Wild, Wounded Hearts

by Wild, Wounded Hearts (epub)

  She just stared at him with those clear green eyes that seemed to see straight through him.

  He made a disgusted sound and threw up his hands. “I wasn’t going to drink it, Ursa. Damn, I’m not going to defend myself to you.”

  “What were you doing in a bar at ten o’clock on a Wednesday morning?” she asked him with infuriating calm as she stepped toward him.

  “I like their blue plate special.”

  “You were there meeting with those men. They were obviously criminals. Organized crime?” she asked, ignoring his sarcasm.

  “If you have to know, I was there to pick up payment for a job I just finished.”

  “What kind of a job?” she asked him, clearly suspicious.

  “A perfectly legal one.”

  “What was it? A bike?”

  He bit off a curse, turned and started for her front door.

  “Damn it, Zev Beckett, you come back here and tell me why you were in that bar!”

  He spun around, caught off guard not only by the authoritative sound of her voice and the uncommon use of his given name, but the fact that she’d cursed. He’d never heard her curse before. Maybe that’s why he answered her.

  “Yeah. I built a premium bike for a guy, and I was there to schedule delivery and collect the last half of what he owed me.”

  Ursa paused, putting together that information with what she’d witnessed earlier.

  “And he refused to make final payment, but still expects the bike?”

  “Not only that, the son of a bitch sent his gorillas to work me over if I didn’t agree to deliver.” Anger flashed through him at the bitter memory. “Fuck. I needed that money.”

  “For what?” Ursa asked. For a few seconds, he flailed for an answer. Finally, he exhaled in defeat. It was hard to come up with a good lie while staring at Ursa’s earnest, beautiful face. It was like lying to a nun, or something.

  “I’m buying a bike garage, and some associated businesses—a restaurant/bar and a biker clothing store—over in Columbia, California. I’ve gotten a few quality custom-built jobs under my belt. One of them is a really high profile customer who has promised to throw more work my way. I plan to grow my custom bike business there, along with managing the other businesses. It’s all on the up and up,” he added, leveling a severe glance in her direction.

  “I never said it wasn’t. I think that’s great, Z.” A thought seemed to cross her mind, and she hesitated.

  “What?” he demanded, anxiety about speaking out loud his secret making him sound irritated.

  “Did you say bar?”

  “There are other businesses. The garage is my main focus. But there’s a well-established restaurant, and yeah—there’s a bar in it. I build custom bikes, and bikers are known for drinking at their hangouts. That doesn’t mean I’m going to join them in that particular activity.”

  He saw the concern lingering on her face.

  “Don’t piss on my parade, baby girl. It’s what I do. I’m going to have to associate with the biker community, no matter what. I’m not going to relapse over this. If I can pull off buying this place, it’s going to be a dream. My dream. I’m not going to ruin it by drinking all my profits or ending up in jail again.”

  Maybe she heard his resolve. A smile broke free on her face. Relief swept through him.

  “Maybe the positives do outweigh the risk. Still, you should recognize it’s a potential trigger.”

  “I’ve already brought it up at AA meetings and with my sponsor.”

  “Good. Congratulations, then. It sounds great.”

  “It damn well would have been, if—” He cut himself off before saying Frankie Saccardi’s name. Surely Ursa wouldn’t recognize the name of the president of the Northern Nevada branch of the Dark Psychles. But then again, Ursa was surprising him a lot today. “If I’d gotten paid today. The deadline for the loan is coming up, and now I don’t have the total down payment.”

  “I’ll loan you the money.”

  “No,” he exploded, horrified at the idea of little Ursa Esterbrook dipping into her trust fund for him. He wouldn’t be able to look at himself in the mirror.

  “You’d be a great investment, Z. Your bikes are amazing. Always have been. I want to—”

  “Don’t mention it ever again,” he said, glaring. Her mouth snapped shut. She’d gotten the message. “Any of it,” he continued, giving her a hard glance for emphasis. “What I told you about the business in Columbia is private. I don’t want anyone in our families to know about it, or Mat either. This is between you and me.”

