BILLIONAIRE BIKERS: 3 MC Romance Books

by Kristina Blake

  I weave between the trees like I'm driving through the competitive obstacle courses I used to do as a kid, vaulting over roots and hard-packed mounds of soil; the rain that has managed to drain through the canopy above causes the dirt to churn to mud beneath my tires, but thankfully it's still early in the storm, and the weather doesn't make my progress any worse than it already was on the road. If anything, the presence of trees all around me shields me better from the rain, and gives me an advantage. If there's anyone waiting at the Jefferson warehouse, my chosen backway in is guaranteed to ensure I'm unexpected.

  I hit the perimeter of the rusted chain link fence soon enough and pull my bike up short. I scrutinize the surrounding area through the black visor of my helmet and notice a camera hanging from a nearby telephone pole. I turn my head, and can clearly see several more roosting in the trees surrounding me.

  This security setup is a new installation since the last time I was here a few months ago. I assume it came about after the siege Nancy and I laid to this place in our combined effort to get Lesher back.

  I can't believe the Bastards didn't just abandon the place altogether, to be honest. They must really be feeling confident of holding onto this building, or else their resources aren't as plentiful as I thought, and they had no choice but to continue operating here despite common sense telling them to relocate. Somehow, I don't think it's the latter.

  I shut my headlight down and drive slowly around the fence, making no noise save for the occasional suction of mud grasping at my tires. I remain under the cover of the tree line as I near the front entry point to the compound. I see only one pair of lights flashing red and blue, and it's radiating from inside the lone parked vehicle. No silhouette of an occupant inside.

  Damn it, Lane. I don't know how many times I need to think it before that woman's impulsive nature stands a chance of changing. If the firetrucks are as delayed by the weather as I expect they are, then she's completely on her own here.

  I rumble up beside her car, park, and dismount. I like the idea of leaving my Hawk as close to her own mode of conveyance as I was personally close to her at the bar earlier this evening. I shut the engine off and leave it, unworried about the rain, as I start for the fence.

  The lock sits busted on the ground, and I easily slip through the gap in the front gate. Either Lane took out some of her (no doubt sexual) frustration on the padlock, or someone else, possibly the arsonist, busted it open to grant access to themselves and anyone else who might happen along.

  Why the cameras, then, unless they are just for show? This situation strikes me as having been generated for one of two reasons: one, it's, again, a trap; or two, it's an attack on the Bastards by a heretofore unknown adversary, which means that despite having my ear to the ground, I've missed the appearance of a new gang or MC in the territory.

  Not fucking likely.

  I find the burning container easily enough, mainly because it's a burning container. The warehouse is without outdoor light installations, so I follow the monstrous flickering orange light until I find its source. The container burns, and Lane stands with her back to me in front of the blaze, gun drawn from whatever pocket dimension she keeps it in when she' wearing that dress.

  The smoke is heavy in the air, and carries with it an indefinable, acrid stench that makes me wish I had my guy in Silicon Valley install a ventilator in my helmet. I nearly gag on it, but manage to keep my breathing as regulated as I can. In, out. Why am I reminded of the smell of cannabis? This stuff definitely isn't as skunky as the weed I'm used to smelling hanging like a cloud off the kids in Portland. This smells almost…clinical. Unnatural is the only word I can think of to describe it, outside of evil.

  A new synthetic drug? It's more than possible, but I didn't think the DBMC wasted their time with anything resembling marijuana. So what is it, and what the hell is it doing in my part of the globe?

  The police officer whirls suddenly, although I have no idea what noise I made to betray my presence. She's that good. She widens her stance and wraps a second outside hand around the hammer of her gun.

  "Don't move!" she orders. "Come out where I can see you with your hands up!"

  I lift my hands, not in surrender, but to visibly prove I have no weapon…that she can detect from that distance, anyway.

  It's me, your boyfriend. Houdini, I'm tempted to say.

  What a badass introductory line that would be, but it's not as if I could ever say it without giving away the fact that I've been eavesdropping on squad car transmissions.

