Mobster: Romantic Suspense

by Lily Harlem

  But why the hell was he kissing her?

  And why was she letting him?

  He pulled her to standing, not releasing her cheeks or stopping his careful exploration of her lips and mouth.

  She pressed her hands to his chest, then curled her fingers, clenching his sweater as she tipped her head back to take his kisses.

  On and on he kissed her, sending her dizzy with desire, making her feel special, wanted, a part of his world.

  Just for tonight.

  He pulled back. “See, I ain’t so bad.”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “But you need to earn some trust back ’cause taking off like that wasn’t cool.” He released her and stepped away.

  She swallowed and, despite herself, she was glad he’d caught her and dragged her back to the motel. The thought of a night in the icy-cold forest didn’t appeal now she was warm and fed and her lips were still tingling from his kisses.

  He walked to the dresser that held the remnants of their meal. Stooping, he set his hands over the end, then shoved it across the threadbare carpet until the end was flush with the door.

  She didn’t need to try to move it herself to know how heavy the damn thing was. She’d seen his muscles flexing beneath his clothing as he’d pushed. There was no way she could even budge the solid bit of furniture. He’d blocked her into their room with shocking efficiency.

  “Should stop any more escape attempts,” he said, flicking the lock on the door and fastening the chain, even though it wasn’t necessary.

  “I wasn’t planning any.”

  “Like I said, you gotta earn some trust back, baby.” He peeled off his sweater and chucked it to one side. He then shoved at his jeans and boots. “Now, get some sleep. We’ve got a lot of miles to cover tomorrow.”

  He laid on the bed, stretching out in a way that made his feet almost hang off the end. She paused, admiring his ripped torso and the way his body hair slipped down over his belly before disappearing into his black boxers.

  Damn, if only he wasn’t a fucking Hermanus, life would almost be sweet.

  Almost.

  Chapter Nine

  Roper insisted they hit the road early the next morning. As the sky was turning pink in the east, they were heading through Watertown. Beth figured he was keen to get on with whatever business he needed to put his attention to.

  She clung to his waist and kept her helmet pressed to his back. She was glad of the thick padded gloves he’d given her to wear when they’d left New York. There was snow on the mountains in the distance and she was sure snow would soon cover the lower ground, too.

  Eventually, they reached a manned border crossing. Roper’s shoulders had tensed over the last few hours. She guessed authority was not something he liked coming face-to-face with.

  They joined the queue of several cars, the Vulcan’s engine rumbling the way a predatory big cat purrs—loud and deep.

  When it was their turn at the passing point a border patrol agent in a Canadian uniform peered out at them from his shelter. He indicated for them to remove their helmets.

  “Where you heading?” he asked, eyeing up Roper the way most people would survey a deadly cobra.

  Roper straightened, causing Beth to do the same. “Toronto.”

  “Why?” The border officer looked at the bike, studying its frame and tires.

  “Huh?” Roper grunted.

  “Why you going to Toronto?” He looked at Roper.

  “Taking my girl to see her family.”

  The officer turned his attention to Beth.

  She gave him a small smile, wondering if he thought their age difference was weird or that they were completely mismatched.

  “Got your ID?” He held out his hand to Roper.

  “Sure.”

  Beth’s heart went into overdrive. Shit, she had no documentation, no ID. What the fuck were they going to do? And why hadn’t she thought of it?

  She clenched her fists, the padded gloves stretching taut over her knuckles, and stared at the snowy forest to her right.

  Roper delved into the inside pocket of his jacket, his elbow prodding her, and produced a couple of passports.

  What the…

  He handed them over.

  The cop peered at them. “Ricardo Gianno, huh?”

  “Yep,” Roper said, with a sharp nod. “That’s me.”

  He looked at the other document and then at Beth. “Margaret Finchley.”

  “Er, yep, that’s me.” Beth smiled again.

  Margaret Finchley, what kind of name is that?

  He pulled a pen from his pocket and proceeded to log their details.

