BILLIONAIRE BIKERS: 3 MC Romance Books

by Kristina Blake

  I watch as her head bucks a little and she swallows; I have a feeling she's trying not to laugh. If ever there was a situation she found herself in that called for worrying, this is probably it. I have to convince her she's going to be fine if I expect her to work with me. I need the Nancy I was just getting to know before the interruption, and not the one I first met hidden behind a plastic, professional smile. I need the one who was just starting to trust she could hold her own in a situation where she perceived she was outmatched.

  "Is there a room we can get to from here? A back room?" I ask. "Something like a conference room, or a vault?"

  "The conference rooms are back toward where they took Christian, and they all have windows," she replies. "And the windows extend all the way to the floor. Even if we hide behind the table, someone only has to pass by and look in to spot us."

  "So much for that plan," I mutter, but she shakes her head quickly.

  "You're right about a…a vault," she says slowly. "And it's down that opposite hallway. There." She points, and I crane my head to look. The entrance is located behind the empty podium to the left of hers.

  "Is there a key to get in?"

  "A code," she corrects. A pale hand flutters once more through her hair, making it stand on end.

  "And I assume you don't have the authorization to open it," I intone.

  "I do, actually," Nancy corrects me once more; then, she hesitates for a moment. "It's just that…" she murmurs. "Do you think we can get back there without anyone seeing?"

  I turn away from her only long enough to peer around the side of our hiding place. The leader hasn't returned, and the remaining four men continue to patrol the perimeter of the foyer.

  "The one who spoke to you directly isn't here anymore," I say. "And the others haven't noticed us missing…yet. We might have a window to move when their backs are turned." I return my gaze to her. "I assume that the vault is reinforced?"

  "Yes." She still looks at me, terrified, allowing herself to be led through the motions of my logic.

  "And I assume there's a phone installed?"

  "Yes. But what about everyone else?" she whispers, and I'm surprised by her sudden ferocity. "We can't just leave them out here!"

  "Sure we can." I'm a tactician at heart, and I have to confess to myself now that I hadn't anticipated her conscience to rear its noble head. Still, it's not a hitch that I see any problem in overcoming. "We're mounting the rescue effort. The cops can't do anything if we don't put the call in."

  "I suppose so," Nancy mutters as she shifts closer to me. "So when do we make our move, Mr. Smith?"

  "Now."

  I breathe the signal in the same instant I motion with my hand. I've had my eyes trained on the activity in the main room, and I perceive now that no one, criminal or otherwise, is looking in our direction.

  I don't wait to see if she'll follow, even though I'll need her to move through to the second phase of my plan; I rise halfway into a crouch and duck across the aisle to the next podium. When I turn back, Nancy nearly crashes into me. I'm glad to see she's keeping close.

  I motion with my hand once more, and we dart into the back hallway together, keeping low all the while. As we pass by the employee breakroom, I wonder suddenly if she will divert from the plan to hunt for a cellphone—but she continues to head for the vault with the determined, single-minded conviction that she is leading at least one patron to safety. I let her take the lead, following behind her with only one fervent glance behind me. No one has noticed our escape.

  I follow her cues now, and stand when she does. She has brought us before an immense reinforced door, one whose presence—that, when taken alongside the lack of panic buttons—only speaks to the bank's age. I raise an eyebrow in passing surprise when her dexterous fingers flip open the keypad mounted alongside the door; it looks much more recent by comparison. She flashes an ID card attached by a retractable string to her waist, before allowing her fingers to fly across the numbers so fast I can't see what she's typing. The blinking light flashes green, and the giant door swings open soundlessly.

  "In here," she invites in a victorious burst of breath, and I slide past her to comply. She closes the door behind us, giving me only a moment to assess the vault before the room is once more plunged into blackness.

  The darkness isn't complete, however. The mute mechanical glow from various consoles, as well as from the screen of my wristwatch, provides us enough light to see by. I move into the room as Nancy hunts furiously for the phone.

