BILLIONAIRE BIKERS: 3 MC Romance Books

by Kristina Blake

"It's not."

  I realize my hasty deflection also opens a pretty significant crack in my cover. What other reason would I have to complain about another man at the bar? I need to start acting more like civilian and less like a cop.

  "I mean, it doesn't matter." I don't need to explain myself to this barfly looking to get more than his lips wet. "If it is personal, I certainly don't have to discuss it with you," I add.

  "On account of us being strangers." Is it just my imagination, or does his mouth twitch? For someone so eager to lay it all out there, I'm having a hard time reading his signals—they come and go fast enough to give me whiplash.

  Now I've done precisely what I told myself I wouldn't do: I've diverted my attention to someone unrelated to my mission.

  "Wolf Larson," he introduces himself.

  I meet his eyes and find I can't easily look away again. I watch the strange smile dwindle thoughtfully. I shift, uncomfortable to find myself looking at his lips. I don't want to call the tension between us what it is. I won't call it what it is. If there is an annoying awareness of him suddenly localized between my legs, then it's just because the seat is uncomfortable and my tiny dress is ridiculously restrictive. That tingling feeling? Bad circulation.

  "Going back to something you were saying earlier," Wolf interrupts my thoughts, effectively severing the tension between us. "What's this Houdini guy good at, exactly? Besides driving you crazy?" He leans toward me on the bar, and I hear the creak of his jacket sleeve. It's not a bad look, actually, his…appearance. But he clearly doesn't fit in here. I find myself shifting once more, this time toward him almost unconsciously; I freeze before I allow my body to carry me further.

  "Clearly he's gotten into your mind," Wolf continues, a sudden twinkle entering his eye courtesy of his new favorite subject. "But has he gotten into anything else, I wonder?"

  I feel my face flame at the implication. I manage to convince myself it's my temper acting up once again, and nothing to do with thoughts of my phantom biker crossing the line of the law and having his way with me. I only had that dream once. That I can remember. All it means is that I'm fixated on finding Houdini, which is something I will readily admit to. An obsession is only something you can't admit to yourself.

  At least, that's my personal definition.

  And speaking of personal, this conversation with Wolf suddenly feels way more personal than I thought it would ever be. I need to get my head back on straight. I need to get myself away from him.

  We both rise simultaneously. For some reason, I thought I was taller than this man was—then again, I have a way of notoriously overestimating how much room I take up. Maybe it has something to do with my biggish personality—something I've heard described in different, less flattering terms countless times in the past. I like to think that I command attention in more ways than just my looks, but my male counterparts aren't always happy with how pushy I can be.

  My male counterparts are also, unfortunately, almost always taller than me. I never thought being five-foot-seven was anything to sneeze at, but apparently all of the boys I outmatched in height in high school sprung up when I wasn't looking. Wolf easily clears six feet, and towers far above the crown of my blond head. He wears a thoughtful little grin on his face, and I think he must be enjoying this discovery, if he hadn't already guessed the discrepancy to begin with.

  "Excuse me," I say. "I need to go to the bathroom."

  More like I need to escape the escalating realization that the source of my present annoyance is better looking than I first noticed. Maybe it's the three beers I allowed myself to drink for the sake of my cover, but it's becoming increasingly hard to focus on my mission with him sitting beside me.

  Wolf pauses a moment, and I wait. I try to tell myself I'm doing the polite thing by not shoving past him, even if I'm afraid there might be a different reason for my hesitation. Maybe it's the weighty look he's suddenly levelling at me, like there's something more that needs to be said or known between us, or maybe it's the realization that his eyes are as silver-gray as his namesake. Everything about him shouts stranger at the bar; but then, why do I suddenly feel as if we know each other, or have met somewhere before?

  No, I think. He's just being an overfamiliar douchebag. He's watching what he thought would be the night's conquest slip away.

  I slap a ten down on the counter to cover my bill, and he finally moves aside to let me past. I manage a tight-lipped, saccharine smile of farewell, which doesn't stay long on my expression; it drops back into my usual scowl before I turn away again.

