As she walked back through the bar, slinking past the teens and Tarzan, she shuddered, not wanting to imagine what kinds of things Ajax might do to him. She’d watched Sons of Anarchy and guessed whatever he had planned, it wouldn’t be pretty, but that wasn’t her problem. The welfare of Travis Sinclair wasn’t her problem; Travis himself was.
And something told her he was going to be a very big problem indeed.
—
Travis was fucking starving. He’d been working for hours trying to ignore the sweet, fruity smell of Billie that lingered in the air, the happy, grating voices that occasionally wafted in from the gallery and the tension in his muscles whenever he thought of Ajax’s stupidity. While setting the ball rolling on his latest security contract, he’d been researching estate laws and joint tenancy so that at least the next time Ajax and/or Leon ambushed him, he could set them straight. He wasn’t sure whether he could trust the lawyer who had delivered the will. He’d worked for Priest and the club forever, and although he appeared legit, his association with an outlaw club likely meant he could be trusted about as much as Ajax.
Unable to concentrate, Travis let out a frustrated puff of air, pushed back his seat and grabbed his jacket. It was far too hot for leather in New Orleans, and it wasn’t like he needed to advertise he was a Deacon anymore; besides, this jacket had no patches. The only club affiliation he had these days was inked into his back. But he felt naked walking the French Quarter without his jacket. He shrugged into it, grabbed his sunglasses off the table and slipped them on, despite the fact that it was early evening and unnecessary.
He took them for security, in case he recognized an old enemy and needed to be incognito. Without Deacons’ patches the Ministry likely wouldn’t bat an eyelid in his direction, and that’s the way he wanted it. He was done with that shit—fighting for the sake of fighting, fighting for the fucking brotherhood. What a fucking joke. In the end, Priest and the Deacons had treated him no better than his pathetic excuse for a mother, and he owed nothing to any of them.
He shut his laptop, then dug around in a bowl on the kitchen counter that looked to be full of keys. “Bingo,” he said as he found one labeled courtyard. He didn’t know how late he’d be and guessed Billie wouldn’t want to wait up to let him in. Although waking her up could be interesting. An image of her looking all sleepy and disheveled landed in his head and he shoved aside the arousal that flared within him at the thought.
Stepping out into the gallery, he shook his head, still unable to believe the change. It was like going to sleep in a brothel and waking up in Disneyland, not that he’d ever been to Disneyland or ever planned to go. He glanced around, paying little attention to the artwork as his gaze zeroed in on Billie near the entrance, chatting to some asshole with dreadlocks and a Hawaiian shirt. The guy reached across and brushed something off her shoulder. Travis’s gut tightened at the thought of another dude touching her when he’d been unable to get the image of touching her himself out of his head these last few hours. Maybe this guy looked more like Billie’s type, but that didn’t mean Travis liked it.
He liked it even less when she smiled up at the man and then giggled at something he said. Travis narrowed his eyes as the man folded his hands in front of his chest as if he were begging. Dumb-ass bastard. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he started toward the gate to Bourbon Street, but something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention.
He stalled in front of the multicolored picture of mermaids swimming with alligators; it incorporated paint and material and glitter and all sorts of other shit you’d find in a preschool. It wasn’t to his taste or anything, but something about it stirred a memory he couldn’t quite put a finger on. Had he seen the same mermaids somewhere else? He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, about to move on when Billie approached and the air around him filled with the scent of strawberries again.
“Before you tell me that’s a piece of crap or something and that it’s a scam for me to try and sell it, consider this…the artist who created this reformed her life thanks to her art.”
He wondered why she thought he’d care but he stared at her, taking the opportunity for a close-up ogle. He’d been a jerk earlier, simply because he could be, simply because Ajax had riled him up, simply because this was New Orleans, and Billie had been there for him to take out his frustrations on. He’d calmed a little now, but he kinda liked it when she was pissy with him. Her tits heaved up and down and her eyes sparked with passion. He pretended to listen as she went on about some woman who’d lived on the streets, almost died of an overdose and then met an artist who offered art therapy classes, which brought her back from the brink.
“That loser giving you trouble?” he asked, not uttering any words of sympathy or understanding about the woman, instead nodding toward the guy who was now talking to a group of ladies about a sculpture. He was talking with his hands and the women seemed to be hanging on his every word.
Billie frowned and followed his gaze. “Who? Rolley?”
Travis sniggered. “What kind of a name is Rolley?”
“It’s no stranger than Cash.” She cocked her head to the side. “Why are you called Cash anyway?”
His jaw tightened. Who’d told her his road name? Had she spoken to Ajax or Blue? Even Prince? Nah, Prince wouldn’t have told anyone; he wanted to move on from the past as much as Travis did. Ignoring her question, he persisted. “He’s obviously interested in you.”
“So?” She tried to flick her hair back off her shoulder as if it had once been long. He liked it short, cropped around her chin. Made her look a little like a naughty pixie. “What’s it to you? Is it such a stretch of your imagination to believe that someone might find me attractive?”