  "No, no, no…" I hear the panic rise in her throat like bile as she shifts papers aside and pushes pencil cases. Several files fall to the floor during her search, but I don't raise my voice to silence her. "This can't be happening. Where's the phone?"

  "Over here," I direct in disinterest. Nancy stumbles to me, but her shoe catches on an extension cord and she plunges forward. I reach out to catch her beneath her elbows before she falls all the way over.

  "Thank you," she whispers quickly as I draw her in.

  I hadn't been expecting my own response to the woman. Maybe it's the adrenaline, or maybe it's the mood lighting, but Nancy in her button-up blouse feels a lot better than I guessed pressed against me in the dark. I steal a moment to savor the feeling, and allow her to cling to me as she regains her bearings. For the first time since entering the bank, I allow myself to momentarily lose track of time. I feel the tantalizing outline of breasts, surprisingly heavy despite her thin frame, seeking me out for additional support. If my hands weren't already occupied with the rest of the woman, I just might oblige them.

  What would little Nancy do? Would she put up a fight and resist my come-on? Would she risk calling for help? Would she let me push my questing hands up beneath her over-starched blouse out of self-preservation? Or would she give herself over to the intimate touch, maybe even encourage it?

  Her breath comes in short, hot bursts that tickle the skin of my neck and arouse my senses in the oppressive dark. My hands slide down the sides of her ribcage infinitesimally, bringing themselves a bit lower.

  "You can let go of me now, Mr. Smith," Nancy breathes.

  "Not my name," I respond as I release her. It was a fleeting, momentary distraction, and it's gone the moment we disengage. Next time I'll just have to let her fall and risk the runs in her pretty stockings.

  "Sorry. Thomas," she stresses as she turns away. She fumbles across the workstation for the landline I had previously called to her attention. "If we get out of this, you really have to let me buy you a drink."

  Her invitation surprises me, and I pause in my idle exploration of the room. "Nancy, you don't seem like the type to invite men out for drinks," I reply, my voice blunt. "No offence."

  "I'm not the type to try and thwart bank robberies, either," she replies as she picks up the phone. "And none taken. I assume that's a rejection?"

  "You assume too much," I say. My eyes narrow as I pick up on something of interest in the dark. "And you care too much about other people. You want to watch out for that."

  "What do you mean?" she asks.

  I can tell she isn't fully committed to our conversation, and her energies are more directed toward getting the phone to work. That's fine. I'm just trying to pass the time.

  "You're trusting," I reply.

  "Damn it!" she exclaims as she slams the phone back down into the receiver. So much for keeping quiet. She looks panic-stricken by her outburst, but possibly she takes a cue from my cool, blue-lit expression, and gets ahold of herself quickly. "It's dead," she informs me, something I had already guessed she discovered. "I think those men might have cut the lines. And for the record, I'm not that trusting. I just care about the people who come in here."

  "Enough to ask them out on dates?" I turn away to hide a smile of amusement.

  "I didn't say it was a date," she corrects quickly. "I said I would buy you a drink. What are you doing over there, anyway?"

  I hear a commotion outside the door then, and Nancy freezes
mid-step on her way to join me. Her wide eyes glisten with animal fear as suddenly, irrevocably, the light on the vault's inner panel turns green. The door swings open.

  I turn to meet the intruders as Nancy whirls. One of the masked phantoms shoves a man wearing a suit into the vault, alongside the male teller from earlier. Both hostages stiffen when they spot us.

  Upon seeing us, the man in the ski mask pauses a moment, before levelling his gun right at me. I meet his eyes.

  Suddenly, the view of my assailant is obstructed. I see the back of a wild head of red-brown hair bob in front of me, and take a startled step back. Nancy, the teller girl, has placed herself directly in the path of the man's gun—right in the line of fire. She's one trigger-click away from a bullet she thinks is meant for me

  Luckily for her, the bank robber is equally startled by the move. The eyes behind the ski mask widen, and the man doesn't pull the trigger, although he keeps the gun trained on her.

  I stand close enough to see that Nancy is shaking.