  When he’d finished, he looked at Roper again. “You carrying anything illegal, son?”

  She felt him bristle. Was it the question or was it being called son? She wasn’t sure.

  “Nope.”

  “No drugs, weapons and all that crap? You’re legally obliged to reveal.”

  “Nope, just us.” Roper shrugged. “And what we’re wearing.”

  The officer held the two passports out to Roper.

  Beth caught a glimpse of hers. The photograph was a little blurry, but did kind of look like her.

  Roper tucked the ID away. “We good to go?”

  The officer hesitated and looked at Beth again.

  She swallowed, then stretched her lips into a smile. What the hell was going through his mind? Had he realized that it wasn’t actually her in the picture? That both of their names were fake?

  “When are you returning to the US?” he asked her.

  “In a week or so. It’s my mother’s birthday. I haven’t seen her in so long. I want to spend some quality time with her.”

  “And she approves of your boyfriend?” He jerked his head at Roper.

  “I haven’t…er…introduced them yet.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well good luck with that, Miss Finchley. If you were my daughter, I’d be getting you as far away from this guy as possible.”

  “Have you finished?” Roper asked, his voice almost a snarl.

  “Yeah, you’re free to go. But we’ll be expecting to see you heading back this way in seven days.” He put the tip of his pen to his temple. “I’ve got you in my sights, son.”

  Roper stared at him and his jaw clenched. “Yep, that’s good with me. I only wanna be here a week.”

  “You saying you don’t like Canada?” The border patrol raised his eyebrows.

  “Nah, I’m saying you’re right. I’m not high on the thought of spending time with my prospective in-laws.”

  “Well, take some advice. Get a shave and a jacket that doesn’t have a bullet hole through the arm…things might go a little smoother.”

  Roper tensed.

  Beth pulled on her helmet, wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed close. She could sense Roper’s patience was running out. And if that happened, she knew this situation would only go downhill.

  “Yeah.” Roper pulled in a deep breath. “Noted.”

  The border guard turned away.

  The barrier rose.

  Roper slammed on his helmet, then revved the engine so it roared like a wild beast, and the vibrations zinged through Beth’s body.

  Within seconds, they were flying along the empty highway, Roper blasting up the gears. Burning up his frustration by burning up rubber.

  Beth clung tighter as a wonderful sense of freedom enveloped her. She was in Canada. Not only that, she was someone else. Margaret Finchley. She had no idea how Roper had come across a fake ID for her, but he had and that was all that mattered.

  The road seemed endlessly empty. There was hardly any traffic and the snow-covered trees at their sides and in the distance seemed never-ending.

  Eventually, just as she was stiffening up and being reminded of how much she hated the cold, Roper turned toward a small town signposted Tweed. A sense of relief went through her. Perhaps that was the destination of his business. If so, it would mean getting off the bike soon
and then hopefully coffee and food.

  But they never reached Tweed. Instead, Roper took them to an out of town industrial area and pulled up outside a unit much like the one they’d been to in Brooklyn. Only this one was stacked with snow on either side of the front door and fresh drifts sat around the parking lot. The roof had at least two feet of virginal snow twinkling in the weak sunlight.

  He turned off the engine and stomped his feet on the icy ground.

  “Fuck, it’s cold,” Beth muttered, watching her breath hover in front of her as she removed her helmet.

  “Yeah. Canada in the winter should be fucking avoided like the plague. We must be mad.”

  Beth climbed off and eased the kinks from her aching limbs and muscles.

  Roper did the same, stretching his back from side to side, then swinging his arms three-sixty a couple of times. “Dump your helmet here.” He set his on the seat. “And come this way.”

  “No fingers to deliver this time, then?”

  He glanced at her, a half smile playing with his lips. “Nah, no fingers this time.”

  “And who is it we’re meeting?”

  “Rule number one, honey—don’t ask questions about my business.”

  She shrugged. “’Cause I might tell all my friends…that I don’t have.”

  “It’s safer for you that way.”

