Michael did him one better. He sketched out a rough picture. An artist, he wasn’t, but he was good enough to create a reasonable facsimile.
“A luckenbooth, huh?” Ian mused, feeding the paper into yet another machine. “Never seen one before, which is a good thing, because that will narrow down the playing field. Anything else?”
“She’s diabetic. Enough that she kept insulin syringes in her backpack.”
“Excellent. Anything medical means records. What about family? Did she ever mention a name in passing? If she had any siblings? Whether or not her parents are still living?”
“No,” Michael shook his head, thinking back over the last two months. For as many times as they’d spoken, she was careful never to reveal anything personal. Except once, when her guard was way, way down.
“She said her dad was Scottish, her mom was Irish,” Michael said. “It’s not much, I know.”
Ian grinned. “More than I usually have to start with. I’ll call you when I have something, yeah?”
“Yeah. Thanks, man.”
“Anytime.” His eyes twinkled with mischief. “Now... let’s go pound on Taryn’s door. I’m getting hungry, and the woman makes some damn fine pancakes. But be prepared to run like hell...”
* * *
Bailey blended in with the small throng of people climbing aboard the Greyhound bus. Her hair was a good deal shorter than it had been a few hours ago, coming down only to a few inches below her shoulders – and poker straight, thanks to the flat iron she’d purchased in the Walmart a few miles away. No doubt the humidity would have her hair curling again, but she’d be okay for the next few hours.
An older woman sat next to her. Thankfully, after showing Bailey pictures of her grandchildren, the woman spent the rest of the ride napping, leaving Bailey to her thoughts.
She never thought it would be so hard to leave, but it was. From the moment she’d stepped off the bus in Birch Falls, it had felt like the kind of place she could be happy. Walking away from Michael was even harder. Yeah, it probably wouldn’t have lasted long anyway, but it would have been nice to try. He was the only man who had made her seriously question her life choices, and that was saying something.
While Michael was the biggest part of it, he wasn’t the sole cause; Conlan O’Leary had treated her like one of his own. Lina and Stacey had, too. Oh, Bailey knew now they’d done what they had more for Michael than her, but the kindness they’d extended felt genuine. They were clearly a close-knit family, one that cared for each other deeply.
Her family had been like that once, too.
By the time they pulled into the bus station in Endicott, NY, she couldn’t stand it any longer. She picked up the non-traceable phone she’d purchased the same time she’d got the straightener, and dialed the number of the Birch Falls hospital to inquire about Lina. It was a sign of how small the community was when the hospital operator patched her right through to Lina’s room. A low, male voice responded on the other end.
“Hello?”
It caught Bailey off guard.
“Hello?” the voice said again. An image of the dark-haired man in shades came into her mind.
“Kyle?”
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
“Is... Is Lina okay?”
Kyle paused. “She’s okay, Bailey. She’s sleeping.”
“And the baby?”
“Fine. They’re both fine.” Bailey released the breath she’d been holding.
“Good. That’s good.”
“She was asking about you, Bailey. She’s worried about you.”
Bailey smiled into the phone, once again thinking how, if things had been different, she and Lina (and Stacey) could have been friends. “You tell her to take care of herself and that baby. And that I said thanks for helping me out. Okay?”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, no. You can come here and tell her yourself. And while you’re at it maybe you can tell that sorry son-of-a-bitch brother of hers that you forgive him so his heart can start beating again.”
The silence stretched between them. “What did you say?”
“You heard me.”
She’d heard him, but the words didn’t make sense.
“Michael thinks I’m angry with him?”
“Aren’t you?”
An announcement came over the speakers mounted around the station, loud enough to be heard over the din: Attention travelers. Greyhound #534 to Watkins Glen is now leaving. All passengers to Watkins Glen, please have your tickets ready and prepare to board.
“I have to go now, Kyle. Tell Lina I’ll be thinking about her.”
“Think about what I said. And Bailey?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For getting Lina to the hospital so quickly.”
“Anytime.”
* * *
Kyle sighed as she ended the connection. Then he dialed Michael’s number.
After thanking Kyle, Michael called Ian, relaying the new information. Then he packed his duffel, tossed it into his truck, and hit the road. Destination: Watkins Glen, New York.
Chapter Twelve
Bailey sighed, boarding yet another bus. She was really beginning to hate busses. But planes and trains were such a hassle these days. Too many security checks, too many cameras. Nobody gave you a second glance if you took a bus.
She pulled her hair tightly against her head and tucked it up so that it was nearly invisible under the dark hoodie. Her eyes were a burnished gold today, rimmed in dark brown liner. She kept her face buried in a book while surreptitiously remaining aware of everyone and everything around her. She couldn’t wait until she could take a deep breath without the stench of diesel fumes and stale body odor.
Several weeks of circuitous routes and multiple coach changes later, she emerged looking somewhat worse for wear in a small town in eastern Kentucky. The first thing she did was hit the local drugstore, picked up some fragrant body wash and shampoo, then found a cheap motel that accepted cash. An hour later, after nearly scalding herself standing in a hot shower for as long as she could stand it, she crawled beneath the covers and finally gave in to her exhaustion. Blessed blackness overtook her for several hours. Hours in which she dreamed of Michael. Of being in his arms. Of feeling his strong calloused hands stroking her. Of his lips, his tongue, and his glowing green eyes.