Travis raised his eyebrows. Fuck no, it wasn’t a stretch at all. At that moment he was fantasizing about punishing the pixie. He unashamedly glanced down over her body, imagining exactly what she’d look like without that little T-shirt and flowing skirt.
Clearly flustered by his gaze, Billie crossed her arms over her chest. “Rolley is a nice guy.” The insinuation was clear—she didn’t consider Travis a nice guy. She’d be right. “And a very talented artist, but I’m only interested in him in a professional capacity. Fact is, I’m not interested in any man.”
“Is that right?” He’d bet his Harley he could make her interested, although it could be fun if she did put up a bit of a fight. “Do you ride for the other team then?”
“No.” She screwed up her pretty little face in obvious irritation. “Just because I don’t want to be some man’s property,” she hissed, lowering her voice, “doesn’t make me a lesbian.”
He held up his hands. “Hey, don’t get so defensive. I don’t have a problem with lesbians. Do you? ’Cause that’s kind of not kosher these days.”
She glared at him. “Are you always this infuriating?”
He shrugged. “If you’re not a lesbian, are you in training for the convent?”
“This conversation is ridiculous,” she snapped. “But if you must know, I’m recently divorced and not in a hurry to get shackled to a man again.”
He smirked. “Who said anything about tying anyone up?” Although his pants shrunk a couple of sizes at the thought of Billie’s hands tied to the bedpost with his belt while he thrust into her.
Her cheeks went bright red and he hit her with his most suggestive smile. He wondered what kind of cocksucker her ex-husband must be. Travis never planned on getting married himself but if he ever did, no wife of his would cut and run.
“I…um…” She stuttered as if she didn’t know what to say.
He leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “I’m going out to get some food, but if you feel like some company later, you let me know. Remember, I’ll be sleeping right next door to your room.”
And with that he turned and stalked away. He passed Rolley and the women he was trying to con into buying a sculpture and was almost at the gate when Billie called after him.
“There’ll be a snowstorm in hell before that happens!”
He didn’t turn back, but he imagined from the tone of her voice that she had her hands on her hips and a glower on her face. As he stepped out onto Bourbon Street, he glanced left and right at the hordes of people stumbling up and down the road. Although it was only early evening, there was already a pool of vomit not too far from his feet. He chuckled. Yep, New Orleans was as close to hell as anyplace on earth, and he might not be a weather forecaster but if he decided he wanted snow, then there’d be snow.
Chapter 3
As Travis left the gallery without even a backward glance in her direction, Billie slumped down onto a painted wooden bench and pressed her hand against her racing heart. She may have put on an act of bravado, but the truth was there was a raging inferno inside her body and it was all Travis Sinclair’s fault. It felt like everything he said to her carried sexual innuendo, even when it didn’t. But that thing about “tying anyone up” had definitely been full of suggestion and possibility, and dammit, it had turned her on.
Even in bed, her ex-husband and ex-boyfriends had never spoken to her in such a manner. She’d once suggested spicing things up a little in the bedroom and Saxon had bought her a jar of chocolate body paint, but they had never used it. He’d read the label and decided it sounded too messy. She couldn’t imagine Travis buying or needing body paint to mix things up; she reckoned he had his own bag of tricks and they’d be far messier, far dirtier than body paint. Whether she liked it or not, she was curious. A hot flush spread through her at the thought, her nipples were hard, and between her thighs she tingled with awareness as she actually contemplated running out onto Bourbon Street and chasing him down.
What was wrong with her? Maybe it was because she hadn’t had sex in forever. Her bitter split with Saxon had put her off men, but she’d thought her vibrator did a pretty good job of satisfying her sexual appetite. Then again, she guessed nothing matched the real thing, and without a doubt Travis’s real thing would be impressive. She swallowed and closed her eyes and…shook her head and opened them again.
What was she doing thinking about his penis?
She’d only just met the guy that afternoon and she didn’t even like him. Who cares if he looked like Chris Hemsworth’s dark-haired brother in leather? Bad boys had never been her weakness.
“Are you okay, Billie?”
She sucked in a breath, summoned a smile and looked up at Rolley, who now stood in front of her. “Yep. All good. Did you make a sale?” She gestured toward the front of the gallery where Rolley’s cutlery and crockery sculptures were displayed.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and shook his head. “Not yet, but the ladies are staying in town a few more days and promised to come back.”
“That’s really great.” She tried to sound enthusiastic because she was—all sales, even potential ones, were to be celebrated—but Travis had knocked the wind out of her, and she couldn’t focus on anything except his offer to keep her company later. Without a doubt he wasn’t offering to share a cup of coffee and some cookies. Whenever he looked at her it was with heat and intent, as if she were dessert and he wanted to eat her up.
“Who was that guy?” Rolley asked, sitting down on the bench beside her.
“Oh, Travis?” she said, trying to sound nonchalant when she felt anything but. “He’s the new landlord of the building. Well, one of them.”
Rolley frowned. “What was he doing here? Is he going to increase your rent?”
Billie tried to laugh, but it came out more like a defeated sigh. If only that was the worst of it. She could deal with landlord issues if only the landlord in question didn’t make every cell in her body swelter. “Right now he’s staying here while he tries to convince the other owners to sell the property.”