  "Please," she finally manages to force the word out. "Please, don't hurt anyone. There's no need for violence. I'm just a front desk employee with Grand National Credit Union, and it's…it's my job to try and keep my customers safe. We only came back here to hide. I can assure you that no phone calls were made, and that—"

  "Shut the fuck up!" the masked man interrupts her. I see the muscles in the arm holding the gun tighten, and watch as he steadies his aim once more. Nancy shrinks back, but she still doesn't move from her chosen position as a human shield directly in front of me.

  "Marcus," I say finally. "Lower your weapon. She's meaningless to us." I lower eyes as callous as the muzzle of a semi-automatic weapon as Nancy turns to look at me, horrorstruck. "She's exactly who she says she is."

  CHAPTER 3

  NANCY

  She's meaningless to us.

  "'Us?" I repeat, and I'm certain my face is as panic-stricken as my voice. My eyes track back and forth between Thomas and the thief who blocks the entrance to the vault. But Thomas has his gaze locked on the ringleader, and he won't look at me.

  I don't want the facts of my situation to come together as they appear to do. I don't want to realize, in one emotional sucker punch, that I've allowed this robbery to happen. Every customer and fellow employee in the next room over is still being terrorized, and it's all my fault. I left them there—and trusted a dangerous-looking stranger to guide me through a situation that I felt was completely over my head.

  And now it turns out my first impression was right, and Thomas is not only dangerous, but in on the whole thing. So that’s what he meant when he accused me of being too trusting! Was he trying to warn me this whole time, all the while delivering lie after lie in the same breath?

  She's exactly who she says she is.

  But exactly who are you, Thomas?

  The stranger who stands beside me looks exactly like the man I first met in the foyer of the bank—but still, there is something completely changed about him, something different and yet almost indefinable. As I gaze up at him, I realize I am looking at a totally alien personality inhabiting the man I thought I was just becoming acquainted with. It's an eerie feeling, and I find myself shivering physically as the full realization of his betrayal breaks over me like wave.

  I've been used. Completely and totally used, and I'm the one who let it happen. His wasn't the only betrayal responsible for opening the vault at Grand National Credit Union.

  I try not to make eye contact with Frank, our branch manager. I'm sure I've broken a ton of rules by coming back here, much less allowing an unauthorized customer entry…much less allowing that same customer to be in league with the men robbing us.

  Who are you, Thomas? I wonder again. A moment later, I second-guess whether I might have accidentally asked the question out loud.

  "Lesher, you get what you needed?" The gunman—Marcus, I remember him being called—demands.

  Lesher. So that's who Thomas really is. Maybe I should feel pride at the fact that I questioned his name from the beginning, but all I feel is dread pooling in the pit of my stomach.

  I could have prevented this. I should have prevented this. But no, I prioritized flirting over going with my gut instinct. I completely ignored the first uncertain signals I was getting, and now look where it's landed me.

  The man of many names shifts beside me, and I feel a familiar hand come up to grip my elbow. Only seconds before, that same hand reached out to catch me when I fell. I shake it off before I can think to do otherwise, and brace myself in the aftermath for some sort of retribution. None comes. Thomas—Lesher—lets me slip away from him.

  But he doesn't allow me to go far. He follows behind me like a second shadow, and I know without a word spoken between us that it's a threat—no, a promise—that if I act in any way he doesn't approve of, he'll have no problem taking action. I guess the only question I have remaining then is: what action?

  "Names," Lesher says in a warning tone of voice as we're herded all together near the center of the vault. I can tell from the way Marcus' ski mask flexes that he grins at this.

  "What? You're not actually worried about keeping a cover now, are you? I didn't think you were, considering you were the one who walked in here without a mask on."

  "I didn't hear anything," Christian pipes up quickly. Marcus whips toward him, and I'm so afraid he'll strike Christian with his gun, or worse, that I cringe away and shut my eyes. My cowardly retreat causes me to brush up against Lesher's once more, and I quickly jerk away. No way I'm going to let him touch me again.