It didn’t matter that their last moments together hadn’t ended well. That was the awesome thing about fantasies. You could keep the parts you liked and edit the ones you didn’t.
No matter what, he would always be her first.
Probably her only.
The next day, she went into town and got the lay of the land, to see if it was worth sticking around for a few weeks, maybe months. First on her list was getting a job and replenishing her cash. Second was finding a walk-in clinic where she could get her insulin. If those two panned out, then she’d look for a better place to stay.
Job pickings were slim, especially night shift positions. Thankfully, she found a job waitressing in a biker bar, with the option of dancing should she be so inclined. She was not.
Not for the first time, she thought about the fortune that was held in her name, and how she’d never have to worry about money again. All she had to do was resurface and claim it.
Not a chance.
Krennersville was a cozy little town, tucked among green, rolling hills a few miles off the interstate. It was close enough to get away in a hurry, but far enough (and unimportant enough) to deter most travelers from making an unexpected detour. It couldn’t compare to Birch Falls. Or its people.
Bailey, now reinvented as Riley, shook her head and tried to put those kinds of thoughts behind her. She wasn’t in Birch Falls any more. This was her life.
Until it was time to move on again.
* * *
Michael pulled into the parking lot of the bar. There were lots of bikes there
, which did nothing to improve his mood. He got more than a few looks when he walked in, but no one was stupid enough to say anything. One didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to see that Michael Connelly was not someone to screw around with.
He took in the scene. Typical biker-type hangout. As an avid biker himself, he’d been to his fair share of them. Lots of smoke, leather, and dim lights, with pole dancers sporting plenty of straps and metal studs. His gaze went there first.
Dancing in scantily-clad, provocative outfits seemed out of character for the Bailey he knew, but, as a few phone calls from Ian had proven, he could easily fill a book with what he didn’t know about his croie. Nevertheless, Michael breathed a sigh of relief once he established that Bailey was not one of those on the stage and raised platforms throughout the place.
These last few weeks had been hell. He’d been zigzagging from state to state up and down the east coast based on Ian’s intel, following bus routes, trying to anticipate where she would appear next. Sometimes he was right, sometimes he was wrong, but he was always a few steps behind.
Until now.
Bailey was damn good at getting lost, but there was never a question that he would find her. The last positive hit they’d had – from a security camera in an eastern Kentucky bus terminal – had been at least a week earlier. After checking out every possible outgoing bus, plane, and train with no success, both he and Ian agreed she was cooling her heels and staying put, at least for the time being.
With some cash and a lot of footwork, Michael confirmed that she was holing up in a small dive on the outskirts of Krennelsville. Once he knew where she was, he began his preparations.
The last few weeks on the road had given him a lot of time to think and work out a plan. Bailey was his croie and he was not going to leave anything to chance this time. No other woman had gotten under his skin as she had, soothing away the restlessness and the angst. No other woman had consumed his thoughts, waking or otherwise. And he’d never, ever lost control before being with her, not under any circumstances.
The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that Bailey had felt that connection as well, but either she hadn’t recognized it for what it was or she was fighting it, denying it. He was betting on the latter. He’d seen the way her eyes lit up whenever she saw him. Felt it in her kiss and the way she melted against him.
And she had felt strongly enough to give him her most precious gift: herself.
Michael didn’t believe for a minute that she would have done so for anything less than a true, soul-to-soul connection. His gut told him so, as did her actions, and everything that Ian had been able to discover.
All he had to do was show her. He would tell her, too, but words were cheap until she accepted the truth: that they were meant for each other. She was the only woman for him, and he the only man for her.
With that in mind, he’d gotten a suite at the closest swanky hotel (about thirty minutes down the interstate). Because once he found her, he was going to pamper and care for her, convince her that what he felt for her was more than industrial-grade animal lust.
He’d spent the last two hours checking out possible places of employment, primarily late night businesses that wouldn’t ask a lot of questions. Rumblers was the last place within a two-mile walking radius. Part of him hoped she hadn’t taken a job at the down and dirty club. Another part hoped she had, so he could get her the hell out of there and back in his arms again.
He took another look around the smoky interior. If she wasn’t a dancer, then she must be a waitress. Michael took one look at the skimpy outfits they were wearing and felt a bolt of white hot fire shoot through his body. Jean cut-offs that qualified more as high-cut panties, really, and skin tight T-shirts that displayed the name of the bar as well as a woman’s entire midriff. He fought against the image forming in his mind of Bailey wearing that outfit. Of other men catching sight of that luckenbooth charm flashing in the lights...
He found a spot off to the side with a good view of the place and began scanning. Left. Center. Right. Center. Left. Back and forth his eyes moved, automatically assessing the patrons and the level of threat they posed, should it come to that.
