BILLIONAIRE BIKERS: 3 MC Romance Books

by Kristina Blake

  "What's the verdict, Chief?"

  CHAPTER 8

  WOLF

  The California Clubhouse isn't too shabby a retreat from the world. It's nothing compared to the one just past the upstate border—the one I always tend to crash in near the Oregon coast—but hey, it's a mansion, and tequila tastes mostly the same wherever you drink it.

  Except, maybe it tastes a little sweeter in Mexico, in the company of a beautiful woman who may or may not like another shot at having her hand between my legs. But I need to forget about all that now, especially when all I'm wearing are my swimming trunks.

  The RBMC's California HQ is the perfect place to get my shit together. And it's the perfect place to try and give myself amnesia about all things Elizabeth Lane. The bar on the property is always well stocked, and the firewater flows.

  "Wolf," Dash Holden calls out to me from the kitchen. "Need you to come here for a minute."

  I turn my head in disinterest. My disinterest mainly stems from the fact that I'm brooding over a woman I know I stand no real chance of ever having. If I had just left well enough alone between us, things might have been different…and by that, I mean the same. I would have never met Elizabeth Lane face-to-face, and she would have chased a living shadow on into forever if she had to.

  Would I really trade what passed between us these last few days for a chance to go back to the way things were? I'm not so sure. But I wanted to gain some clarity before I got out of the pool.

  "Bring whatever it is out to me," I call. "Or better yet, don't bother me at all!"

  "Can't," Dash calls back. "Anyway, you're going to want to see this."

  All I want to see is the city of Los Angeles laid out down below me from our vantage on the hill. I want to lose myself in its lights and take in the heady smell of the rain that falls; it's been storming for the last ten minutes, a summer shower that occasionally booms with thunder in the distance, further out over the metro area. I want to see some lightning. Maybe beholding the real thing in nature will help me forget that I once held it in my arms.

  I sigh in irritation, taking my elbow off the marble side of the pool only long enough to grasp my latest drink and down it in one fell swoop. I've enjoyed sitting here undisturbed for the last half hour now—I should have known, after finding another Robber Baron here—it was only a matter of time before my thoughts were disturbed.

  Dash Holden isn't usually the talkative type. Get the two of us alone in a room together, and I'm happy to say I'll be using up most of the oxygen. He's a few inches taller than I am and a lot broader; he’s built a little like a linebacker—although I noted upon first seeing him that he's lost a lot of weight in muscle since the accident, weight that he doesn't appear in any hurry to put back on again. A trimmer Dash is still someone I would rather not go up against, even though he's got the temperament of a teddy bear when you get to know him.

  I drag myself out of the pool, and Dash meets me in the living room. He's pale for a guy who calls California his home, a lot whiter than I am, and I roam the Pacific Northwest practically chasing bursts of sunshine where I can find them—then again, even his personality is less than sunny. He's let his beard—a thick red-brown bush—grow out, which only adds to the ursine effect. His eyes are big and dark and probably intense enough that they make the ladies go nuts; his lips are full and generous, for a man, and probably his most marked feature, otherwise I wouldn't think about them at all.

  I'm as straight as an arrow, but I'm not beyond admitting—to myself, at least—that Dash is a good-looking man. Outside of pretty boy Flint, he's probably the best-looking Baron of the bunch. Not that I would ever include myself in a matchup between brothers—the results would be completely unfair to them.

  He turns from me without a word and lurches into the next room. I follow, noting the way he walks now with detached curiosity. A person might not even know he walks with a prosthetic, except for the way he has trouble turning occasionally, but even such a tiny spot of trouble maneuvering can easily be mentally glossed over. Dash lost his leg in a terrible crash, and he was lucky that was all he lost—still, I'm not sure I would have recovered as well as he did, if I were in his position. I love every bone and muscle and sinew that constitutes my own frame too much. What would I do with all this energy if I couldn't ride or run or punch a DB motherfucker out to the full extent of my capabilities? I don't know how he does it, and I consider that I should probably ask him sometime. Dash is tight with Bentley, so I guess he always counted on having another Baron to lean on during recovery…then again, Bentley is a cold piece of work himself.

