cut against his back as she traveled down, right to the lingering soreness in his spine. She took a deep, shivering breath. “We probably shouldn’t.”
“Probably.”
“And besides, your bed is too small for two people.”
“It’s not too small if I’m on top of you.” He could see it in his mind, and he wanted it, badly, his hand tightening on her leg.
The moment stretched.
And then Michelle slipped away. “Good night,” she whispered, and strode up to the porch without looking back.
Candy sat for a long time by himself, letting his blood cool, willing his pulse to slow. When he finally went inside, there was no sign of her, and for that he was grateful.
~*~
Michelle
She dreamed of him. And because she knew it was a dream, she allowed herself to enjoy it. She lifted into his touch, clamped her thighs around his hips. The kind of sex that decimated every thought, and worry, and doubt. The kind of orgasm you thought might kill you. The sharp sting of his teeth sinking into her neck, marking her.
She woke with her hand between her legs, clammy with sweat and twisted up in the sheets. She should have asked to stay in Tennessee. She should never have come out here.
It was four in the morning, but she showered, dressed, and went down to the office to draw up the proposals she’d promised him.
Seven
Candy
The sun rode high overhead, ruthless beyond the tinted windows of the truck. Candy parked with the tailgate against the perimeter fence and then sat once the engine was quiet, staring through the windshield at the clubhouse he’d renovated from the ground up.
He’d awakened contemplative and tired that morning, after a restless night plagued by dreams. The kind of formless nightmares punctuated by strange flashes of unfamiliar places, emotions surging and dying before they could be identified. Like fever dreams. He’d gone to bed agitated and horny, and so he’d expected visions of little baby British girls to chase him into unconsciousness. Instead, he’d been plagued by worries innumerable, without any of the fun of dream-sex.
“I dunno about you,” Jinx spoke up from the passenger seat. “But that guy gave me the creeps.”
They’d just come from the drop with Armando, guns delivered, cash in hand.
“How is it possible for someone to give you the creeps?”
Jinx shook his head. “We’re not gonna make it a habit, are we? Unloading stock on the cartel?”
The thought soured Candy’s stomach. “I hope not.”
Unflappable though he was, Jinx had nervous tics, and one of them was tugging at the end of his beard – which he did now. It transformed the unapproachable, tattoo-covered biker into a little boy again, one born a follower, reluctant to question his leader.
“What?” Candy asked.
“Is it worse than you’re letting on? The money, I mean. I know it’s bad. But it’s worse than that, isn’t it?”
Candy heaved a deep sigh, hoping it would ease the tightness across his shoulders. It didn’t. “Talis is late on his child support. Catcher’s running out of his anxiety meds, and can’t afford any more. Colin should have used his money to put a down payment on a house, and he bought a damn ring instead.” Panic whispered down the back of his neck, the kind that could linger for days, weeks, years. It was a wonder he didn’t have an ulcer, he decided, as helplessness washed over him yet again. “Nobody can even pay their dues, and I can’t give anybody a raise, because I can’t even give anyone a better job than part-time salvage. Jesus.”
Jinx studied him, normally sharp eyes sympathetic. “You should have said something before now.”
“Nah. This isn’t on you guys. What am I supposed to do – get y’all stressed like I am?”
“Yeah. That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do.”
Candy snorted.
“This is a brotherhood. No offense, man, but you ain’t my mama. You don’t have to hide the bad shit just so nobody has to worry about it.”
Candy nodded, but silently disagreed. Every one of his brothers was here on his account; he’d gathered them from other chapters, men he knew he could either trust, or mold; men untainted by Jud Riley. He couldn’t call them to him, and then dump his troubles on their heads. He would be a better leader than Crockett; a more savvy man than his father, killed by one of his own friends.
When he didn’t respond, Jinx said, “So what are you gonna do now?”
“Go see if our new accountant has any ideas for me.”
“Hmm. Her.”
Candy slanted a glance toward him. “You don’t like her being here?”
Amusement touched the man’s expression. “I’m wondering how much you like her being here.”
Ah, shit…
“I hear you got a little…unraveled last night at the Armadillo.”
“Did you just say ‘unraveled’?”
Jinx chuckled. “Gringo said he wouldn’t dare touch that girl, if he were any of us, or you’d start pulling teeth.”
“He’s full of shit. You both are.”
“She’s pretty,” Jinx went on. “And she’s young. Nobody ever turned that combination away. Shit, I don’t blame you.”
“The only thing about Phillip Calloway’s daughter that interests me is her skill with numbers. The second they get that shit cleared up in London, she’s on the first flight home.”