A server passed about twenty feet in front of him with a small, circular tray in her hand, loaded with drinks. She had a figure just like Bailey’s – very curvy, with ample breasts, lush hips, and a tiny waist. He felt himself stir and took a closer look.
It sure as hell didn’t look like his woman.
This woman’s hair was much shorter than Bailey’s, falling to just below her shoulders. Straighter than Bailey’s natural loose curls, but still wavy. The color was all wrong, too. Rather than Bailey’s midnight tresses, it was a shiny chestnut, with dark stripes of deepest cherry peeking through.
The way she moved was very familiar, though. Not a single wasted motion, graceful, perfect balance. As she glided through the crowd from one table to another placing drinks in front of them, he recognized the hypnotic sway of her hips, the gentle curve of her thighs and calves. His dick went instantly hard. His eyes might be questioning her identify, but the rest of him wasn’t.
Ian’s words echoed in his head. “Any distinguishing features? And I don’t mean hair or eye color – those things are easily changeable.”
It was her, but her appearance had changed. Her new look was just teetering on wild, a far cry from the quiet, shy waitress that served him coffee at his grandfather’s diner. And unlike that cute little pink and white outfit she wore while working for his grandfather, this uniform left very little to the imagination.
Just looking at all those abundant feminine curves beneath the stretched fabric made him as hard as steel, and he knew for certain he wasn’t the only one. Any straight man would have to be either castrated or clinically dead not to feel the effects, but then, that was the whole idea, wasn’t it? The fact that other men had been able to look at what was exclusively his made a white hot rage burn in his gut. He wanted to kill everyone who dared to look at her and burn the fucking place to the ground.
The intensity of his reaction surprised even him. He’d never had a problem with self-control before. Yet around this woman, everything went to shit. His brain stopped working and his primal instincts roared to life. Instincts that demanded that he claim and protect her with every fiber of his being. He felt like the rational part of his brain was offline and the automatic, primitive response center in the brain stem had taken control.
One of the men at the table she was serving reached up to pat her ass, and a red haze colored Michael’s vision. In two strides he was there, murder in his eyes.
“Keep your fucking hands off her.”
The waitress froze at the sound of his voice. Michael placed himself between her and the man at the table, who was now slowly rising to his feet, along with the other three men seated there.
Michael moved so fast it was hard to see. With one side-armed fist to the face, the guy to the right was suddenly sitting right back in his chair, eyes unfocused. One duck and two quick jabs later, the other two were down. The guy who had dared to put his hand on her ass backed up a step or two when Michael advanced. Quick as lightning, Michael’s hand shot out and wrapped around the man’s wrist. The man let out a sudden cry when the bones in his hand snapped under the pressure.
“You owe this lady an apology,” Michael snarled.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” the man wheezed. “Christ, you broke my fucking hand!”
Michael punched him once in the face to shut him up, ignoring the splatter of blood that coated his knuckles. With a much gentler touch, he placed his hand around Bailey’s upper arm and steered her toward the exit. “You are coming with me,” he said, leaving no room for argument. Wide eyes – hazel eyes – blinked back at him.
Two overly large bouncers met them at the door.
“Problem, Riley?” one of them asked, shooting a look at Bailey.
“There’s no problem,” Michael told him. “We were just leav
ing.”
“Not if the lady doesn’t want to leave with you, you’re not.”
“It’s okay, Tank,” said a familiar voice, low and velvety, just as he remembered. “I’m done for the night anyway.”
The one called Tank gave her a once over. “You sure, hon?” The bouncer had a soft spot for her; he could see it. Michael reined in the urge to put his fist right through it and relieve the man of several vertebrae.
* * *
Bailey gave the bouncer a small smile and nodded. Michael was here. She didn’t know how he found her, or why, exactly, but she did know she didn’t want to cause any more of a scene. Fights were a common occurrence here, and if they left quietly now, they might be able to make it out before the rest of the Demon Spawn gang showed up and saw what Michael had just done to four of their members.
“Yeah, I’m good. Thanks.”
Out in the cool air, Michael led her toward the parking lot. He walked quickly; she was forced to jog to keep up with the hold he had on her. After about twenty paces he stopped, pulled her into his arms and kissed her as if his very life depended on it. It was a deep, searing, desperate kiss, managing to capture everything she felt and give it right back.
Then, just as quickly he was pulling her farther across the lot until they reached his truck.
“Riley? Is that what you’re calling yourself now?” he asked, raking his gaze over her from head to toe.
It was a powerful gaze, sending burning heat to everywhere it touched before turning away. He moved restlessly from one foot to the other, pacing back and forth in front of her, jaw clenched and green eyes aglow. He was trying very hard to keep himself under control, she could sense that. Like a wire that had been stretched too tight for too long and was ready to snap. Even like this her body craved him, her heart and soul screamed for his complete and undivided attention.
Bailey said nothing, unable to fully accept what was right before her eyes. She wrenched her gaze away and cast it down toward the pavement, her mind whirling frantically.
Michael was here. Michael had found her. Why?
Michael (Connelly Cousins #3) Page 12