“Who are the other owners?”
“Ever heard of the Deacons of Bourbon Street?”
Rolley’s eyes widened, and a look of horror flashed across his face. He’d lived in New Orleans all his life, and his expression told Billie he knew them all too well. “He’s one of them?”
She nodded. “You knew the building was owned by Mr. Lombard—they call him Priest. Well, he died and left his property to four bikers apparently. I would have thought he’d leave it to his daughter—so did she, and she assured me nothing would change, but…” Billie’s voice drifted off as she remembered her conversation with Sophie and the man she’d called Ajax that afternoon. He hadn’t seemed too keen on the art gallery either.
“Hey, it’ll be all right.” Rolley put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her into his side before she realized what he was doing. It felt like a hug from an old friend, but she knew his words were empty. He couldn’t guarantee things would be okay even if he wanted them to be. What kind of chance would he stand against four rough, mean biker dudes?
Still, his sentiments were nice, and she appreciated them. That was Rolley all over—nice. He was also cute in a surfer, boy-next-door kind of way. And he was one of the most talented artists she’d ever met. He could make ordinary everyday household odds and ends into the most unique and beautiful pieces of art. She knew he liked her, as he asked her out almost every time he came into the gallery, but she’d told him she wasn’t ready to date again. Still, he didn’t seem to know how to take no for an answer. Only half an hour ago, he’d asked her to go to Café Du Monde with him later that night for beignets.
She adored beignets and couldn’t imagine ever tiring of them, but she didn’t want to give Rolley the wrong idea. Nothing had changed; she still wasn’t ready for another relationship, but if her body’s reaction to Travis was anything to go by…maybe she was ready for sex.
“Do you want me to stay here with you tonight?”
She jumped at Rolley’s words. Had she said the sex thing out loud? Lord, she hoped not. As sweet as Rolley was, looking at him didn’t make her insides tremble the way they did when she looked at Travis. Not that she planned on having sex with him either. She might be feeling horny, but she had a few requirements before she took her clothes off for a guy—the most important being that she actually liked him.
Maybe having Rolley stay over would be a good thing. Maybe if Travis thought she and Rolley were an item he’d back off with his wicked tongue. She dismissed this idea almost as soon as she thought it—for one thing, she didn’t want to use Rolley, and two, she doubted Travis would care if she were taken.
“Thanks, but I’ll be fine.” Billie slipped out of Rolley’s grasp and stood, hoping the quake in her voice didn’t give her away. As long as she didn’t give Travis any indication of interest, she would be fine. And safe. “Are you still okay to look after the gallery while I work on Saturday night?”
“Of course, you know I’d do anything for you.” He smiled goofily at her, and she tried to smile back.
Two or three nights a week she worked for a local tour company, giving ghost tours around the French Quarter. The income she got subsidized what she made at the gallery and meant she could pay her bills and buy food, but she also loved the work. It meant meeting new people all the time and sharing her love of this great place; besides, she’d always had a fascination with ghost stories.
“Thanks.”
A young couple had entered the gallery and were admiring the painting Travis had seemed taken with earlier. Billie walked over to them hoping they’d be the chatty type that could help take her mind off the biker, the building and her carnal thoughts.
“Hiya,” she said brightly as she approached. “That’s one of my favorite paintings.” Truthfully they were all her favorites.
“It’s beautiful. I’ve always loved mermaids.” The woman leaned in close and grinned at the detail. “How much is it?”
“That one’s five hundred dollars, but the artist is also happy to take commissions if you have a color scheme you like or want your mermaid to look like someone in particular.”
“That’s cute,” said the woman, looking to her man.
He laughed. “Do you want to get one that looks like you? Or do you really like this one?”
“I love it.” The sparkle in her eyes and in the diamond on her ring finger told Billie she’d made a sale. Lorna’s artwork was one of her biggest sellers; she couldn’t wait to call her and tell her to come and collect her earnings.
“Great.” Billie took the painting down off the wall and wrapped it in a layer of delicate tissue and then some bubble wrap for protection, happy to have something to occupy herself. The couple pottered around the rest of the gallery, bought one of Rolley’s cutlery animals, and then went off to have dinner in Jackson Square.
The rest of the evening dragged. Although Billie was doing what she loved, talking with the locals and tourists that came into the gallery to admire the art, she kept glancing up at the entrance, on the lookout for Travis Sinclair. As much as she told herself she didn’t care, she couldn’t help wondering what he was getting up to out there. Was he dining at one of her favorite restaurants? No, she couldn’t imagine him in a place like Soho or Muriel’s; he’d likely gone next door to drink and chat up chicks at The Priory. Or to a strip club.
She sighed when the time came to close up and Travis still hadn’t returned. Why was she disappointed? Her prayers would be answered if he never came back. Rolley asked again if she wanted him to stay, but she politely declined and bid him good night before locking up.
A thought struck. How would Travis get back in? As far as she knew he didn’t have a key, although likely picking locks was just another one of his talents, along with talking dirty and being able to undress a girl with his eyes. He’d made her feel naked simply by looking at her.
Fire Me Up Page 3