  They walked to a metal door that had a roughly painted number five on it.

  “How’d you get me ID?” she asked.

  “From my brother.”

  She was surprised. “You really thought that I’d be coming with you to Canada?”

  “Nah, but I figured you can’t get even a shitty job or into a shelter without at least one piece of ID.”

  “Yeah, true and you know…thanks.” She paused. “So who is Margaret Finchley?”

  “Fuck knows. Just some random name and social number, and I pulled a photo from the Internet that resembled you. Conner put it together.”

  “Conner’s your brother?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s appreciated.”

  “Yeah, well, you needed it.” He huffed. “Plus he didn’t know he was helping out a Rammada back then. Probably wouldn’t have been so keen to offer his services for free.”

  He hammered on the door with his fist.

  It opened almost immediately. A man in a smart suit and tie and polished shoes stood before them. He studied Roper, then turned his attention to Beth.

  “She’s cool,” Roper said.

  He rolled his eyes. “Better be.”

  Roper stepped into the warmth, tugging Beth with him. He kicked the door shut, blocking out the cold.

  “So you got it?” The man flicked his suit jacket back to shove his hands into his pockets, making it obvious he was carrying.

  “Yeah. I got it.”

  Got what?

  A tense silence hung between them.

  “I need paying,” Roper said.

  “All in good time. You have my word,” the man said. “And my word is as good as gold dust.”

  “Yeah, well, dust blows away on the wind.” Roper unzipped his jacket, likely so he had access to his gun.

  “It’s a figure of speech…besides, you know where I live.” The man gestured around the dark, sparsely furnished room. “I’ve no intention of pissing off a Hermanus.”

  “If you live here, I’ll eat my fucking hat,” Roper said.

  “Get a grip,” the man said, turning. He walked to a long, heavy desk that held a laptop.

  Roper followed.

  Beth stayed where she was, eyeing a stack of wooden crates that she’d bet good money held weapons. And not handbag-sized ones either, but likely some seriously heavy arms.

  “So”—the suited man shrugged—“where is it?”

  “Now you’re the one who needs to chill out, Franz.”

  He scowled and glanced at Beth, as though his name spoken in front of her was an irritation.

  Roper turned to Beth. She was trying to sift through her memory and see if Franz rang a bell. It didn’t.

  “Throw me your gloves.” Roper held out his hands.

  “What?”

  “Your gloves. Here.” He clapped. “Now.”

  Beth tugged them off and threw them one at a time. He caught them and placed each one on the desk. Then he withdrew a penknife and began to slit the back of the right glove open.

  White padding oozed out as he delved his big fingers into the rip. “Here.” He held up a small memory stick.

  “They’re all on there?” Franz reached for it.

  “Yep.” Roper snatched it away. “I told you I need confirmation the money has gone through.”

  Franz chuckled. “What planet are you living on? You ain’t getting no cash until I’ve seen the photos. They might be too fucking blurry to see who it is.”

  “We’re not fucking amateurs.” Roper frowned, but nevertheless handed the memory stick to Franz.

  Beth was vaguely amused by this dance of who was going to give something first. She guessed it wasn’t the first time they’d done it.

  Franz shoved the stick into the side of the computer.

  While they were both studying the screen, Beth sidled toward them, her footsteps silent on the hard floor. Curiosity was gnawing at her. What the hell was on that memory stick? And who were the photographs of? And why the fuck had they been in her glove?

  She positioned herself in the shadows just behind Roper. He was studying the laptop intently.

  It flashed to life and a bunch of thumbnail photographs dotted the screen.

  Franz double-clicked on the first picture so it enlarged. “Oh yeah…perfect.”

  “Told you we’re not fucking amateurs,” Roper said, folding his arms and rocking back on his heels.

  “He’s up shit creek without a paddle,” Franz said, quickly scrolling through the images. “I’ll have him wrapped around my little fucking finger.”