“Right.” Jinx was close to genuine laughter at this point, eyes dancing.
Candy ground his molars and shoved open his door. “Don’t be an asshole.”
“Don’t be in denial,” his friend shot back.
The clubhouse was a cool, dim oasis after the heat outside. Jenny was at work and Colin was out on a salvage run, so Darla was watching Jack, feeding him a bottle while she watched her daytime soaps.
“Hi, sweetie,” she greeted.
“Hey,” he returned. He spared his nephew – concentrating fiercely on eating – a fast glance before his gaze locked onto the most interesting thing in the room.
Michelle sat beside Darla, w
atching the baby, dressed in jeans and a faded AC/DC t-shirt. She had no shoes, only socks, and her hair was pulled back in the front, falling in a tangle down her back. She glanced up at the sound of his boots on the hardwood, face closed-off and hard to read. It was Walsh’s look – that impassive mask.
Had he actually asked if she wanted to have sex last night?
Yeah, he had. Damn.
“Proposals?” he asked now.
She got to her feet. “All ready. I was waiting for you.”
He gestured for her to lead the way, and she did.
Candy didn’t miss the smirking look Darla tipped over the back of the couch. “Don’t say it.” He aimed a warning finger at her as he passed.
She hummed a quiet laugh.
Three tidy bundles of paper were arranged down the length of the desk in the office. Michelle took the captain’s chair, and folded her hands in a professional and expectant way.
His first impulse was to laugh; but there was nothing false about her serious expression. She wasn’t doing this for effect – he had a feeling she wasn’t the sort of girl who did anything for effect.
A visitor in his own space, he dropped into the other chair. “Hit me.”
“Three ideas,” she said, getting straight to business. “All with varying startup costs. A garage is the obvious first choice. We have one in London, and the one at Dartmoor does well. I’m assuming you already have most of the equipment, so then you’d need lifts for the cars, and you’d need to decide what kind of shopfront. That would depend on the services you offered – whether it was someplace to have basic maintenance while customers waited, or if you wanted to do body work, painting. So forth. I talked to several local contractors and got estimates for a new building.”
“Okay.” He accepted the paperwork she slid across to him, silently stunned by her thoroughness. Then he got a look at her neat printed figures and lists, and was stunned some more.
“Speaking of contractors,” she continued. “There’s another idea. I don’t know if any of your men are skilled, but you could do contract labor: building, plumbing, wiring, gardening, that sort of thing.”
“Gardening?”
“Dartmoor has a nursey and it’s booming. Here.” She passed that proposal to him. “Then again, no one probably plants too many flowers around here.”
“They plant some.”
“Lastly,” she said, “with Route 66 running through Amarillo, there’s some tourist opportunity. I’ve found these three shopfronts up for lease, if you’ve an eye for running a boutique of some sort.”
He looked through each page, noting her additional notes in the margins, the circled totals. She wasn’t just proposing ideas, but providing the numerical means to turn those ideas into plans of action. She must have contacted a dozen people to get the info she needed.
When he met her gaze, the unshrinking direct blue eyes pinned to him, patient, waiting, he felt last night’s heat stir to life in his blood. “You know I’ve considered all of these at some point.”
She nodded. “I figured. But they were probably just questions, and you were always too busy to find out if they were feasible. They are.” She nodded toward the handouts. “Depending on how much capital you have.”
“I’ve got twenty-grand.”
Her brows lifted. “That’s it?”
“I sold all my AKs this morning, so yeah, that’s all I’ve got to work with.”
“Russian?”
“Yeah.” Why he was telling her this, he didn’t know. He might have told Jen, and even that was against protocol. Telling Michelle? Definitely not kosher.
“How many?”
He exhaled through his nose. “Twenty-five.”
“You could have got fifty for them.”
“How about you keep your gun opinions to yourself since you aren’t even supposed to know that they exist,” he suggested.
“You’re being a brute again.”
He sat back in his chair and pushed both hands roughly through his hair, scrubbing hard at his scalp. “I know. Shit.” He forced a lopsided smile. “Sorry.”
Her eyes moved away from him, her expression serious and sad. “It’s okay.”
~*~
Michelle
She was bored. After Candy dismissed her, she realized that, away from home, family, and friends, she had absolutely nothing to do. She went for a walk, ball cap shading her face from the sun, the hot afternoon browning her thin pale arms.
There was so much space here, empty open vistas and an incredible amount of sky. It stood to reason that here, in a place where the world seemed wide, that opportunity should be boundless. But there was none. Back home, in the narrow alleys, crowded shops, in the thin slivers of air between bodies packed into buses, opportunities lay within ready grasp. Always money to be made, always deals to strike up, amusements to be found. A full place, London.
