Bad Boy Heroes Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

“Called the police, you mean?”

  She bit her lip and nodded.

  He shrugged. Slowly she unwound her arms and frowned. “You don’t seem surprised.”

  “I knew it was you who called them. They walked in and went straight to the trash in the kitchen. You were the only one who could have told them they’d find the empty bag there.”

  “Oh.” For a woman of such immense courage, she looked downright meek, her gaze skittering away from him again, her toe scuffing the planks of the deck floor. “Well. Anyway, it was my fault you were hauled off to jail to spend a night like a common criminal. I owe you an apology.”

  He couldn’t stand it anymore. He couldn’t stand her beating herself up, and he couldn’t stand having her so near him yet not in his arms. One long stride carried him across the deck. He gathered her hands in his and lifted them to her chin, nudging it until she was gazing into his eyes. “You owe me nothing, Sandra.”

  “I dragged your name through the mud—”

  “You saw what you saw. You have principles.”

  Her eyes welled up again. “Some principles,” she grumbled. “I slept with you and then turned you in. I—”

  “Stop.” He closed his fingers tightly around her hands. They were so slender, the skin so smooth. He wanted to press them to his chest, to his groin. He wanted to cover her trembling lips with his and kiss her until all her remorse was gone, all her despair.

  But she hadn’t come to his house at midnight to have him throw her onto the nearest chair and make love to her.

  “It was unethical,” she said, her tears overflowing, sliding silently down her cheeks. “I didn’t want to turn you in, but…”

  “If you were unethical, you wouldn’t have called the police. You would have written your story and had your scoop.” He offered a hesitant smile. “I wasn’t sleeping with any other reporters, you know. You would have gotten an exclusive.”

  “Rafael…” A sob broke her voice—and it broke his heart. He pulled her against him, closed his arms around her and let her weep. Her shoulders shuddered; her tears dampened his shirt. At that moment he knew he would never be able to let her go.

  “If calling the cops on me is the worst thing you’ve ever done, Sandra…” He stroked his hand through her hair, loving its texture, its infinite darkness. “You’re too good a woman for me.”

  “No—”

  “I’ve done bad things. I’ve been in fights, I’ve committed crimes, I’ve acted out my anger in too many ways. I’ve trusted fools. I’ve been deaf to wise voices.”

  “Don’t say that, Rafael.”

  “I wear the Sol Azteca on my flesh. It doesn’t matter what I’ve made of myself. I will always be a Hermano del Sol. Can you understand that? This—” he tapped his arm where the tattoo was “—is who I am.”

  “I love who you are,” she whispered.

  At first he was sure he’d misheard her. But he wasn’t deaf anymore. This fine, brave, honest woman had actually said she loved him.

  He pulled back, slid his hands to her throat and used his thumbs to angle her face so he could view it. Through the moisture edging her eyelids and spiking her lashes, he gazed into the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen, eyes that were clear and true. “How can you love who I am?”

  “How can I not?”

  He leaned forward and touched his mouth to hers. He tasted the salt of her tears on her lips. He tasted love. “I don’t deserve you,” he said.

  “You deserve everything in the world, Rafael.”

  He permitted himself a small grin. “Maybe I’m just very lucky.”

  He saw his grin reflected in her eyes, filling them with light like dawn in the heart of the darkest night. “Maybe,” she murmured, then slid her hands into his hair and drew him down to her for another kiss.

  *

  AFTERWARD, SHE LAY QUIETLY in the curve of his arm, her head cushioned by his shoulder and her fingers trailing lazily over his skin. The steady rhythm of his respiration lulled her; the warmth of his body comforted her.

  “Luck has nothing to do with it,” she said.

  He chuckled. His chest’s vibrations shook her head and caused her to laugh, as well. “You’re right, chica. It’s all technique.”

  “Oh, you!” She gave him a playful poke. He quickly snagged her hand to keep her from poking him again.

  Lifting it to his lips, he kissed her palm. One light kiss, and her body surged with heat again, with renewed desire.

