He winced. Not that Z knew about riding raunchy biker chicks from firsthand experience—he avoided the females who hung around the likes of the Dark Psychles, trading sex for beer or drugs or a brief moment of affection. He found them sad and worrisome. But he’d bedded plenty of independent, tough, experienced women in his day, women who liked a hard, dirty ride.
Why are you even thinking about females like that in reference to Ursa? He wondered with rising disbelief and frustration.
Probably because you just treated her like one of them.
Worse.
“You’re not the one who what?” Ursa murmured, referring to his unfinished sentence. She dropped her hand to her taut abdomen in a distracted gesture, rubbing it lightly. Her skin was flawless and smooth. He found himself watching her, his gaze trailing downward toward the neatly trimmed triangle of pubic hair between her thighs. Some of the tendrils were dark with her juices.
Being inside her had been like taking a thrill ride through heaven.
“Z?” he heard her ask.
He started to glance back up, guilt creeping into his consciousness at being caught leching so soon after exploding in her. But something else caught his attention.
“What’s this?” he asked, reaching to touch the streak of light pink on her thigh. It smeared on his finger. He stared. “Christ. You’re bleeding,” he said in hollow disbelief.
She lifted her head off the pillow. “It’s only a little.”
“Only,” he scowled up at her in rising alarm. A weird ringing started up in his ears. God, you rode her like a madman. What the fuck is wrong with you?
He experienced the first flutters of panic flicker in his belly. The fact that Ursa seemed completely calm made it all that much worse. “People aren’t supposed to bleed during sex, Ursa!” he roared, sitting up.
“I think it happens, sometimes. The first time.”
A sound he’d never made in his life—one of complete disbelief and utter self-contempt—popped out of his throat.
Ursa stared at Z uncomprehendingly. He’d been one of the regular mainstays of her life as a child, a reassuring, if often elusive, presence. But familiar or not, Z was always a bit of a mystery, even to his own grandfather, brother, and Stephen Jackson, who had been the main caregiver of the Beckett boys.
Even knowing about the enigmatic, secretive side of his nature didn’t help Ursa in that moment, though. He looked like he was about to have a fit or a seizure, or maybe like someone had just punched him in the gut? The thin scar that cut his black right eyebrow into two pieces—the result of some old mischief, no doubt—suddenly appeared more pronounced and paler than usual.
“The first time?” He glanced down blankly at their naked bodies and then met her stare. “You’ve never done this before?”
“No. It was my first time.”
He made a coughing sound—or was he choking? Ursa sat up partially. “Z? What’s wrong?” She reached around him and gave him a few forceful pats on the back. Z reacted by making an ominous growling sound that made her jump. He grabbed her arm at the wrist, and pushed it down next to her side.
“If you have to ask what’s wrong, it only underlines the problem. Jesus, Ursa, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t think it was that big of a deal.”
“Not a big deal?” he muttered, his expression both dubious and outraged at once.
“Z, what’s wrong with you?” Ursa wondered, every bit as bewildered as he appeared to be.
“What’s wrong with me?”
Ursa took a deep breath to try and calm herself. Z had a way of working up a girl. It didn’t help much that they were having this weird conversation while he laid next to her naked… a long, glorious stretch of golden brown, tattooed skin and bulging muscle. The way he’d touched her, the forceful way he’d manipulated her body like she didn’t weight anymore than a fly, all in order to optimize their pleasure…well, she’d never forget it. To have all that power unleashed upon her had been a jaw-dropping, vitally crucial experience for her, one that she already suspected might be addictive.
Best not to dwell on all that, however, while she was trying to understand what he was talking about.
“Z, you’re not really telling me what’s wrong,” she attempted patiently. “You’re just repeating everything I say.”
“You don’t get what’s wrong?” He pointed angrily at the bed. “I not only just screwed you—my twenty-two-year-old next door neighbor, who I used to see run around in diapers—but I screwed you like a fucking madman. And now you’re telling me you were a virgin! Do you really expect me to take that calmly?”
Ursa watched, stunned, as he flung himself off the bed in one swift, powerful movement and bent for his clothing. His unexpected reaction had scrambled her brains. She couldn’t think of how to reply. My God, he’s furious. He’s going to leave! Desperate, she said the first the thing that popped into her brain.
“Would it really have made any difference, if I’d told you beforehand?”
He paused in the action of drawing a pair of black boxer briefs over awesomely muscular thighs. He looked up at her, his dark hair falling forward onto his brow. She couldn’t understand it. His rugged, handsome face looked like he’d been slugged in the gut all over again.
Too late, Ursa realized her words had been the fist.
“No,” he said grimly, straightening to jerk the briefs over his hips. “Excellent point, baby girl.”
She flinched at his bitter sarcasm. He bent and snatched up the rest of his clothing. He gave her a sweeping, hard, cold glance from head to toe. A muscle jumped in his cheek.
“You know me too well. You know how selfish I can be. You know I would have done it, no matter what you told me,” he said.
And suddenly, Ursa was staring at his muscular back and long-legged saunter as he exited the room.