  "Doesn't matter," Marcus says after a moment. I relax a little when it appears he has decided to suppress his more violent impulses for now. "Dead men tell no tales. Isn't that what the pirates say?" He chuckles as he waves his gun around. "Get a move on, Frank!" he barks suddenly. The branch manager springs to life and moves at once toward the safe door where the money is stored. He's taking the path of least resistance, I realize, by catering to the terrorist's demands—something we were all trained to do.

  Too bad we were never trained how to handle ourselves in the event that we inadvertently aided the thieves in the robbery.

  "What do you mean 'dead men tell no tales'?" I hear myself blurt out suddenly. I'm not even sure why I'm asking the question, why his phrasing is something I've picked up on that my mind can't seem to let go of. Then I realize the horrible truth, and it's as if someone has dumped a bucket of ice-cold water over me to complete the terrible day I'm already having. "Does that mean you're going to kill us?"

  "You think the gun is just for show, frumpy?" Marcus taunts me. "Huh? You think this is a prop? How about now?" He lowers the muzzle to my face once more, and I wince so hard I accidentally bite down on my tongue. The taste of blood immediately floods my mouth.

  "Of course we're going to fucking kill you," Marcus continues.

  "No. No." Even as I protest, I can see Christian shaking his head and signaling for me to shut up. But what good is it to keep silent when our fates are already sealed in the minds of our captors? "You don't want to do that. Listen to me. If you murder us, there's going to be a manhunt on a national scale. They won't stop looking until they find you. Right? Right?"

  I turn to look at Lesher, and instantly regret doing so. He's gazing at me, his leather-clad arms crossed across his chest, his expression unreadable. Why am I looking to him for confirmation? For someone logical to appeal to?

  Then it hits me: he's not only involved. He's the ringleader. That's why I look to him instinctively and make my appeal to him, and not the man holding the gun. Our lives aren't in Marcus' hands—they're in Lesher's.

  "We stick with the original plan," Lesher says. I feel as if someone just ripped the pen free from the chain on my desk and rammed it straight into my heart.

  "You don't want to do that," I beg. "Please. You can't hurt these people. I'll do anything!" I 'm rambling, almost incoherent. I barely know what I'm saying anymore. I just know silence on t
he matter will only condemn us to a swift death here in the vault, and that any chance we stand of surviving depends on our ability to strike a deal with our captors.

  But what chips do we have to bargain with that these men can't just freely take from us, dead or alive?

  Everyone is staring at me now—even Frank, who is in the process of unloading bundles of cash into the duffle bag Marcus provided for him. I can hear my own pulse pounding in my ears so loudly it's a wonder no one around me comments on the deafening noise. I wonder, too, why none of my coworkers are speaking out or backing me up on this. Both Frank and Christian are my superiors—why aren't they asserting themselves as strongly as I am? Why do I feel suddenly alone in this?

  "That sounds like a volunteer if I've ever heard one," Lesher says. "Thoughts, Marcus?"

  "You're the boss, Lesh." Marcus lowers his gun, and it feels as if everyone else in the room breathes a collective sigh of relief. "But I stick by my idea. I can't see how it's worth it, especially if you think she's the one."

  "What do you mean 'volunteer'?" I interrupt quickly. "What do you mean I'm the one—?"

  I shouldn't have stood so close to Lesher. Even now, when my trust in the man registers as a solid negative on any chart or graph, I still find it almost too easy to be in his proximity. And that, in turn, makes it easy for him.

  He yanks me toward him, harder than he has in previous interactions, and I cry out a wordless objection. He forces my hands to the front, and I can feel the rough bite of his gloves as he grips me, his strength unrelenting. My wrists look tiny and breakable by comparison. I suddenly find myself wishing I had done more than just push pencils leading up to this moment. Why didn't I ever learn anything in the way of self-defense? Did I always just assume others would stand up for me instead?

  Christian takes a step toward us, but stops short. None of my coworkers come to my defense. Frustrated tears spring into my eyes as I finally, fully realize the predicament I've put myself in. I thought I could make amends for my mistake with Lesher by speaking out, but now I can see I've only managed to land myself in hotter water.