  I take another step, and can tell she recognizes me; her stance wavers, but her voice remains strong.

  "Take the helmet off, Houdini," she instructs me. "Slowly."

  I lift my hand to the inside lining of the helmet, seemingly acquiescent to her command. Instead of taking it off, however, I hit a concealed switch. Time to take another facet of my million-dollar tech for a test run.

  "Sorry, officer." The helmet distorts my voice until it's unrecognizable as being human; my words growl concisely and robotically, although I'm happy to find that not all of my amused inflection is lost. Might have gotten shot if it had been. "Can't do that."

  "What the hell is this?" Lane lowers her gun momentarily. I'm standing far enough away from her that she doesn't perceive me as a threat, if she ever really perceived me that way to begin with. "Are you wearing some kind of Darth Vader mask now?"

  "You like the old look better?" I flirt.

  "Your best look is going to be handcuffed in the back of my car," she retorts.

  "Your own best look is more immediately apparent," I say. I make a quick show of bobbing my head up and down to take in the picturesque sex kitten before me. "New uniform? Or do they make you wear it special?"

  "Cut the crap, Houdini," she says. Despite the coldness of her tone, I sense hesitancy when she takes a step forward. "Did you do this?"

  It wasn't the follow-up question I was expecting to be asked.

  "Do what? Dress you up with no place to go? 'fraid I can't take credit for that." I shrug. It's on the tip of my tongue to comment on my availability to undress her, but it might be too much of a 'Wolfish' comment to relay so soon after making her acquaintance in plainclothes.

  "Did you set this fire?" Lane gestures over her shoulder. "Are you involved in this? In any way?"

  "This an interrogation now?" I ask her. "Because I'm not saying anything without a lawyer."

  "This isn't a joking matter!" she exclaims. She emits that familiar groan of frustration then and runs her hand through her tangled, free-hanging blond hair. "I can't protect if you if I don't know what side you're on!"

  Wait, what? She's trying to protect me? How does that even begin to work? Clearly I'm the one who is protecting her!

  And from the looks of things, Lane is about to need a whole lot of my protection.

  Something catches my attention just over her shoulder. I jerk my head up, and the movement must be more obvious with the helmet, because the ever-perceptive Lane whirls as well. How time flies when you're standing in front of a raging fire getting to know one another.

  There's no time to shout, only move—and I do, sprinting the last steps imposed between us and diving at her. Her slight frame caves beneath me, and I think I hear her utter an oath as I carry us both to the ground. At the last second my gloved hand shoots out to cup the back of her skull and act as a barrier between it and the concrete, but there's nothing I can do about my heavier weight following her through space. When we both go down, we go down hard, and I hear a gasp beneath me as all the air escapes her lungs.

  Probably for the best. I don't exactly feel like getting cursed out when I'm saving an officer's life, especially when my split-second maneuver might have easily gotten me shot if she wasn't already distracted.

  Behind us, the burning container reaches its flashpoint and erupts, rocketing at least a foot off the ground before slamming back down with reverberations that shake the entire compound. I feel Lane tense bene
ath me in response, and I press her into the ground, shielding every inch of her with my body. Clad all in road-ready leather, I'm practically armored against anything that might come near me…except a bullet, of course.

  Sparks rain down around us. The moment I perceive the immediate danger is over, I knock the gun from her hand and roll off her. She's still completely out of breath; I hear a choked protest, but it isn't enough to stop me or cause me to take pity on her. I seize the standard issue handgun from where it has spiraled away from her, haul back, and hurl it with all my might. It flies high enough to hit a star before falling back down to earth with the rain—right into the fire.

  "You unbelievable asshole!" Looks like Lane's got her breath back. I turn without a response and grab hold of her arm the moment she raises it to stop me. Did she really already forget who was acting as her human shield moments ago?

  I pull her to her feet, probably more indelicately than her tiny dress warrants. She struggles to yank it down her thighs as I drag her after me across the abandoned lot.