  She hesitated, but then nodded once. “I won’t say anything, even if I think it’s stupid to keep quiet. They’d be so proud of you if they knew.”

  “I don’t care about that right now. I have your promise to keep it a secret?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now that we’ve got that taken care of, why don’t you explain to me what you were doing in that bar?”

  She shrugged and took another step toward him. Ursa had always been a bit smaller than Esme and Sadie, her older sisters, due to an endocrine disorder she’d had as a child. At six foot four inches, Z was more than a foot taller than her. She may have been a hairsbreadth shy of five foot three inches, but Ursa somehow looked him straight in the eye in that moment.

  When she’d been a child, she’d been fragile. Her joints pained her and she’d been easily fatigued. He realized, with a mixture of gratified amazement and rising discomfort, that she radiated health and energy at the moment, however, not to mention determination.

  “I’m a social worker,” Ursa reminded him blandly. “I told you, I was doing home visits.”

  “In a bar?” he mocked.

  “No, I was visiting a client in that neighborhood,” she said levelly, refusing to be baited. “I drove past that bar and saw your bike in the parking lot.”

  His eyes narrowed to hide his surprise, but Ursa noticed.

  “Did you forget you showed it to Mom and me after Dad’s funeral? It’s not like there are two of those bikes in the world. As soon as I saw it, I knew you’d be in that bar.”

  He frowned at the mention of her father: Clive Esterbrook. Clive had passed away unexpectedly of an undiagnosed heart condition a year and a half ago. It was yet another reminder of just how vulnerable Ursa was.

  “That’s a crap neighborhood. You have no business in it.”

  “You have no business in it,” she countered.

  Irritation flared up in him. He took a step toward her, forcing her to tilt her chin back so that she could maintain eye contact.

  “I’m a grown man. I can go anywhere I want.”

  He saw her pale, elegant neck convulse as she swallowed. “What about your probation officer? The one you forced me into pretending to be this morning?”

  “Drinking isn’t a crime. Neither is walking into a bar.” He quirked his brow in mock surprised realization. “Or maybe it is. For you. You’re not twenty-one yet, are you?”

  That pricked her, just like he’d known it would. She inhaled, her breasts rising in indignation. “You know very well I turned twenty-two last weekend. You were invited to my birthday dinner in Tahoe Shores. Apparently, you were too busy hanging around criminals to come.”

  Regret swept through him at the mention of her missed birthday party, but he took pains to hide his guilt from Ursa.

  “I don’t have a probation officer,” he told Ursa with blunt honesty. “I’m not on probation. I lied about that.”

  She gasped in surprise, and then shook her head. “I guess I never really knew just how well you lie.”

  That pissed him off even more. His gaze narrowed on the delicate, fluttering pulse at her throat. Inexplicably, sharp desire shot through his anger. He hardened with amazing—no, disturbing—speed. He was tempted… so tempted to look down, to take
in the vision of Ursa’s full breasts behind the fabric of the soft-looking, fitted peach blouse she wore. A vivid, shocking image popped into his mind’s eye of him holding both of her pale breasts in his hands while his dark head was buried between them. He saw his mouth sliding over a distended tip and felt a nipple against his tongue.

  Shoving aside the charged fantasies with effort, he forced himself to meet her stare.

  “I’ve been sober six months and three days. I never took a drink this morning. I’ve got nothing to apologize for.”

  Her face looked very strained. She was feeling the charge between them, all right. But was she experiencing his animosity and resentment… or the fact that he suddenly had a crazy urge to rip off all her clothes and detonate inside her tight, soft body?

  Run, baby girl. Run for your life.

