Then at the reading of his mother’s will three months ago, he’d discovered he had a half-sister: Briony Wilde. When he’d Googled her he’d wanted to run in the opposite direction. The woman thrived on risk: running a biker bar? The thought of it had turned his stomach. But then they’d met. And it was good. She was good. Solid. This was his chance to try and make things right. To try to build a family of sorts. Briony trusting him with her hotel while she was on her honeymoon was a mistake; he’d tried to tell her that, but here he was. Today was his first day. So he was damn well not going to fuck it up. Not ruining the carpets or letting anyone drown in the pool was the first step.
The partially drowned woman interrupted his thoughts. “Whatever it is that you think you’re doing, it’s not helping. Not all women need saving.” Her face didn’t change: the build-up of something dark and hard was still there, twisting her beautiful mouth into a tight line. It was probably a good thing. When he’d first pulled her to him in the water, the look on her face had been full of incredulity: so open, so clear, he could have fallen into that face. There was latent trust there, and he was not a man to be trusted.
“If you say so. Are you going to stop yourself dripping, or do I have to help?”
She pulled the towel up and caught most of the water that was still sliding from her long chestnut hair.
“Thank you.” He waited. Silence. “This is where you say something.”
She laughed. For a brief moment her features softened, and he caught a glimpse of the woman who had been lost and limp in his arms. It was nice, he decided, dangerously nice. “If you’re waiting for me to tell you you’re my hero you might be waiting a while,” she said. “Even Spiderman can’t save everyone, and he’s supposed to be a superhero.” The frown reappeared, but less severely than before.
“I’m no one’s hero.”
“Well, it’s nice we agree on something.” She bit her lip. It was as if she’d caught herself being snarky and hadn’t meant to be. Jake wanted to smooth the worry from around her eyes. To ask her what was wrong and if he could help. But that wasn’t his business. Hell, he had enough trouble sorting himself out. Since the accident he’d had the shakes at the worst of times, been flat and angry at others. The best thing for him to do was to get this woman out of his room. And fast, before he did something stupid. Like pull that towel off and warm her up?
Time to put things back on steadier ground. “I’m Jake. Jake Slade.” He put out his hand to shake hers, and he couldn’t help notice her eyes flicking up and down his bare chest.
As she took a step toward him, he could smell the sharpness of the outdoors on her. It was visceral, like he could touch it if he tried hard enough. The water had washed a large part of it away, but he could still pick up oil—yes, it was motor oil—in her scent. Looking down at her hands, he found the source, tucked in around her blackened fingernails. “You work with engines?”
“Bikes. I work with bikes. I’m Lucy Black.”
Jake took her hand in his to shake it, but the charge was as strong as if he’d taken hold of a live power cord. It’s nothing. The aftermath of shock. You thought she was drowning. And the fact that she worked with motorbikes? Equally unimportant. He was on a break from his job. The job that saw him riding bikes well beyond the reach of their official capacity. Well beyond the bounds of what gravity ought to allow, sometimes. It wasn’t something she would approve of as a mechanic.
“Anyway,” he finally said, “I’m glad you’re not drowning anymore.” He walked to the door and reached for the handle. She followed. But when he opened it, she took a step forward to do the same. CRACK! The edge of the door caught her hard on the side of her head.
“Oh, shit. Sorry. Shit. It is bad? You okay?”
She looked up at him, and he spotted blood starting to ooze in a thin red line through her fingers.
“You’re bleeding. Damn it. Here. Sit down.” Holding her elbow, he steered her back to the bed and sat her down. She took her hand away for a moment and looked at the blood on it. The sight reached right under his skin and tried to pull his organs out in a steaming heap. He sat down heavily.
“I’m fine. Will be fine. Head wounds always bleed a lot. Looks worse than it is.”
“Uh-huh.” It was all he could manage. The blood was nothing, like she said, but all blood took him back to the accident. To Sarah. To the mess that was his fault.
“Can you pass me a tissue or something?”
Lucy’s voice pulled him back from the film lot where Sarah’s body lay sprawled in a pile of broken limbs. That was then, this was—oh shit. Hands fast developing a tremor, he yanked a box of Kleenex from the dresser beside the bed and pressed a wad of tissues against her forehead.
Then there they were. Sitting on the bed together, each of them in a towel and not much else. The blood trying its best to redden the tissue on Lucy’s head. Harden up. Okay, wrong choice of words. He straightened and, ignoring the wobble of his fingers, peeled back the makeshift bandage to check how big the wound was. She was right. It wasn’t a big cut, just a messy one; it wouldn’t even need stitches. Applying pressure again, he leaned in and caught her scent for the second time, every part on him on high alert, adrenalin mixed with lust pumping his blood hard and fast.
She looked him in the eye, and something changed. Now she was looking into him, right into him, and searching for the thing he couldn’t name.