  I'm not here to make friends, and I'm definitely not here to be seduced by some young unpatched skid mark who thinks he's Devil’s Bastards material.

  Not that I've ever been seduced, admittedly. I like to think it's because men find women in law enforcement intimidating.

  I slip into the back hallway and through the swinging doors to the women's restroom. I'm the only one in here, which pretty accurately reflects my status at this bar—there aren't many women skulking about the tables and booths in general, which is partly why I had to get away from the Big Bad Wolf. I can't have him staking any sort of claim on me when I need to make myself available to as many Bastards as I can.

  Then again, it's still early in the evening, and the bar isn't even at half capacity. I still stand a good chance of chatting up the burlier bikers that are likely to come trickling in, even if I would much rather be talking to a fit, handsome, non-threatening…

  "Pull it together, Lizzy," I mutter, invoking the nickname my mother always uses. If there's anything I know in this world to be sobering, it's feeling as if my mother is in the same room with me. I let the cold water collect in my hands before splashing it lightly on my face. My smoky, sensuous makeup is as much a part of my cover as the too-tight dress that hugs my slender frame.

  I can't afford to lose either tonight.

  I take a last moment to make sure everything is in place: my flared, mascara-coated eyelashes, my arterial-red lipstick, my suggestive and approachable expression—a little harder to come by, and I don't exactly keep one in my purse. I adjust my push-up bra, and decide to let a little lace peek out above the swell of my dress. If my manufactured expression doesn't exactly act as an invitation, then maybe this will.

  I definitely wasn't counting on such an immediate RSVP.

  Upon exiting the restroom, I nearly collide face-first into a very male chest. This particular specimen is built like a keg on legs, but lacks the potbelly you see so often around the precinct.

  Exactly the mark I'm looking for, I think as my eyes travel up the leather-clad trunk to take in the ruddy, bearded face of the biker invading my personal space. The women's restroom has a self-appointed sentry.

  There can be no question that he followed me back here. I easily stifle whatever instincts might flare up in the moment to tell me that I'm the prey. I've been doing this for three years now—I'm not a rookie, and I'm certainly not incapable of defending myself. I let a surprised, even pleasured smile spread across my face like butter beneath a silver knife.

  "Well hello there, stud." The words are ridiculous, but I keep my voice low and throaty, and it sounds like the exact right thing to say to someone in the shadows of the hallway. "Were you waiting on me?"

  "Not just me." The man returns a foul, nasty smile, before tilting his head slightly over his shoulder to indicate behind him. I realize then that my new friend's expansive bulk has been hiding the presence of two other bikers behind him. The two other men both flex identical, dubiously-toothed grins at me. If they aren't as tall or as large as their leader, then they certainly have the bushy, wiry beards to match.

  Suddenly, this meeting seems like much less of a good idea. My eyes dart to the bar, and I curse myself the next instant for allowing any betrayal of my anxiousness. The bartender is nowhere to be seen, but he wasn't exactly the person I was looking for.

  That's fine. I don't need anyone to intervene on my behalf. I purse my lips, as if
bemused by the sudden crowd around me, and fix one of my hastily manicured hands on my waist.

  "Feels like a party back here all of a sudden," I say, trying to keep my voice level.

  The biker in front of the assembly chuckles. "Someone's got to show the new girl the ropes," he grunts. "A piece like you don't just come waltzing into our bar to bat her eyes and spread her legs to some outsider. You want service around here, you better be ready to offer some services of your own to the people in charge of this territory."

  My stomach plunges at his words, and I feel suddenly nauseous. I thought I knew exactly what I was getting myself into when I researched the biker culture around here, but obviously there is a lot more to it than what I was able to glean from a weekend's worth of Internet search results. Clearly, the chief knew a lot of things I didn't when I busted into his office insisting a woman was exactly the right person for this job.