  “I’m not saying you have anything to apologize for,” she argued heatedly. “But they must have taught you in rehab that relapse isn’t black or white, Z. It isn’t just about taking that drink or not taking it. It’s about the situations in which you put yourself… the choices you make that keep you safe, or put you at risk. That man who didn’t pay you for the bike and his employees… They don’t sound like the kind of guys you should be associating with—”

  “Not all of us have a gigantic trust fund, baby girl. I design and build bikes for people. I don’t require a client to be a saint, anymore than I need to be one myself.”

  “That’s not what I meant. You knew very well you were putting your health at risk by doing business with that man.”

  “Don’t lecture to me from your social work textbooks, Ursa,” he seethed. “I’m not a future prospect for you to lord it over in that group home for the losers of the world you plan to start up some day.”

  “How dare you. It’s not going to be for losers, and the last thing I want to do is lord it over people! I plan to open a home for vulnerable kids and young adults who need a place to heal and figure out what they want with—”

  “Well I’m not a vulnerable kid. I can handle this!” Her self-righteousness was really digging at him… probably because he knew she was right. He’d known doing a deal with Frankie Saccardi was dangerous, but he couldn’t tell Ursa that. The truth was, he may not be a kid, but he did feel vulnerable at that moment. And he didn’t need perfect, beautiful, kind, way-too-good-for-him, Ursa Esterbrook, reminding him of that fact.

  He inhaled, trying to mend together his frayed temper, but not really succeeding.

  “We all know you were a child prodigy, getting your degree when you were only twenty,” he mumbled. “Now’s not the time to throw your book learning in my face.”

  Her expression went livid.

  “I’m not quoting from textbooks or the AA Manual. I’m saying the truth, and you know it. If you put yourself in dangerous situations, hang around the wrong kind of people, you’re putting yourself on the road to relapse. You’re too smart not to realize that.”

  “God damn it, Ursa, will you shut up?”

  “No,” she shot back, crossing her arms beneath her breasts defiantly. “I will not shut up because it’s convenient for your denial. I’d like to see you try and make me.”

  “Then watch closely,” he growled before he tossed his jacket onto the floor, grasped her shoulders, and yanked her up against him.

  Her lips were every bit as soft and delicious as they looked. He groaned roughly and shifted the angle of his kiss, single-mindedly greedy for more of her. Distantly, he realized he was being rough. Aggressive, even. She tasted like peaches and sex. She gave a small, stunned moan, and even that was sweet. He ate it up, and then took advantage of her parted lips.

  His tongue penetrated her. His cock flared.

  Peaches, sex, and sin. Oh yeah. He definitely tasted the unlikely flavor of wicked sensuality in Ursa Esterbrook.

  Her tongue stroked his, hesitantly at first. That tentative caress sent a flicker of pure fire through him. He tensed against a convulsion of lust. What the hell is wrong with me? Whatever it was, it felt strong. Imperative.

  Undeniable.

  He lifted his hands, framing her face. Ursa’s face… so delicate and pretty. Her smiles had always been given so generously. A smile from Ursa had coaxed away even his surliest teenage moods.

  Now, he violated that sweet mouth like the barbarian he was.

  I’m already damned. I might as well enjoy the ride to hell.

  Not that he felt like he had much of a choice.

  Her tongue tangled with his now, the experience far more intoxicating than liquor. When she touched his waist, he lost it. He spread his hands on her back and ran them down her length, absorbing the sensation of her slender, curving body. She moaned softly into his mouth. The ache in him mounted. He cupped her waist in his hands—his fingers could almost meet, she was so compact there—and then massaged her round hips. God, she was well made. Firm, lush female flesh filled his hands.

  He bent down over her, consuming her like a madman now. He thought he’d come in his pants like a horny teenager when he held her ass in his hands. His muscles contracted sharply. His balls pinched.

  It felt uncomfortably intense.

  He tore his mouth from hers, and straightened slightly. Her lips, flushed and puffy-looking from his forceful kiss, remained pursed slightly for an excruciating moment. The vision of Ursa Esterbrook appearing so patently, indecently sexual pained him.

  It hurt because it gave him so much pleasure.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. Her usually smooth, velvety voice sounded rough with passion.