Amarillo made her ache for home, in every way possible. By the time she returned to the clubhouse, boots coated in a layer of powdery dirt, she was still grasping for peace, still unsettled inside.
The post had come, she saw as she passed the box; the lid was open and inside was jammed a box with mashed corners. She wrangled it out to carry it inside, and was surprised to find her own name on the label. She sat down on the curb and slit the tape with her thumbnail, opened the parcel right there, where she had some privacy.
One item: the bone-handled knife with the wolf that Albie had bought for her from a Russian arms dealer. It was stuck inside a sock and then wrapped in a thick wool scarf, well-padded and hidden. And beneath, a handwritten note. Albie’s careful script:
Greetings from home, Love,
I’m sending along your knife. I’m sure Candy will loan you a gun if needed.
About Candy – he’s probably the most decent man in of all the American chapters. He’ll listen to you, Chelle. He’ll be fair. He might resist, because, you know us men, we all have to resist at first. But he’ll be a fan of yours. You can trust him.
Tommy is fine, growing stronger by the day. He’s safe. He misses you, as I know you miss him. Rest easy, though, because he’s fine.
Call me when you can’t sleep, and need sense talked into you. I love you, pet, always.
- Albie
She wiped her eyes before the tears could splat down onto the paper and ruin the ink.
~*~
Albie’s words stayed with her through the afternoon.
You can trust him.
The most decent man…
If that was true, why was he acting like a bastard around her?
She knew, deep in the back of her mind. Paul had said they would stay friends, after he dropped her, but he’d turned angry and sullen in her presence. It hadn’t hurt her as badly as she’d expected, because she’d felt the same way, and she’d understood the source. Passion denied made people miserable.
But she and Paul had been lovers. She and Candy didn’t even know one another.
“For the love of God, stop thinking about Paul,” she growled under her breath.
“What was that?” Jenny Snow asked, appearing on the other side of the table.
Michelle jerked. “What? Oh, nothing. Just talking to myself.” She forced a smile.
Jenny dragged out the chair opposite and sighed with relief when she was off her feet. “Been there, done that. Darla likes to say sometimes that’s the only intelligent conversation a girl can have around here.”
“Wise woman.”
“Uh-huh.”
Jenny folded her arms on the table and her gaze tracked across Michelle’s face. Eyes that were eerily like her brother’s, pale clear blue framed with dark lashes. “How are you doing? Settling in okay?”
Her fake smile wouldn’t hold. “Fine.”
“How bad’s the culture shock?”
She shrugged. “I know a lot of the lingo; that’s not a problem.” With the chapters constantly conferring, members coming and going, her constant media checking, she was up
to speed on America. “I mean, I’m not going to accidently say ‘lorry’ or anything.”
Jenny grinned. “Not that it wouldn’t be charming to hear.”
“But it’s bloody warm here. And there’s…” She gestured to the ceiling. “So much sky.”
“There is that.”
She shrugged again, not wanting to put her current mood into words.
“You miss home, though,” Jenny said.
“Yeah.”
“Have you talked to anyone back there?”
“Albie sent my knife.” She pressed her lips together in vain hope of stemming the emotional tide before it got started.
“That was sweet,” Jenny said, softly, sympathetic.
“Yeah, it…”
“My brother’s giving you a hard time, isn’t he?”
She hadn’t expected that. “No,” Michelle said, too quick, not wanting to be the whiny “little baby thing” that tattled on the man. “Not at all.”
But Jenny’s face said she knew otherwise. “I’m sorry about that. It’s probably my fault; I should have known better than to send you back to his room. He’s a total caveman about his personal space. I’m sorry you’re still catching hell about it.”
Michelle shook her head. “No. He hasn’t said anything about his room.”
“He hasn’t? Some of the guys thought there was some tension, and I–”
“No tension. None. It’s all fine. Just fine.”
Jenny stared at her. “Uh-huh.”
“Totally.”
“So long as you’re sure.”
“I am. Definitely.”
“Okay.”
God, this was terrible.
“Hey,” Jenny said, voice bright, “I’ve got the day off tomorrow. Why don’t we go shopping or something? Have lunch? It’ll do me good to get away and you look like you could use some serious cheering up.”
The idea was instantly appealing. Like Raven snatching her away for an afternoon. Only…Raven was family, and family was obliged to love one another and spend time together. And Jenny owed her nothing. “I wouldn’t want you to do it only on my behalf.”
Tastes Like Candy (Lean Dogs Legacy Book 2) Page 8