  She resisted the urge to roll on top of him, to cover him with kisses until he was once again able to do something to slake that desire. Right now they had to talk. She wasn’t convinced everything that needed saying had already been said.

  “Everyone has luck,” she said. “It’s what people do with their luck that matters. You said it yourself, Rafael—you are who you are. You’re the strongest, most determined man I’ve ever met.”

  “Don’t,” he warned, still laughing. “Those are the words of a satisfied woman, nothing more.”

  Another surge of desire fluxed through her. She deliberately pushed away from him and sat up, as if putting some distance between them could make her want him less. She gazed down at him, trying not to be distracted by his marvelous smile, his eyes, his sleek male body stretched out across the sheet. “I love my job,” she said.

  His smile waned slightly. “I know.”

  “I don’t ever want to give it up. But…” She glanced around at the master bedroom. At first she’d been startled that he lived in a nondescript modern house in an affluent but unpretentious neighborhood. Yet the more she thought of it, the more sense it made. This was Rafael: not flashy clothes, not a flashy address, but something calm and comfortable and, somehow, right.

  She liked his deck with its view of the lake, and his spacious living room with its thick carpets and leather furnishings. She liked his pathetically underused kitchen, and his den with its slouchy chairs and its huge library of videos, books and DVD’s.

  But most of all she liked his bedroom. Especially right now, with him in it, naked and beautiful, sprawled out in his wide bed.

  “My editor tells me I’m over the hill.”

  “What hill?” Rafael asked.

  “I’m thirty-three years old.”

  He reached up and caught a lock of her hair, which he coiled around his finger like a black ribbon. “If you don’t do something fast, that old lady Alessandra will never be a great-grandmother.”

  Was he teasing? This wasn’t a subject she could joke about.

  She peered down at him. Despite his smile his eyes were earnest, his jaw set, the dimple barely visible at the corner of his mouth. “Women have babies and still keep the jobs they love,” he said. “It can be done.”

  What he was saying was so close to what she needed to hear. But no matter how much courage it had taken to come to his house that night, she lacked the nerve to speak her heart.

  “In fact,” he continued when she remained silent, “it’s even easier when you have money. You can hire sitters and nannies.”

  “How do you know so much about this?”

  “I have money.”

  “I don’t want your money.”

  “Not for yourself, but for our child.”

  “Our child,” she echoed, her voice rising in a question.

  “Isn’t that what you want?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “But…is it what you want?”

  “Yes.” He lifted her hand out of her lap and laced his fingers through hers. “I want children with you. Children who will grow up to be as strong and wise and honest as their mother.”

  “And their father,” Sandra added.

  “I don’t want them ever to wonder whether there will be any food to eat that day, or whether they have shoes to wear to school. I don’t want them ever to know the kind of fear I grew up with.”

  “They won’t,” Sandra vowed, her eyes filling with tears yet again. She lowered herself into Rafael’s outstretched arms. “They�
�ll grow up knowing only love.”

  “Then they’ll be the lucky ones.” Rafael rolled her onto her back and bowed to kiss her.

  “Yes.” She reached for Rafael, held him tight, embraced him with her love. His arms closed around her, protective, possessive, powerful, embracing her with just as much love, just as much certainty. And she and knew, in her soul, that she was the luckiest of all.

  -The End—

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  TRUST IN ME

  *

  By Kathryn Shay

  PROLOGUE

  *

  Spring 1983

  “WHERE THE HELL are Joe and Annie?” Margo Morelli asked as she took a long drag on a homemade joint and passed it off to Linc.

  He leaned on his Harley, feet braced on the blacktop of the deserted parking lot of The Downtown Diner and took the joint from the girl who was his world. Inhaling one last stream of smoke, he crushed the butt under his foot like his stash hadn’t cost a cool hundred. “He said they’d be here at two.”

  Linc’s eyes narrowed on Margo’s neck. He slid his hand inside the collar of the leather jacket he’d bought her. She had to keep it at his place—her mother would have thrown a fit if she’d known her daughter owned it. Linc wore a matching one. “When’d I do this?” he asked of the red brush burn just below her jaw.