Chapter Five
One month later
Ursa entered the door of the Moto Café, pausing just inside the door to cast a cautious, but interested glance around the establishment. The atmosphere of the bar-restaurant was notably subdued, but then again, it was only three thirty on a Wednesday.
Z’s new business was a lot classier than she would have expected for a biker hangout. Not that she had much experience with biker lairs.
From the road, she would have guessed the sprawling building housed only the restaurant. In fact, a large garage specializing in motorcycles was housed in the rear of the establishment. A high-end clothing store that sold biker fashions and accessories was situated at the side of the facility. Then there was the café, where she stood.
The Moto Café itself was large, containing dozens of tables and booths, slick custom-built bikes on display, six pool tables, a huge antique mahogany bar, and a stage for bands. Framed photographs of bikers and motorcycles lined the walls.
There were only ten or fifteen people in the Moto Café at the moment. Three brawny, leather-wearing biker dudes glanced around at her in the midst of their mellow pool game. Given their sideways looks, Ursa became self-conscious of how out of place she appeared. She’d left directly from work. Z’s restaurant may be high-end, but it still serviced people in the biker culture. Her modest white skirt, blue cotton T-shirt, and practical flats seemed very out of place.
The feeling of being an awkward outsider—one who wished she were an insider—redoubled as she headed toward the carved mahogany bar. The female bartender turned while wiping off a wine glass and merely watched Ursa’s approach, her face devoid of all emotion.
“Hello. I was wondering if I could talk to Z Beckett?” Ursa asked, silently cursing how breathless she sounded. She was not the wide-eyed, vulnerable ingénue that Z believed her to be.
Or maybe she was, a little.
But she was more than that limited label he’d pinned on her when she was a child, and then refu
sed to remove.
Stupid, stubborn man.
The bartender didn’t reply immediately. She took her time wiping the glass, set it down in a crate of other glasses, and walked toward where Ursa stood at the bar. Ursa had time to take in how striking she was, with her long, flowing blonde hair with a silver streak of gray at one temple and a beautiful, strong face. She wore a pair of dark gray leather pants that hugged every curve of her slender, killer figure.
A trickle of unease went through Ursa at the idea of someone so attractive working with Z every day. Why had he found it necessary to hire such a gorgeous woman? The bartender looked precisely like the type of female that should be at Z’s side: tough and tattooed, beautiful and sexy…
Exactly like everything Ursa herself wasn’t.
Ursa swallowed back her mounting nervousness. God, this was a stupid idea. Z was going to be furious for showing up here unannounced, just like he’d been upset when she’d approached him at that American Motorcycle Association event and race in Reno a few weeks ago. Z no longer was part of team Ducati, with whom he’d raced and won multiple championships. But his team had asked him to take part in an honorary role for a vintage bike race. Ursa had approached him as he was checking out his bike.
The meeting hadn’t gone well, to say the least.
He’d pulled off a win at the race, but not without first avoiding a catastrophic wipeout. Ursa had nearly had a heart attack watching him, knowing that if the worse case scenario had occurred, and he’d been injured or worse during the race, it would have been all her fault for approaching him before the race, and ruining his legendary tight concentration.
Because of his agitation at her appearance, they’d never had much of an opportunity to discuss the hot topic: the fact that they’d slept together, and he’d walked out the door afterward. The afternoon after they’d had sex and he’d left so abruptly, Ursa had discovered her car in her apartment parking lot. No explanation had been provided as to how it’d gotten there. Her keys had remained in her briefcase the entire time. When it came to Z, it was best to mentally dodge some uncomfortable topics, like his talent at hotwiring a car.
He’d rebuffed all her attempts at communication on the phone over the past month.
Now, here she was in Columbia, pouncing on him at his new place of business, and fully prepared to take on a much more uncomfortable topic that his knowledge of car boosting.
“Who’s asking?” Despite the terseness of her question, the bartender’s tone was even and not unkind… maybe even a little curious?
“I’m, uh… an old friend. We grew next to each other at Lake Tahoe.” The bartender waited patiently, her eyebrows arching.
“Ursa. My name’s Ursa Esterbrook. Z will know me. Is he here?”
The bartender merely nodded significantly in the direction to the right of Ursa. Ursa turned to see Z stalking toward her.
He wore black jeans and boots and a dark gray T-shirt that emphasized his muscular arms and wide chest. He’d grown a goatee since she’d last seen him. With his near black hair, blazing eyes, dark clothing and the neatly trimmed, stark facial hair, Ursa had the irrational thought that she was about to be pounced upon by an intimidating, dangerous devil.
“Hi,” she said breathlessly when he approached her. “I hope you—”
She stopped talking abruptly when he merely grabbed her upper arm and pulled her in the direction from which he’d come.
“Z, what are you doing?” she muttered as she was forced to trot next to him due to his long-legged, rapid stride and his hold on her.
He didn’t respond. His just stared straight ahead, his expression fierce and fixed. They entered a long corridor at the back of the restaurant. She planted her feet and yanked at her arm. He stopped, but refused to relinquish his hold.
“Let go of me,” she hissed, furious and insulted by his surly behavior.
He immediately released her.
“Come with me,” he said tersely, before turning and walking down the hallway.