  But there's no way I'm giving up just because these men are proving to be a lot more disgusting—and just a little bit more intimidating—than I first assumed. If I was prepared to deal with one, then I can just as easily be prepared to deal with several. They might as well be carbon copies of each other, emboldened by the fact that they outweigh and outnumber me. It's the same mentality that makes a truck cab full of off-duty construction workers lean out the window and holler at a woman like me when they pass down the street.

  I've just steeled myself to ask what sort of services they might require—determined to keep up my cover until the end, even if I'm winging it at this point—when the doors to the men's restroom bang open and Wolf exits. My eyes leap to him unbidden, before I force my gaze back onto my aggressors. I seriously doubt that he is prepared to insert himself into the proceedings, especially after I shut him down so spectacularly back at the bar.

  "Feels like a party back here all of a sudden," Wolf notices, echoing my exact words from earlier. Suddenly, I wonder if I underestimated him in more ways than one. Suddenly, I wonder if he's been behind the door listening this entire time.

  "Keep walking, pretty boy," one of the bikers near the back advises. The hallway is starting to get extremely crowded, and still no one comes from the front room of the bar to break it up.

  I want to interject something, but I'm alarmed to find that for once in my life my mind has gone completely and totally blank. I don't know whether I want to continue with this distasteful interview at the expense of turning away my only possible ally, or if I want to let myself be rescued.

  No, not rescued. A woman like me doesn't, and has never, needed rescuing.

  Besides, what are the chances Wolf sticks around after earning himself such an obvious directive from the leader of the pack?

  I keep my watchful blue eyes upon him; now, I'm not afraid of betraying uncertainty by diverting my attention away from the head biker. Wolf is suddenly center stage in this conflict.

  A moment passes, and a tense silence descends upon the hallway when he doesn't move; then, he grins, exposing the chipped eyetooth, and I feel my heart give a strange flutter at the sight. I know the gist of what he's going to say before he even says it:

  "I would keep walking, except you fat assholes are clogging up the hallway. I have no problem clearing it, of course."

  Then Wolf does something completely unexpected. He hauls back and swings, sending his bare-knuckled fist straight into the fat, malleable face of the nearest biker. His response seems ultraviolent in reaction to the small provocation—almost reckless, like he's used to settling confrontations this way.

  Not that, in my present situation, I can find reason to complain.

  I back my body nearer to the bathroom doors and plant myself in a trained defensive stance. My hand reaches for the side of my dress, pressing the outline of tiny handgun holstered in my garter, but I quickly draw my hand back again and master my impulse to go for a weapon. Even though the shit has already hit the fan, I haven't blown my cover. Yet.

  If these guys are Bastards, then they aren't the top brass. I still stand a chance of finding out more in the next twenty hours if I play it cool and innocent. I have to let someone else defend me, even though every fiber in my justice-wielding being screams to insert myself in the proceedings and kick fat biker ass comparable to what Wolf's taking home.

  He goes through them like a dervish. I track his feints and swings, trying in vain to figure out what he's studied. Karate? Judo? There would be more throws if it was the latter, and these heavyset bikers obviously don't require any additional help falling down. The melee has all but ended before it even began; Wolf pulls back, wiping the blood off his busted lower lip distractedly with the back of his jacket. I didn't even see him get hit—his injury is the result of a lucky swing, or a more aptly described 'flail' from one of his opponents, is my guess.

  "Man, fuck this place!" one of the bikers backing my original confronter exclaims. Wolf edges nearer to me protectively, but doesn't go so far as to throw out an arm to shield me, which is something I'm grateful for. If the fighting starts back up again, I need my path clear to pull my weapon should they get any closer…

  But the fighting doesn't recommence, thankfully, and my cover remains intact. I watch alongside Wolf as the men pick themselves up and hustle out of the bar quickly. The bartender, previously dismissive of what was going on in his back hallway, barks after them about unpaid tabs, but the men are long gone before he even has a chance to come out from behind the bar.

  The man I've done my professional best to avoid just saved my neck. This time, I think I can better muster a smile that's genuine. I turn to him, and I'm startled to find him glaring—at me. His quicksilver eyes have darkened as ominously as once-friendly clouds in the sky overhead. I have no time to prepare myself for the storm.