  Beth didn’t need to be standing too close to know exactly who was up shit creek—it was Lou Kempton, the FBI agent her father had gone to with information on Eastman’s VP. He’d been to their home twice. Each visit had been full of tension and left her father in a foul mood.

  In the first picture, Kempton had been looking over his shoulder; in the second, a woman with striking red hair was taking his hand as if in greeting. The next they shared a kiss on the lips. More showed them walking through Central Park, his palm against the small of her back, then as Franz reached the last photographs, they were entering a hotel via its brass revolving doors.

  “This it? All there is?” Franz asked, turning to Roper with a scowl. “Conner said there was enough footage to turn Kempton’s old lady into a screaming fucking banshee who could sue him for every cent he’s ever had. A Central Park stroll does not do that to a woman. He can wriggle out of that, for God’s sake.”

  “Calm down. There’re two folders on there. Bring up the other one.” Roper pointed at the memory stick.

  Franz shut the thumbnails down, double-clicked again, and a new folder appeared. These images were a little darker, taken indoors.

  Beth bit down on her bottom lips and stared at the two naked people in the first picture Franz drew to full screen. It was Kempton and his redhead again. They were entwined on a bed, her head thrown back in apparent ecstasy as her legs hugged his waist. Kempton’s pale buttocks were seemingly mid-thrust, the sides indented, and a sheen of sweat glistened on his back.

  Franz chuckled. “You rigged the hotel room? How the fuck did you do that?”

  “Pulled in a favor from a girl on reception.”

  “You and your Hermanus fucking favors. Is there anyone who doesn’t owe you something?”

  “No.” Roper appeared bored by the lewd photographs as Franz continued to study them. “And right now, you owe me cash. Snapping shots of FBI guys in action with their mistress don’t come cheap.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you’ll get what we agreed.” He shut down the images, turned the screen
from view and started tapping at the keyboard.

  Roper glanced at Beth. “You like the show?”

  She shrugged.

  “The money’s transferred,” Franz said, clicking the laptop closed.

  Roper pulled out his phone and swiped the screen. “Hey, Con, it’s me. Yeah. Should be in the account now.” He paused. “Cool. Catch you later.” He slipped his phone away. “Pleasure doing business with you, Franz. I hope the pictures get you what you want.”

  “What do you want?” Beth asked, inquisitiveness getting the better of her.

  “I want charges dropped against an innocent man,” Franz replied, his attention now on Beth.

  Roper chuckled. “He’s hardly fucking innocent. Would be best for everyone if he went down for a few fucking decades.”

  “Ain’t gonna happen now.” Franz turned back to Roper. “Unless Lou Kempton wants his life blown out the water, that is.” He shook his head. “Fucking idiot, his wife is hot. I’d do her, looks like a fucking teenager.” He turned his attention to Beth once more. “Bit like you, but you know, with makeup, decent hair, nails and stuff. Glamor.”

  Beth bristled. She could do glamor just fine when she had the cash. Which she was sure Lou Kempton’s wife had by the bucketful.

  “How old are you, sweetpea?” Franz took a step toward her.

  She swallowed, recognizing a dangerous flash of desire in his eyes. “Nineteen.”

  “Yeah, a hot teen, just like I thought.” He reached out and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. He came so close the breeze of his warm breath stroked over her cheek. “Been watching a lot of that lately…teen porn. Fancy a bit of fresh, young pussy myself.” He slid his hand down her neck, over her collarbone and toward her breast.

  Except he didn’t get there. Roper reached out, gripped his wrist and jerked his hand away. “Leave her the fuck alone.”

  Franz looked at Roper, no fear in his expression, just amusement. “You’re not…are you?” He paused. “Yeah, you are, you dirty old son of a bitch. You’ve hooked up with a teen. I can see the possession in your eyes.”

  “I’m nearly twenty,” Beth said, folding her arms over her chest and pressing her breasts. She hadn’t liked the thought of Franz touching her. He was creepy, but luckily, it seemed Roper didn’t like the idea of him touching her either.