Ursa hesitated, staring at his broad shoulders, narrow hips, and long, stiff backbone. His entire attitude screamed stubbornness. And anger. Crap, he’s pissed as hell that I showed up here.
But she’d come here to talk to him privately, hadn’t she? To try and breakdown this barrier that had been erected between them after they’d slept together? And rudeness aside, Z did appear to be heading in a direction where they’d be alone.
A few seconds later, he opened a door and she followed him inside.
“Is this your office?” she asked him, curiosity about his new business enterprise making her temporarily forget her irritation.
He shut the door with a brisk bang.
“How did you find me?”
“It wasn’t that hard. You told me were hoping to buy a bike garage in Columbia, remember?” she asked distractedly, walking into the large room that contained shelving, some packaging and storage crates, a desk large enough to accommodate Z’s big frame, and a seating area with a worn leather couch, coffee table, and two chairs.
“I know I told you about it. But that doesn’t explain how you knew I’d actually bought this place, or how you knew where it was.”
“Real estate sales are a matter of public record. I found the transaction on the Internet,” she told him matter-of-factly, turning to face him. “So. You managed to pull it off.”
“I sold a bike unexpectedly. It gave me enough for the down payment.”
She smiled. “It’s a really cool place: the garage, the store, the restaurant. And it’s all yours. Congratulations.”
He hesitated, some of the tension seeming to leak out of his big body.
“Thanks. But that doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”
“We need to talk.”
“No,” he said abruptly, some of the fire returning to his blue eyes. “I told you at the race in Reno. It was a mistake, Ursa. A huge one. I’ve said I was sorry. The sooner we can put it in the past, the better. Talking will just bring it all back up to the surface.”
“That’s horrible, not to mention ridiculous. You’ve been my friend for as long as I can remember. You’re telling me all that’s over? We’re not even going to talk to each other anymore?”
He made a frustrated sound and stalked behind his desk. He sunk into the worn leather chair behind it, avoiding looking at her.
“Z?” she prodded, walking toward his desk.
“Maybe we’re not. Friends anymore,” he said stiffly.
“How can you say that?” He seemed so hard in that moment, so distant and unreachable.
“Friends don’t treat each other the way I treated you,” he shot back. He inhaled slowly, as if to bring himself under control. “Besides… we were never friends. Not really. Not like Jude and Esme were friends. I was more like… ”
His gaze flickered down over her, lingering for a split second on her breasts. Ursa felt her body stir, just from that swift glance from his gleaming blue eyes. His stare bounced off her. He looked irritated. Disturbed.
And suddenly he wasn’t as distant and unapproachable as he just had been.
“You were more like my big brother. Or my knight in shining armor,” she said softly.
“Give me a break. Knight in shining armor,” he scoffed under his breath.
“You were,” she told him levelly, hearing the slightest hint of wistfulness in his otherwise bitter, scornful tone. “I always felt protected by you. Ever since I was a little girl.”
“Well. All that’s changed, hasn’t it?”
“Why won’t you look at me?” she asked, coming around his desk toward him.
“Stop,” he demanded, pointing at her. She halted.
“Why won’t you let me get close to you?” she persisted.
“Because you know what happened before,” he grated out.
&nb
sp; “Okay. So you’re afraid it’ll happen again.”
He shot her a hot glance. “It’s not going to happen again.”
“Why?” She perched on the corner of his desk. “Are you afraid you’ll hurt me?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. I hurt you the first time. Why wouldn’t I again?”
Ursa inhaled, trying to still her racing heart. She realized, fully for the first time, that her body always sped up whenever she was around Z Beckett. Ever since she’d been a little girl. As a grown woman, her heart fluttered three times as fast. She found it hard to catch her breath.
Now that she’d had sex with him, her bodily response seemed to have gone into a whole new level of overdrive.
“That’s what I’ve been wanting to talk to you about so much,” she told him, sounding matter-of-fact, even though her heart was about to jump out of her chest. “You seem to be operating under a mistaken impression when it comes to us…you know…”
He gave her a hard, expectant glance from beneath his lowered brow.
“Having sex,” she finished abruptly, mentally damning her blush.
“Mistaken impression?”
“Yes,” she said briskly, standing and walking closer to where he sat in the chair. Very aware that he was watching her closely with an edgy glint in his eyes, she carefully smoothed her skirt over her thighs and then hitched her hip onto the corner of the desk nearest to him. She crossed her legs and idly ran a hand across her lap. A thrill passed through her when she saw the way his narrowed gaze trailed her every movement.
“You think that you were rough with me… that you were too dominant and forceful with me in bed,” she said.
His gaze rose to meet her stare. He looked extremely uneasy. “That’s pretty obvious. So?”
“And you regret it, because you think I didn’t like that. You think I’m too fragile to handle it. To handle you.”
This time, he didn’t respond. He merely stared up at her. Not a trace of emotion on his rugged face. But she saw his pulse beating rapidly at his tanned throat.
“But I’m not too fragile, Z. I liked how you were with me. A lot. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for the past month. But you keep running away before I have the chance.”
Wild, Wounded Hearts Page 5