  We've all got our emotional problems. Too bad that as soon as we round the corner to the study, mine is revealed starkly to both of us in a black and white flickering picture on one of the mansion's security screens.

  It's Lane. There's no denying she's been on my mind, but she's here, outside the mansion gate, pacing back and forth impatiently beside the intercom. Even from this weird, invasive angle, I can see that she hadn't prepared for the summer storm: she clutches a thin cotton bolero jacket around her pointed shoulders, pausing in her tight little strut only to blow into her hands or make a fist and pound impatiently on the gate. Her flaxen-blond hair is pulled back in a high ponytail; I imagine that it must spill like gold down her back, though, of course, I can't see it on the screen in all its luster. It looks several shades darker from the rain.

  "That's your little cop friend, isn't it?" Dash leans back against the desk and crosses his arms. "What's she doing here?"

  "I have no idea." I'm having a hard time disguising the awe in my own voice. "And she's not a cop. Not anymore."

  "Maybe someone like Lesher would care about that, but I certainly don't." Dash shrugs his shoulders to prove his indifference; then, in stark contrast to his disaffected attitude, he says, "You better go out and get her. One ill-timed lightning strike is all it takes to electrify that gate."

  "Already going," I say as I turn to hustle out the front doors. It hadn't even occurred to me to run upstairs to change—and anyway, from the looks of things, she's been standing out there long enough. No time for a detour.

  I'm within a few yards of her, strolling barefoot down the walk, trying to appear unhurried now that I'm within sight. My wet swim trunks cling to the muscles of my legs, but it's not as uncomfortable as it could be, considering that unlike Lane, I'm clearly dressed to get wet. Rainwater drips from my hair into my eyes, and I slick my waterlogged locks back as I arrive at the gate to meet her.

  "How did you find me?" I demand, trying to ignore the way her eyes light up once she recognizes me. I imagine it's not something she would probably want me to notice, although I file it away for later consideration.

  She holds up a tiny receiver that I'm almost certain no longer functions due to exposure to the rain. "I planted a tracking device on you," she explains.

  I scoff. "What? Like hell you did!" And then, "When?"

  "When we had our moment together in the elevator." The gate slides open. She smiles innocently, and I swear that must be the expression a venomous viper gives its victim before striking. It's not a bad look, but one that almost guarantees I'm going to regret letting her back into my life.

  But what choice do I have? I may not have much in the way of honor, but obviously even Lane knows I can't resist helping a woman in distress—even if it is her own damn fault she's standing out here in the rain in the first place.

  I've brought nothing to shelter her with, so I settle for wrapping my arm around her slender shoulders and letting her hunker down beneath a partial embrace as we head back toward the mansion. The electronic gate slides shut behind us.

  "Isn't that gate remotely-operated? Is someone else here with you?" she inquires curiously as we hurry up the front steps.

  "That'll be Dash," I admit as I hold the door open for her. "He's just in here."

  It doesn't occur to me until it's already too late that I'm actively aiding in her investigation into my private
life. The moment Lane's eyes fall to the other biker standing in the doorway, I realize what I've done. I can practically see the gears turning in her mind as she tries to put two and two together, and we all know how basic an equation that is. At least Dash isn't wearing his jacket, and his tattoo bearing the brotherhood's crest doesn't show in the T-shirt he's wearing.

  His dark eyes meet hers evenly. Maybe he knows what she's up to, and maybe he doesn't, but he keeps himself a closed book to her.

  "Why don't we get you out of those clothes?" I suggest finally, to break the standstill.

  "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" she scoffs, but I watch as she's overcome by a violent shiver, and I feel somewhat justified in my suggestion. Dash detaches from the doorway and walks back into the lounge, disappearing from view as I take hold of Lane and steer her out toward the back deck.

  "I would," I confess, "but it also makes the most sense given the circumstances. What do you want to drink? Water? Whiskey? Whiskey-water?"

  "Definitely the last one," Lane says as she studies the panorama through the glass door. "Wow. You're really r-r-rich, aren't you? she says, shivering."

