Privilege: Special Tactical Units Division: Book Two

by Sandra Marton

  Well, it wasn’t really a lie. He hadn’t had an accident worth mentioning and the one that, okay, maybe was worth mentioning hadn’t been his fault.

  “So we’re okay with this?” he said.

  She nodded. “Okay.”

  He held out a helmet. “Safety rule number one. Always wear a helmet.”

  She took the helmet from him it and pulled it on. The band that held all those long, soft golden strands at the nape of her neck came loose just as he reached for the chinstrap.

  A silken curl brushed across his knuckles.

  Something sizzled deep inside him. He jerked his hand away.

  “Could you go a little faster?” he said sharply.

  “Cristo! Are you always so impatient?”

  “I’m not impatient. I just want to catch up with Tanner and your sister before breakfast.”

  “Very amusing.”

  “I’m glad you think so.” Chay unzipped his leather jacket and shrugged it off. “Now get the jacket on.”

  Bianca stared at him. ‘Why would I want to wear that?”

  “It’s leather.”

  “Yes,” she said with a bright, infuriating smile. “I can see that. Bikers always wear leather, and I thank you for the offer, but I have no need to try to look macho, or whatever the female equivalent is called.”

  He knew he’d just been insulted. Baited, maybe, but why rise to that bait? An insult only mattered if you were going to have to keep dealing with the person who’d insulted you. Well, he wouldn’t. After tonight, he’d never have to see Bianca Bellini Wilde again.

  Maybe there was a God after all.

  “Bike safety rule number two. Leather isn’t about looks. It’s about protection. Leather can keep your skin from scraping off if we take a tumble. Skin is soft. Asphalt isn’t.”

  Excellent. That stopped her. It also turned her a little pale. Time to retreat a little or he’d never get them the fuck out of here.

  “Not that we’ll take a tumble,” he added quickly. “It’s just a precaution.”

  “But what about you?”

  “I have no intention of crashing my bike.”

  “Nobody intends an accident to happen.”

  “Jesus, woman, must you argue over everything? Put your arms into the sleeves. That’s it.”

  He clasped her shoulders, turned her towards him. The jacket seemed to have swallowed her whole. She looked small and frightened. He thought of the women whose eyes always lit at the sight of his big Harley, and how eager they were to ride it with him.

  “The Bountiful Babe Machine,” Declan Sanchez had dubbed it one unforgettable weekend, and the guys had all guffawed.

  It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the Tigress would not find the designation amusing.

  “Listen,” he said, his tone softening, “I know you’re afraid of getting on the bike, but—”

  Her chin lifted. “I am afraid of nothing, Lieutenant.”

  “Yeah, well, just in case you are—”

  “Perhaps you didn’t hear what I said.”

  “How could I not hear you?” he said, his voice rising. “You’re shouting.”

  “I am speaking emphatically. I am not shouting.”

  “Look, you admitted it just a few minutes ago. You said you were fearful, and I said the best way to deal with fear was to face it, and—”

  “I didn’t say that. You did. It’s what you always do, Lieutenant. You make assumptions and—”

  Dammit, he thought, there was only one way to shut her up.

  Cover her mouth with his.

  Kiss her.

  And kiss her. Kiss her until it happened just the way it had happened all those months ago at the wedding. Kiss her until she moaned and leaned into him, until she parted her lips, opened for him, to him…

  Chay swung away and grabbed his helmet. He jammed it on his head. Closed the chinstrap. Then he threw his leg over the bike.

  “Zip up the jacket,” he growled. “Check the helmet strap. Now climb… Wait.” He reached out. She jumped back. He grabbed her pocketbook, tugged it off her shoulder, then slipped the strap over her head so the purse fell across her body. “Okay. Take a look at the bottom of the bike. See those steel pegs? Stand on one with your left foot. Good. Now put your leg over the bike. That’s the way. Okay. Excellent.”

  He could feel her shifting her weight, trying to get used to the feel of the seat.