  She’s got sensual depths to her that you never began to imagine. For some reason, the realization of his former stupidity infuriated him. Had he been blessed, or had he been cursed by remaining ignorant of her massive appeal until now?

  “What’s wrong?” he asked angrily. He squeezed her sweet, tight little butt. His fingers stretched, seemingly of their own accord to the crack of her ass. “What’s wrong is that if you knew a tenth of what I want to do to your right now, you’d probably faint.”

  She just stared up at him uncomprehendingly for a second. Then she laughed, the low, husky sound sending tingles down his spine and tickling his cock. He winced. He couldn’t take much more of this. It was pure torture.

  “I can guess what you want to do to me right now, and I’m not fainting,” she told him, shifting her hands to his shoulders. She met his stare. “I want this. I want to go to bed with you.”

  “You want to,” he repeated, pitiful sarcasm his only defense against the surprise and—he might as well face it—intense excitement he experienced at her words. But he couldn’t hide his body’s response. His heavy erection jumped against the fabric of his jeans and her belly. Her green eyes flashed in understanding.

  Shit. She knew her power over him.

  She pressed tighter to him, moving her body sinuously. He swore he could feel the heat from her sex emanating onto his upper thigh. While she writhed against him like a kitten in heat, she watched for his reaction closely with shining eyes.

  He lifted his hand and swatted her ass.

  It was bad enough, the jolt of pure lust that went through him at the sensation of spanking Ursa Esterbrook. What made things a thousand times worse was her reaction. At first, she started in surprise. Then a strange expression came over her pretty face. Her cheeks flushed a brighter pink.

  She pressed her pussy tightly to his thigh and shifted her hips up and down, up and down, stimulating herself.

  “God damn it, Ursa,” he growled furiously at the same moment that he shoved her skirt up to her hips and hefted her into his arms. Her legs wrapped around his waist, as though it was the most natural gesture in the world for her.

  Chapter Three

  Z stalked in the direction of the hallway, only half aware of what he was doing. He couldn’t unglue his gaze from Ursa’s flushed
face. She looked like she had a fever. She felt like she did. The heat coming off her sex had him seeing double.

  “And everybody calls you a saint,” he muttered as he turned into the first room he could find. Later, he couldn’t have said more than a few words about what that room looked like. It was bright and clean, like Ursa. It had a bed in it, that’s all he knew. He bent, setting her down on the mattress. She clutched at his shoulders and tightened her legs around his waist, keeping him close to her.

  “People think a lot of stupid things. I never call myself that,” she said softly. “Everybody calls you the wild one. A devil in leather.” A smile tilted her mouth, her shining eyes roving over his face in a way that made him grit his teeth. She touched his jaw, her forefinger stretching. Tentatively, she traced his lower lip.

  He went entirely still. Even his heart seemed to stop for a few seconds.

  She looked completely entranced.

  “But you’re every bit as good as I am,” she murmured.

  “Don’t kid yourself, baby girl.”

  She seemed unfazed by his adamant reply. Her finger pressed into his lower lip. “You’re probably right. Maybe we’re both a little good and a little bad,” she said huskily, her large eyes flickering up to meet his stare. “Or a lot of both.”

  He cursed under his breath, lunged forward, and pierced the target of her pink lips.

  Of course he was wild, there was no doubt in his mind about that. Because only a savage could think a girl as kind and sweet and young as Ursula Esterbrook tasted like distilled sin. Christ, he was ten years older than her… old enough to know better.

  No, he didn’t have a trace of saint in him.

  But he was learning quickly that Ursa really did have a surprise wild streak tearing through her.

  She pulled him to her, and again he experienced her strength. He landed heavily on top of her on the bed. A puff of air and a soft moan came out of her throat, but then her tongue dueled with his as fiercely as ever. Her hands moved anxiously over his back, the sensation driving him crazy. He wanted to strip her naked. He wanted to touch and taste her, everywhere.