  She moved in close, her breasts straining big-time at the tight white T-shirt she sported under her coat. “Last night.” She nuzzled his chest.

  His body jerked to attention, even though they’d just screwed a couple of hours ago. “Sorry.” He sounded like a freakin’ frog.

  “I’m not. I like having your mark on me.” Her voice was pure sin, and at seventeen, he fell headlong into it.

  “Mmm. Maybe we should ditch this plan. Go back to my room…”

  Margo shook her head, sending waves of dark auburn hair everywhere. Her hazel eyes blazed with defiance. Though Linc would never tell her, sometimes she scared the shit out of him. Her urge to rebel went way beyond even his, and that was saying something. “We’re going ahead with this.” She threw back her shoulders. “Just as soon as Joe and Annie get here.”

  A giggle drifted out from the woods at the end of the parking lot, and from the trees stepped Linc’s, sister, Beth, and Danny Donovan, one of his best friends. Even in the dim light, Linc could see Beth was a mess. It didn’t take Einstein to figure out what they’d been doing.

  He stiffened. “Shit.”

  Margo’s laugh was sultry. “You’re such a prude sometimes, Grayson.”

  “They been humpin’.”

  “Well, as my mother would quote from her scripture, people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.” Margo edged in even closer and stood between his legs. She rubbed up against him, and for a minute, he was afraid he might go off like a pimply-faced kid.

  “She’s my baby sister,” Linc said.

  “She’s sixteen, my age. What’d you think, she’d stay chaste?”

  “I don’t have to like it.”

  Margo’s expression softened, making her seem young and vulnerable. “You always look out for all of us.”

  “The Outlaws was my idea. I look after what’s mine.”

  “Yeah, Jesse, you do.”

  Though Linc started the gang, Margo had researched famous criminals and they’d all had a blast picking out role models. He was Jesse James, the leader. Margo was Ma Barker—strong, competent and utterly ruthless.

  “Hi, guys,” Danny said as he and Beth approached. His hand was draped over Beth’s shoulder and there was a shit-eating grin on his face. The kid had dark hair and eyes, like Linc, but his features were more…patrician. Came from being so rich, Linc guessed.

  “Hey, Clyde.” Linc eyed his sister. Tall, pretty, with the curves of a Playboy model, Beth smiled, too. “Fix yourself up, Bonnie.” Even her makeup was smeared and her clothes askew.

  Danny did it for her. He straightened her shirt and wiped the black stuff from under her eyes. He always took care of Beth; it was the only thing that kept Linc sane about their relationship. In the middle of the night, ghosts haunted Linc, accusing him of corrupting his sister, his girlfriend and his best friends. He didn’t take the onus for Annie Lang, as she was a baby compared to the rest of them—a goddamned freshman and barely fourteen. Their other friend, Joe Murphy, aka Billy the Kid, had dragged little Belle Star into the gang as an honorary member.

  Speak of the devil. Joe’s Harley, huge, black and more powerful than either Danny’s or Linc’s, roared into the parking lot. As always, Joe was going too fast.

  When he drew near, Linc saw that he was alone. The monster machine screeched to a halt, and Joe eased off like he wasn’t about to participate in a robbery, but instead was moseying into the town’s ice-cream social.

  “Ready to party?” he asked.

  Linc nodded.

  “Where’s Annie?” Margo asked Joe.

  Joe’s face hardened. “I took her home.” He drew out a cigarette and lit it, then fished a bottle out of his pocket and uncapped the Jim Beam. After taking a swig, he offered the liquor to the others. “She won’t be part of this.”

  “Why?” Margo’s belligerent tone drew a scowl from Joe.

  “I don’t want her to.” His fist curled. “She’s too fuckin’ young.”

  Linc started to say something, but held his tongue at the last minute. His buddy could be violent. Linc had seen Joe take apart guys in the school yard, rip rooms to shreds and mutilate his own hand in a fit of temper. Linc also had an ugly inkling, from Joe’s frequent black eye or swollen lip, that his old man—the elder Joe Murphy—had taught his son well. But the only time Linc had brought it up, Joe had gotten madder than a caged animal. So Linc had never tried to talk to him about it again.