  "Get off me!" she snaps. "I will tase you!"

  "I don't doubt for a second that you will,” I snap back. Once again I feel thankful for the helmet disguising anything that might be a remotely familiar affectation in my voice. "At least this way you won't be shooting me."

  "Why are you pulling me away? This is a crime scene!" She tries to hold herself back, but as strong as her personality is, it's no match for my brute strength. I give her arm another hard yank, and she stumbles after me against her will. I have a feeling if she could dig those ridiculous heels of her into the ground, she would.

  "This is my job!" she exclaims. "You are directly interfering with an officer of the law!"

  "In case you hadn't noticed, that wasn't just any fire." I whip her around in front of me, and she hits her hip against the side of her vehicle. I'm half-tempted to follow her, to back her up against it, to make her listen to reason with every inch of my physical presence, but it would too closely mirror the moment we shared earlier. Even now, as I stare her suddenly the eye, I can't let Elizabeth Lane even begin to suspect who I am.

  "There were drugs in that container," I state. "You can smell it in the air. I have no idea what kind. The longer we stay out here, the better chance we have of finding out…and I don't personally relish the idea of unknown substances circling around inside my body, especially when I have to drive."

  "You're not driving anywhere." She doesn't sound any less certain without her gun. I consider her for a long moment, finally settling my hands on my hips. She crosses her thin, bare arms. I think she must be cold, even though she doesn't let on. I think that if I were anyone else, I could do something about it.

  "Who's going to stop me?"

  "Backup's on the way." She jerks her head out toward the main road. "In fact, I think I hear them now."

  In the distance, I hear the faint wail of a police siren. I realize then that I forgot to turn the radio inside my headset back on. Lane must have called in backup on her way over here, while I was distracted trying to take in details of the perimeter. I could smack myself for being so stupid, but it's nothing new. If there's anyone driving this highway who stands a chance of outsmarting me, it's her.

  "I've got contacts you don't." I finally decided to settle on diplomacy. "Resources. You let me go, and I'll have access to the answers you need."

  "What resources?" she scoffs at my claim. "And anyway, how do I know I can trust you?"

  God, she looks beautiful when she wears that face: sharp brows drawn together, lips puckered, the expression she tries to conceal behind the steel of her eyes is one of almost girlish naïveté.

  "You don't." It's terribly cliché.

  It's also the truth.

  The sirens are drawing closer. I move to go, reaching for the handlebars of my Hawk. Her hand shoots out to arrest my departure, but I notice she doesn’t pull any cuffs out of that sexy dress she’s wearing. That's all I need to know. As much as I love the thought of her surprisingly delicate fingers restraining my wrists, I jerk my arm out from beneath her as I steer my bike a safe distance away. I can't have her changing her mind about our arrangement, especially when I'm not certain we have an accord in the first place.

  I'd like to continue this, but my odds of seeing her again without a jail cell between us are significantly less if I stay any longer. As much as I'd like to deepen the moment by thrusting her back against her car and letting her know all the things this piping-hot potential-lover can do for her without taking his helmet off, I don't.

  I throw my leg over the seat and take off, leaving the woman I'm crazy about—and the one I know I can't have—there to clean up the mess we've made.

  I'll make it all up to Lane…somehow. I have no idea what the Devil’s Bastards are up to, but I can't shake the creeping feeling that Lesher's showdown with them months ago has something to do with their new resurgence on the scene now. And despite my fellow bikers' insistence we stay estranged, I happen to know that MC's stick together…

  …and that means whatever affront the DBMC thinks was committed against them is my responsibility. Their actions, the drugs and trafficking, are now are my responsibility. I'll protect my territory even if it kills me.

  And even if it means not taking what I really want.

  CHAPTER 3

  LANE

  "Lane! Coffee run! Now!"

  I groan and drape myself back in my desk chair. This is my punishment for "losing" my firearm at the Jefferson warehouse—playing coffee runner for the entire department for the foreseeable future.