  “Got your feet set?”

  “Yes. But what do I hold onto?”

  There was a faint tremor in her voice. He wanted to reach back, touch her hand, tell her she’d be fine, but he knew better.

  She’d jerk away, put up those I-don’t-need-anybody walls.

  Stroking a tigress could be bad for a man’s health.

  Besides, she really would be fine.

  He was one damn good rider, and he had no intention of breaking any speed limits tonight.

  True, he’d never installed a passenger seatback on the Harley. She’d have to lean forward and hold onto him. There were grab bars, but she didn’t know that. And he, bastard that he was, couldn’t come up with a reason to point them out.

  “Lieutenant? Did you hear what I said? What do I hold on to?”

  He turned the key. The big engine roared to life; the power of it throbbed beneath him.

  “Me,” he said, raising his voice over the sound of the bike.

  She said something. No. Or maybe something harsher. He shifted into gear and let the bike roll forward.

  And felt the first tentative touch of her hands at his waist.

  He gave the bike a little gas.

  She reacted instantly, leaning into him, pressing herself to him, her breasts against his back, her open thighs around his hips, her arms wound tightly around him. As he started out of the lot, he thought that if she held him any tighter, he might find breathing difficult.

  But the unvarnished truth was that he’d been finding it difficult to breathe since the first time he’d set eyes on Bianca Bellini Wilde.

  Chay frowned, shifted gears, and sent the big motorcycle into the night.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “You?” Alessandra said. “On a Harley?”

  The sisters were standing before a mirror that stretched above a line of sinks in the ladies’ room of Chay’s “little Italian place.” Its actual name, Piccola Italia, Little Italy, was so close to what he’d called it that Bianca would have laughed if she hadn’t arrived at the restaurant too breathless to do anything except wonder how she’d survived the ride.

  Breathless because the ride had been scary.

  Surely not breathless for any other reason…

  “Hey.”

  She blinked and met Alessandra’s eyes in the mirror.

  “I said, I’m still amazed. That you rode Chay’s Harley. Tanner just assumed he had his truck. I mean, if we’d known he had the bike, we’d have insisted you go with us.”

  “Yes,” Bianca said, as if the entire episode didn’t amaze her, too, “but he didn’t have a truck, so what is there to be amazed about? The motorcycle was the only vehicle available.”

  Alessandra poked her in the side with her elbow.

  “You know what I mean. You’re just not, you know, you’re not the motorcycle type.”

  “And what type am I, pray tell?”

  Alessandra rolled her eyes. She knew that tone of voice. It belonged to the highly intelligent, highly educated, highly irritating Bianca Bellini Wilde, soon-to-be Bianca Bellini Wilde, PhD.

  “Give me a break. You’d sooner ride an elephant than a motorcycle.”

  Bianca leaned forward and frowned at her reflection. The helmet had wrecked her hair. She’s lost the band that held her ponytail. Now what?

  “And,” Alessandra added, “this isn’t just an
y motorcycle. It’s a Harley.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Harleys are…well, they have a reputation. For being big. Good-looking. And bad.” Alessandra shot Bianca a sideways glance. “Kind of like your lieutenant.”

  “For heaven’s sake,” Bianca said quickly, “he is not my lieutenant! Why would you call him that?”

  “I don’t know.” Alessandra smiled. “Maybe because it looks more involved than that.”

  “What looks more involved than that?”

  “Your relationship.”

  “Mannaggia! There is no relationship. Why would you even suggest such a thing?”

  Alessandra dug into her purse, found a tube of gloss, leaned closer to the mirror and applied it to her lips.

  “Well, he has this way of looking at you.”

  “As if he would like to wring my neck,” Bianca said. “Yes. I’ve noticed.”

  “And there’s the way you look at him…”

  “As if I would like to return the favor. Really, Alessandra, you have such a vivid imagination.”