  "I can't take all the credit." My heart wavers to match the cold-induced stutter in her voice. "This is a…shared facility."

  "It's a clubhouse," she guesses. "And that other guy, he's part of your secret MC."

  "I can neither confirm nor deny Dash's involvement in anything," I say as I open the door for her. "But I can confirm that we probably aren't going to find any lady's swimwear around this place."

  "Because this is your secret MC headquarters," Lane accuses again. She hangs back a moment more, until I take the initiative of grasping her shoulder and pushing her out under the outdoor overhang. She objects with a little cry of protest as she stumbles, but we both know she's not the type to be treated with kid gloves. I grin.

  "Get out of those clothes and get into the j-j-jacuzzi," I mock her shivering stutter as I turn back for the kitchen. Strange, how just seeing her has made all the difference in the world—and we didn't exactly leave things on amiable terms. Maybe Officer Elizabeth Lane sometimes amounts to a personal problem for me, but she also amounts to the solution.

  "I'm not going to get naked," she protests.

  "Please. It's nothing I haven't seen before," I reply as I stoop behind the bar. "And if you're really worried about it, turn the jets on high."

  I hear her answering growl of frustration, but the next time I peer back over the bar, I see she's disappeared. Despite the nonchalance of my words, the thudding of my heart increases at the thought of what she may be up to. I hurry to get her drink, pouring an extra heavy shot and throwing an ice cube in as I make my way out to the back porch.

  Lane's clothes are piled in a wet heap on the concrete, and the woman herself is immersed in a bubbling, chlorine-scented froth. I hang back in the doorway a moment to watch as she reaches back behind her to pull the elastic band from her hair and shake her yellow tresses out; they hang flat around her bare shoulders, clinging to her skin with the weight of rainwater and perspiration.

  And there goes my heart again, p-p-palpitating away. Jesus, maybe I need to see a doctor. Wasn't I just meditating on how much this woman drove me crazy, and how if I ever saw her again, it would be too damn soon?

  "Feeling better?" I ask quietly as I approach. She turns her head, and I hold one of the tinkling glasses out to her. I decided to make two. God only knows I'm probably going to need it.

  It's a rare moment that passes between us as she accepts the drink. Maybe it's the weather, or her exposure to the cold, but Lane appears sedated, and she's found me in a contemplative mood myself, so I can't find it in me to try and ease some of the tension between us with my usual relentless teasing. Something's up. All I can do is wait patiently for her to tell me.

  I climb into the Jacuzzi and sink down into the scalding-hot water, wincing only mildly at the pleasurable sensation. I move to the opposite side of the hot tub to allow her a little room; I note, to my satisfaction, that she's stopped shivering.

  "They released me from the PD," she says finally. "Suspended, actually. I mean, I guess I knew it was coming. I wasn't able to explain that whole stunt in Mexico, not without giving you away. I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner, is what I'm saying."

  "I'm sorry."

  After a moment, Lane shakes her head. "It would be easy to blame you. I mean, I came here wanting to blame you—wanting to pick a fight." Lane holds her untouched drink out in front of her, gazing at it meditatively. I take a sip of my own as I wait for her to continue. "But I think all the fight's gone out of me, Houdini."

  "Yeah right." I snort to express my disbelief, although it shakes me to my core to hear her say it with such defeated conviction. "Then why are you here, huh? So…you don't want to pick a fight." I unwrap a finger from around my own drink and point it toward her. "You must want my help, is that it?"

  "I don't know what I want," she murmurs. She stares into the water roiling between us. "I didn't think ahead this time. I guess I never think ahead. All I knew on the way over here was that no matter the outcome… I wanted to see you."

  I gaze at her a long moment through the steam. I thought I could see her clearly before; now, the steam billows like an impenetrable curtain between us.

  I set my drink aside. Then, I shove off from the side of the hot tub and glide across the water toward her. She doesn't try to escape; instead, her grip on her drink loosens. The glass falls, emptying its contents into the water, and floats away as I take her face into my hands. She leans forward as I pull myself in.