  It could have been a lot worse, I muse as I angrily snatch up my coat and stride out the door amidst a chorus of male sniggers. Not a single sympathetic look follows me on my way out, but it's just as well—I don't need to be coddled for my mistake, even though it clearly wasn't my fault to begin with.

  It's all that maddening, infuriating Houdini's fault. Did he really think I was going to shoot him? Even if he turned out to be obviously in league with the DBMC and whatever two-bit operation they were deciding to run the night of the fire, I have a feeling now I couldn't bring myself to go through with the threat he perceived in my obviously brandished weapon. I suppose neither of us can afford to take chances with the other, even if things between us are different now. Complicated.

  I actually spoke to him. Houdini. I haven't told anyone yet. I don't know why I haven't told anyone yet. It would have been easy enough to point to the smoking carcass that was my handgun and blame it all on the rogue biker that's been plaguing our department for years. No one in the PD has any sympathy for him; the most I risked by outing him was actually gaining a modicum of sympathy for myself.

  Could it be I really consider him an ally? An informant? One I still intend to see in cuffs, admittedly, but if what he promised me was true…

  Why do I feel like I just made a deal with the Devil?

  No, I reassure myself as I pull up outside the local donut joint. No deals. I didn't even say anything in response to his offer. I'm just waiting to see how things play out.

  And so what if playing the game with a wanted criminal means keeping silent? Something that decidedly isn't me? If it means being a better cop and serving the interests of justice, then so be it.

  If it means seeing Houdini again, speaking to him, then so be it.

  I keep my reflective aviators on as I stride through the doors to the donut shop; when I exit in five minutes, it's with decidedly less grace. Balancing two boxes and three carriers of coffee wasn't how I had envisioned myself when I graduated from the academy, but if it's what I have to do to keep my position on the force now, I'll keep my head down without a word of complaint. Again, it could have been a lot worse—I could have had no evidence at all to show for what actually happened, and turned up empty-handed with an empty holster and been accused of gross negligence.

  So thanks for that, Houdini.

  I don't like how much the rogue biker is factoring into my thoughts thi
s morning. I like it even less when I hear a familiar voice hail me the moment I step down off the curb toward my car.

  "Could you be any more of a stereotype?"

  Just goes to show much I'm thinking about men I shouldn't: for a split second, I'm almost certain it's Houdini's voice calling after me. I whirl with all the speed of a cop about to make a long-awaited arrest, the tower of take-out boxes only minimally cramping my style.

  Wolf Larson stands on the sidewalk, wearing a green, checkered shirt and denim, the hands that held me against the back wall of Mal's Dive hitched in his back pockets. He grins his lopsided, infuriating grin.

  I try to pull it together quickly. I crash and burn as hard as a container fire on Jefferson, but I have to at least attempt to not know exactly what he's talking about. "I beg your bargain?" I demand. I try to pitch my voice differently, maybe make it a little lower—a little more no-nonsense—than it is naturally, but I realize the next moment how ridiculous I must sound. I curse myself for my stupidity. Even with my blond locks tied back and my makeup a lot more conservative—and less like dive-ready cake batter, shall we say—it must be obvious who I am.

  "Lane," he greets me. "Or is it Officer Lane? Need any help with those?" he offers. I whirl away, heart crashing against my all-too-apparent badge like a cymbal in the orchestra.

  "I'm in a hurry," I state noncommittally as I struggle for my keys, and try really hard not to set off the police siren in the process. I've done it before. Then again, if it stands a chance of chasing off my stalker…

  "Hey, no judgement," Wolf says. "Even officers of the law have to let their hair down once in a while.

  "I was…"

  I can't tell him I was undercover, can I? How much do I know, really know, about this guy without a background check? Civilian friends and family might accuse me of being paranoid—accuse me of being excessive—but I like to think I'm just using the tools at my disposal in my professional life to inform my personal one. So what if I've looked up the police records of a few potential acquaintances in the past.