  “And the way you go at each other…”

  “Like wolves fighting over a carcass. Oh yes,” Bianca said grimly, “that is surely the sign of a relationship.”

  “It can be. Tanner and I squabbled endlessly when we met.”

  Bianca opened her purse and dug through it. “I know I have a comb here somewhere…”

  “I mean, we sniped. And argued. And fought. And look at us now.”

  “Research shows that squabbling, as you call it, may be an indication of sexual attraction, but—”

  “Aha!”

  “But,” Bianca said firmly, “it is equally an indicator of dislike.”

  “What about those looks?”

  “For heaven’s sake! What looks? Your imagination is not just vivid, it is overactive. The lieutenant does not like me. I do not like him. End of story.” Bianca frowned. “Do you have a comb? I cannot find mine.”

  Alessandra looked at Bianca in the mirror. “You cannot find yours?”

  “No. Otherwise, why would I ask for—What?”

  “What you just said. You cannot find your comb. You never speak that way unless something’s thrown you off balance.”

  “I do not know what you are talking about.”

  Alessandra rolled her eyes. “There. You just did it again. ‘I cannot find my comb. I do not know what you are talking about.’ That formality. That perfect diction.”

  “Something is wrong with speaking correctly?”

  “It’s what you do when you’re nervous.”

  “You do the same thing.”

  “Yes. But you’re the one doing it right now.”

  “No, I am not. I am not doing…” Bianca narrowed her eyes at her sister’s smug expression. “What’s your point?” she said, though it took all her determination to say what’s instead of what is.

  “My point,” Alessandra said, “is that Chayton Olivieri is hot. And he has the hots for you.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  “That he’s hot?”

  “That he has anything but disdain for me. And trust me, the feeling is mutual.”

  “But you admit that he’s hot.”

  Bianca ran her hands through her helmet-flattened hair. It tumbled over her shoulders and she flashed to a moment in the bar when she’d realized a strand of hair had come loose. She’d brushed it back, looked up—and found the lieutenant’s eyes on her hand. On that strand of hair. Whatever he’d been thinking had been there, blazing in his eyes, and for a heartbeat, just for a heartbeat, she’d wondered what would happen if she whispered his name and went into his arms…

  “Bianca?”

  “What?”

  Alessandra handed her sister a comb. “Can you at least admit that he’s hot?”

  “I admit that there are some women who might find him attractive.” Bianca said, digging the comb into her hair and dragging the teeth through the tangles. “I am not one of them.”

  “He’s never come on to you? Said something? Maybe kissed you?”

  Color swept into Bianca’s face. Alessandra raised a fist in triumph.

  “I knew it. I knew it! Tanner said I was crazy, but I said—”

  “You and Tanner discussed this? You discussed me?”

  “Don’t get upset. We talked about it. Just a little. I mean, husbands and wives talk, Bianca. It’s part of a relationship.”

  “I agree,” Bianca said, in her best psychologist-as-clinician voice. “Talking is part of a relationship. Hurling insults back and forth is not.”

  Alessandra looked at her. “Insults?” She sighed. “Okay. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you’re not interested in Chay. Maybe he’s not interested in you. But you have to admit, he’s gorgeous.”

  Bianca shrugged her shoulders. “If you like the type.”

  “I’d bet most women he meets like his type just fine.”

  “Perhaps. But I am not most women.”

  Alessandra gazed at her beautiful, brilliant, all-in-control-all-the-time sister and sighed again.

  “No. You’re not.” She made a tsk-tsk sound, snatched the comb away and began smoothing it through Bianca’s hair. “The bald look is out this year, B. Definitely out.”

  Bianca softened at the old childhood nickname.

  “Thank you for that amazing information, A. I surely wouldn’t have known it otherwise.”

  They smiled at each other in the mirror.

  “So how was it?” Alessandra said.

  “Mmm,” Bianca said, tilting her head back as Alessandra worked the comb through her hair. “How was what?”

  “The ride on the Harley.”