  My lips, slick with alcohol, alight and move against hers, banishing any trace of the sweet-tasting rain that still lingered on her face. I cement my mouth to hers for a long moment, before drawing back to continue my campaign: kissing her flushed cheeks, her sharp chin, and the shutter of each eyelid as she allows them to drift closed beneath me.

  "You have feelings for me," I murmur. Is it the heat? Why is it suddenly so hard to draw breath? "That's why you came."

  "Just call it what it is," Lane says, her fingers tightening over my tensed biceps. "It's more than just feelings, and you know it."

  "Has been for a long time," I muse in agreement, dipping my head to kiss the curve of her neck. She sighs and melts back beneath me. Even counting all the times we've come together before, I can't recall her ever feeling so relaxed. "If you really want to know the truth."

  "Before we met," she says. Her voice catches on an incredulous laugh. "Before I even knew who you were. All you were was a tailpipe to me, and yet…"

  "Stay here tonight, " I interrupt her. "With me."

  She opens her mouth, and for a moment I think she'll refuse me. I want to kiss her lips closed again, to stifle whatever words may come, but she beats me to the punch by asking, "What about your friend?"

  "Dash couldn't give less of a shit about what I do." It's not totally a lie, but I have a feeling it errs more on the side of the truth than even I know. "Let's get out of here."

  Lane doesn't protest, not even when I leverage myself over the side of the hot tub and lift her out after me. Water streams off her naked, flushed form as I pull her close; her drenched hair hangs like a gold streamer down her back. She reaches up to touch my face, almost shy in her tentativeness, and I dip down to kiss her once more, my own hair painting her forehead in a wet sweep.

  "You haven't shaved," she chuckles against me as I turn to carry her, bridal-style, over the threshold and back inside the mansion clubhouse. "Are you letting yourself go because you're so lovesick about me?"

  "You know, for all your 'call it like it is' bullshit, you're really not being straightforward here," I mention as I ferry my prize up the stairs. I can hear Dash in the other room, watching some droning show on the wall-mounted television; he's not one to retreat to his room unless he wants to go there, but I appreciate that he's giving us privacy. He probably knew exactly where this evening was headed before either of us cottoned ont
o it.

  "First you lured me out onto your deck and made me remove my clothes, and now I can only assume what your intentions for me will be upstairs," Lane points out. "And I'm obviously okay with all of this. I don't know how much more straightforward you can get, Houdini."

  I refrain from commenting until I can be assured of our complete privacy. I maneuver the beautiful woman in my arms down the unlit hallway of the second story, seeking the room I occupy on the end. The door is cracked, and I push it open with the outside of my calf. I don't bother with the lights in here, either, and Lane doesn't object to the darkness. The rain falls in a soothing staccato as I deposit her on the bed. Her hands come up to remove my swim trunks as I ease down on top of her. I lean in, my elbows framing her gorgeous face as I smooth a stray strand of hair back from her eyes.

  "I want you to say it first," I whisper, eyes tracking between hers until I'm afraid I've lost myself. She gazes up at me, looking equally lost. I don't know why I'm insisting on this—it's not as if I'll take it for a victory, hearing her articulate the three words I've played over and over in my mind. How can it be anyone's victory when we'll both come out the winners?

  Maybe I'm too afraid to say it. Me, who the boys in blue call Houdini, who wrecks bikes and hearts and rules without a second thought to any ancillary damage, and I'm too afraid to tell the woman who means more to me than anything that I—

  "I love you, Wolf," Lane breathes as she wraps her arms around my neck. "I know I shouldn't. But I love you."

  "I love you too, Elizabeth Lane."

  Relief, and the warmth of the woman beneath me, engulfs me utterly as I follow her down into the soft embrace of the bed. She hikes one of her long legs up, wrapping it around my waist, as the rigid column of my erection slides against her slick navel.

  I've never told a woman that I loved her before. Especially not under these circumstances. And something about the awed glimmer in Lane's eyes, her gaze swimming up at me in the darkness, tells me that it's the same for her.