“Okay. This is going to sound crazy . . .” she said.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. “What?” He peeled back the tissue again and was relieved to see the small cut had already stopped bleeding.
“It’s like I know you. Like we’re supposed to . . . I don’t know . . .”
His body was on edge, waiting for her to finish her sentence. The sensation was odd, out of character for a guy who relished the ‘Iceman’ nickname he’d sported for the last five years.
“I dunno. Like we’re supposed to do something. Something more than just sitting down for a cup of coffee,” she finally managed, then pulled back from him, still sitting on the bed.
“Good. I hate coffee,” he said.
“How does anyone live without coffee?” The hint of lightness around her blue eyes reappeared.
“I get by. Other vices, I guess.”
“Like what?” Her voice deepened.
“Fast cars. Fast bikes.”
Fast women? The pause lengthened, tantalizingly open and ready for him to drop in something, anything, that would make her stay. “Did you want to wash up a little before you go?” was what he said instead.
“Yes. Great. Good idea.”
He stood with her and let her splash water over her face, but when she turned to walk to the door again, she bumped into him. Crushed against his bare chest, she was a perfect fit for his body. Her waist slid between his huge hands, her back arched up so that her damp chest pressed against his. Her head tilted back, her mouth slightly open: all begged for him to kiss her, to take her, to fill her.
She shifted, her towel dropped, and his eyes were drawn to the pert nipples pushing at the fabric of her cotton halter top. A wet, white, cotton halter top. This was not how he had planned his evening. But how often did life throw you a distraction as delicious as this one?
“Perhaps you better stay where I can keep an eye on you,” he said.
Her face was open, coltish even, like she might bolt any moment.
“You’re not with the gang downstairs?”
He shook his head.
“Well then.” She put a hand up to move a strand of wet hair out of her eyes and gave him a small nod. The nod was all he needed. He smoothed the hair farther from her face and wound a strand around his fingers before he leaned over and kissed her. Long and hard and deep. Into the kiss he threw all the frustration and loss that threatened to boil over every day. Maybe he meant to scare her off, to scare himself off. But he got lost instead when she responded just as hungrily. Her tongue twisted with his, and her appe
tite spread throughout his body, increasing his thirst, making him want to rip the last threads of her underwear from her body and lave every inch of her skin. But she came up for air and put a hand on his chest. She had stiffened, like she was fighting something, like she needed to take back control over her body. “That made me feel much better,” she said, the husky tone in her voice doing crazy things to the blood supply heading south, fast.
Acknowledgments
These books started life as a new direction for me, but when I started writing the world of the Raising Hellfire MC I discovered I’d fallen in love. I love characters with real flaws, and I love writing about ordinary people who have had life thrown at them. With this series I got to indulge that and to create a bunch of women who are mouthy and tough and raw. A big thank-you goes to readers of the early edition of Burned by Blackmail: Carmen Falcone, Talia Hunter, and Alethea Spiridon. A big yay also goes to St. Martin’s Press for picking up this series—especially Lizzie Poteet, who acquired it, and then Jennie Conway, who gets as excited as me when making up names for rival MC gangs! Finally thanks again to the Red Hots, and everyone who reads, reviews, and blogs romance! You are what makes this writing life rock!
About the Author
Words are my drug. There, I said it, and now I can’t take it back. I’ve tried doing other things. Heck, I was even a dancer in Bosnia (true story), but I keep coming back to the page and getting stuck there. Hooray for words! But hooray for characters, too, because they’re what I love. I like to twist them up in knots, take away their toys, get them drunk, and throw them at one another. I try to be mostly polite in real life (I did say mostly), so it’s a joy to unleash sassy, mouthy, smart women on the romance men of my worlds and let them have at it. I know the saying goes, Girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice, but with me you can expect less sugar and more spice. Heck, these girls are made of adventure, great beer, and no fear. Despite training in law (or perhaps because of it), I have been a dancer, choreographer, producer, and all-around arty type in various countries for most of my life. I’ve also traveled extensively, working on projects in Bosnia, India, Scotland, England, Brazil, and New Zealand. I love to hear from readers, so do come stalk me online—you can check out what’s happening on Facebook and Twitter, grab a free story, and join my newsletter for freebies, all from my website: http://www.micheledewinton.com/
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
BURNED BY LUST
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
BURNED BY BLACKMAIL
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Excerpt: RIDE ME RIGHT
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright Page
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
BURNING TO RIDE. Copyright © 2017 by Michele De Winton. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
“Burned by Lust” was originally published in October 2015 in the anthology Seven Sinners
“Burned by Blackmail” was originally published in November 2015
www.stmartins.com
Cover photographs: emblem by Sweet ’n’ Spicy Designs; couple © iStock.com/AS-photo; motorcycle © iStock.com/Mari
ISBN 978-1-250-14255-9 (ebook)
First Edition: July 2017
Our eBooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, ext. 5442, or by e-mail at [email protected].
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