  “Are we back to that? It was all right.”

  “Mamma mia! Your first ride on a motorcycle, on a Harley, was just all right?”

  “What do you want me to say? It was okay. Kind of loud. And not very comfortable.”

  “That’s it? Loud? And uncomfortable?”

  “What else could it have been?”

  “I don’t know. Fun. Exciting. Romantic.”

  Bianca pushed the comb away. “Okay. Enough. The sooner we get back to the table and order dinner, the sooner I can say goodbye to the lieutenant and to this inane conversation.” She smoothed her hair, yanked it back to the nape of her neck, then groaned. “Mannaggia. What am I going to use to hold it back?”

  “I guess you’re just going to have to wear it loose,” Alessandra said. She frowned as Bianca dug into her purse. “What are you doing?”

  “Looking for another hair band. I almost always carry a spare… Aha! I have one.”

  “Where?”

  “Right he—Alessandra! Why did you do that?”

  “Why did I do what?” Alessandra said innocently, as if she hadn’t just snatched the band from her sister’s hand and tossed it into the trash.

  “But I needed that!”

  “What you need, B, is to learn how to deal with your emotions.”

  Bianca turned towards her sister, hands on her hips, eyes narrowed.

  “Are you crazy? I’m a psychologist. What do you think that means? I deal with emotions every day.”

  “Other people’s. Not yours. Or maybe I should say you don’t deal very well with yours.”

  “All this because I didn’t give you the answer you wanted about how it was to ride that motorcycle?”

  “All this because your answer wasn’t honest.”

  “Ridiculous!”

  “I don’t think so. There had to be more to it than noise and—what did you call it? Discomfort.”

  “The word I used was uncomfortable. And it was. The throb of the engine. The wind in my face. And the—the intimacy of it, sitting behind a man who’s practically a stranger, your arms wrapped arou
nd him, your body leaning into his, your thighs spread to accommodate his hips…”

  The bathroom door swung open. The sound of soft rock from the three-piece band that, it turned out, was a part of what drew patrons to Piccola Italia drifted into the room along with three giggling teenage girls.

  Bianca stared at her sister, who was staring back her, wide-eyed.

  Dio. She had said too much. Alessandra had a way of poking and prodding. She’d done it even when they were children.

  It drove her crazy.

  Bianca swung towards the mirror.

  They’d grown up in the same house with the same parents—a father whose word meant little, a mother who adored him anyway—but somehow only she, not Alessandra, had benefitted from the lesson such an existence provided. And she had no idea why. Perhaps it was Alessandra’s more even disposition. Her calmer temperament.

  Whatever it was, Bianca had learned what her sister hadn’t.

  Yes, of course, people had emotional reactions to things, but what was the advantage in giving in to those emotions? Emotion only made you more vulnerable, and vulnerability was dangerous.

  It left you open to pain, and nothing good could possibly come of pain.

  The psychologist who’d worked with her—seeing a shrink was part of what you had to do to complete the grad program—had at first shaken his head at her attitude about what he called emotional self-concealment, but he had to admit it seemed to work for her in her professional capacity as a brand new clinician in a small, very successful practice.

  The practice—five psychologists plus a psychiatrist-consultant they turned to when they they needed prescriptions written—dealt almost exclusively with clients others had failed to help. “Difficult cases,” they were called, which was an understatement.

  Her family didn’t know any of that. Why tell them? Her sisters would go into lecture mode, her brothers into protective mode. There would be a BIG CONFRONTATION, caps all the way, and she’d end up telling them that she loved them all but she was an adult and they had to mind their own business.

  As it was, she regretted telling Alessandra about the patient who’d somehow learned her private cellphone number and phoned her in Texas. Alessandra had been upset. She’d wanted to tell Tanner and everyone else what had happened, which was why Bianca made light of the incident, convinced her it wasn’t worth mentioning—and never added that there’d been more than one call and that each call had been more disturbing than the last.