  "What the hell do you think you're doing?" He doesn't demand; he commands an answer. "There's no way you're drunk enough for this. For that! "He gestures toward the swinging front door, like an alpha wolf calling out and deriding a pack of weak omegas.

  His fury takes me by surprise. I feel my heart drop into my stomach at what I can only admit privately is a fair dressing-down, but I can't let him see that he's gotten to me. So what if he thinks I'm just another drunk, stupid woman who makes poor decisions that aren't up to his standards? Isn't that the exact image I've been fighting all night to paint?

  "First of all, I don't think it's any of your business what the 'hell' I think I'm doing, or who I think I'm doing it with!" I snap. "If I came to this bar looking to meet some Devil’s Bastards, what's it to you?"

  "You think those guys were Devil’s Bastards?" Wolf exclaims. He looks close to reeling back in astonishment. I can feel the blood starting to rush to my face again. I don't like feeling stupid, and I don't like others perceiving me as stupid, even if it means I can't fully commit to my airheaded cover. Right now, I know this has nothing to do with my cover: it has all to do with my own unpreparedness, my own naiveté.

  "Take a look around you!" Wolf gestures wildly, but I don't comply. I stare angrily at a fresh splash of blood on the filthy wall, tracked there courtesy of a busted biker skull. "These are just a bunch of fat assholes in their mid-life crises! What is there on the patches you see on these particular specimens that at all indicates they’re DBMC? You should have realized you fucked up the moment you walked in here. Hell, you could have fucked up worse—you could have actually found a Bastard."

  "I think I already did!" I shout. I could care less about who hears us at this point; what's another fight in this blood stained back hallway to these people? "And anyway, I wasn't aware I was talking to an expert! What is all of this supposed to make you? Somehow more legitimate?" I scoff on a mocking laugh and slap my hands on my hips so I don't feel compelled to use my fists for anything else, like punching this unbelievable jerk-off in the face. "It's like you consider yourself some sort of superior biker when you certainly don't look or dress like one. What do you know about the Devil’s Bastards, anyway? You're not wearing their patch. Yo
u're not wearing any patch!"

  "I know a hell of a lot more about them than you do, sweetheart." I wish I didn't hate that nickname, and all the patronization it entails. I wish it didn't dig beneath my skin like nails to hear him use it now.

  "Yeah? Then tell me, what do I only think I know?"

  "This Houdini guy." Wolf surprises me yet again by invoking the name. "You really think he's a Bastard? You really think you stand a chance of finding him here?"

  "Not that I expect it to mean anything at all to you," I state, in a voice pitched just under a scream of frustration, "but I'm here to prove to some very important people that he isn't! And maybe, just maybe, my efforts would have actually stood a chance of clearing his fucking name if I didn't run into some two-bit stick-shift who insists on letting his dick drive!"

  After a very long moment, Wolf chuckles. "That's a good one. Actually. Damn it." He runs a hand through his wild hair as if trying to tame it—and his tickled sense of humor—back into place. I don't want my anger to diffuse by one iota, but I can't help it. How am I supposed to continue this one-sided argument without him?

  This night has turned out to be a massive failure on all fronts.

  I sigh. Blown or unblown, the clock is running down on my mission, and my cover is no good to me now. I'm going to have to try again: another time, another place, and with plenty of donuts and understated groveling to my superior. At least the knowledge that Wolf claims to have of this murky underworld seems to reinforce my own intuition: that Houdini, while still a law-shirking, infuriating Evel Knievel, has nothing to do with the drug-running and sex trafficking rumored to be the Devil’s Bastards' golden goose. Now I just have to bring back the hard proof.

  I'm a lot closer to Wolf's face than I remember our argument bringing me. Maybe it's all the red I'm seeing that didn't allow me to notice it at first. My eyes flicker down to his amused, encroaching mouth, but I get the sense he's still reliving my sterling insult. He doesn't appear to notice our proximity, anyway.