  Hell, they all had their problems. He and Beth were orphans, supposedly cared for by grandparents who didn’t know squat about what to do with teenagers who didn’t toe the line. Danny was pressured by his hoity-toity parents to cut loose from the gang; they’d also forbidden him to pursue his one true love, race car driving, the main industry of this hick New York state town. And the girl beside Linc probably had the worst of it because what had been done to Margo had been done in the name of God and religion.

  If there was a God—and, funny thing, he believed there was—Linc knew in his heart He wasn’t that kind of Supreme Being.

  “We gonna do this?” Margo grumbled. “Or we gonna stand here all night and chat?”

  “We’re gonna do it.” Linc straightened. “I want me the dough that’s in the safe.”

  He’d sweet-talked a baby-faced waitress into coughing up the information he needed about when deposits were made, the location where the money was kept overnight and any security the diner had. They were going to blow the safe.

  “Everybody ready?” Linc asked, again seized by a twinge of guilt. Though they’d stolen before, they hadn’t gone after anything so big. If they got caught, they’d be in deep shit.

  Which just made it all the more fun.

  The Outlaws nodded.

  “Let’s go.” Linc headed to the diner, his posse following him.

  A half hour later, they stalked back out, pissed as hell. What a crock the waitress had given them. There’d been no money in the safe. Just as they reached their bikes, they heard sirens and saw flashing red lights.

  *

  THE JAIL WAS a pigsty, like most of the town. Though Glen Oaks housed one of the nation’s premier stock-car tracks, for as long as Linc could remember, the town had been on a downslide. Every season it was overrun by rowdy race fans who got their rocks off by tearing the streets up, landing in this stink hole and making an even bigger mess of it. The cells smelled of day-old piss and vomit, and the only light came from a grimy window where gray dawn was j
ust peeking through. The blankets on what passed for cots were threadbare; Linc sat on one, listening to Margo swear her head off in the cell next to the boys.

  “She’s in a mood,” Danny said nonchalantly. As always, he didn’t seem to have a care in the world.

  “Fucking son of a bitch.”

  “She swears like that when she’s nervous.”

  Joe’s head snapped up. His dark hair brushed his collar and his gray eyes were cold and flat. “Why she nervous?”

  “I heard the cop say her mother’s on the way.”

  Danny shook his head and Joe swore. Virginia Morelli was a loony, and she was mean, too; that made her dangerous to the sixteen-year-old she controlled.

  Loud voices came from the main office. Expecting their parents or guardians, the guys glanced over at the entryway. In walked Annie Lang looking tiny and fragile in a baby-pink sweatshirt and jeans. Her long blond braid was rope thick and hung down her back. “Joey?”

  “Jesus Christ.” Joe bolted up from the cot. “What are you doing here?”

  Annie backed up a step at his tone. “I…I had to see you were all right.”

  Joe crossed to the bars. “Get over here!”

  Again, Annie hesitated. Then she took baby steps to him. When she was close, Joe reached out and snagged her wrist. She startled. “Joey!”

  Linc started toward Joe, but his friend dropped Annie’s arm immediately and hooked his hand around her neck. “Aw, baby, I’m sorry. But I worry about you. You shouldn’t be here.”

  Annie pouted innocently. “I should have been with you.”

  “Like hell.”

  She whispered something to him, then he whispered back. Linc eased away and dropped down next to Danny, watching the other two talk and inch up as near as they could get.

  Danny said, “They’re all right.”

  “Yeah, I know. I worry about Joe, though.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s got it tough. That old man of his…”

  Linc heard another commotion from the outer office. “If you don’t do as I say, I will sue your ass.”

  Danny rolled his eyes. “Oh, shit, dear old dad.”

  Linc shook his head. Did Danny have any idea how lucky he was to have parents that cared? None of the rest of them had that.