BILLIONAIRE BIKERS: 3 MC Romance Books (22 page)

              He forces another kiss as I grope blindly for something to cling to. My fingers find the waistband of his pants and accidentally tug them downward a few inches. Then, deliberately, I hook my fingertips in his pants.

              I feel an arm hook beneath me then, put in place either in an effort to pull me closer or to cradle my head from the ground; whatever Lesher's intention, the tenderness of the gesture takes me by surprise. My eyes flutter open, and I can see that his are still closed as he kisses me. The expression I'm met with when I look at him is indescribable. I wouldn't go so far as to call it vulnerable, but this…
this
is what Lesher is in his rawest state. He isn't the man he pretends to be in front of his gang—he's not even the man he pretends to be in front of me. Maybe it's been so long he's forgotten who he is in exchange for the part he plays as the world's most cold and calculated actor.

              His hips pump me, and I sigh with longing as he disengages and lowers his lips to my neck once more.
"Oh…"
I murmur at the sweet rush. My eyes are almost closed again. I have to say something to him, either to encourage or halt altogether what is happening—existing in this limbo is too much. "I…"

              "Not gonna run from me again, are you?" my captor whispers. I shake my head
no
. I don't have my mental faculties in enough of an order to know if the answer he solicited is a lie.

              He pulls away from me then, leaving me laid bare, and I bite the inside of my cheek to suppress a cry of dismay. His blue eyes study me, and I would glare back at him if I had enough energy to mount a resistance.

             
He's manipulated you again,
I think.
He's using your attraction to him against you. Nancy, your kidnapper is literally seducing you so you'll play by his rules and remain his prisoner for a bit longer.
But then, why did that moment between us feel so spontaneous and uncalculated, so…real?

Lesher moves off me as I sit up. I raise a hand to my tangled, matted hair. I can hear the pounding of my own racing blood in the back of my head like war drums. Maybe that's my body's way of reminding me I'm still at war.

But who am I at war with: Lesher, or myself?

"How do you know you didn't kill him?" I ask hesitantly. "How do you know you didn't kill Marcus? Not that I…don't think he deserved a harsh reckoning, if what you said he was saying about me was true. But…"

"Nancy," he interrupts me. "There's a lot you don't know about me. Not even the basics. I can't guarantee how much you'll get to know me. But I think you can infer that this wasn't my first time firing a gun."

"To say the least!" I scoff a laugh, but there isn't anything particularly funny about what he's saying. "So you just shot him as a warning to himself and others? Isn't he in danger of bleeding out?"

"Not my concern," Lesher responds as he dusts off his pants and rises. "It's up to them now. They can take the money and run, or they can take their fallen comrade to an emergency room. Either way, they're about to have a run-in with the law sooner rather than later. In this instance, the trash takes out itself."

"Did you…did you plan this all along?" I demand incredulously. I'm still seated on the ground. Lesher doesn't offer me a hand up; rather, a hand shoots out to me in the darkness to seize my bicep and haul me up. I go willingly, preferring anything to lying in a pile of pine needles all night. I can only imagine what I must look like. Maybe I should feel thankful for the isolation and darkness after all.

"I'm a man of many plans," Lesher says mysteriously.

"Great. That doesn't answer my question at all," I reply. I nearly choke on my words the next instant when he pulls me in against his chest. My breasts squish together against a wall of muscle, and I gaze up what feels like a massive expanse between his face and my own. I guess height differences aren't so obvious when you're horizontal…

Oh my God. Did I really just think that?

"So how many of these plans involve me?" I ask after I am once more able to compose myself. "Have I outlived my usefulness? Because, y'know, I'd really like to go home to a meal and a warm bed. And I'd really,
really
prefer to not be taken hostage again and returned to the warehouse."

Lesher keeps hold of me, studying me all the while. I wonder if he's contemplating his odds of successfully reducing me to a lust-filled fugitive woman again, but I am determined to have my questions about my immediate future answered. I tug myself free from his arms, and he lets me take an unsteady step back from him.

"I believe I just told you, Nancy," Lesher says. "I'm a man of many plans, and I can clearly see when another person has a plan in place. If I release you now, you'll go directly to the police and give up everything you know about me. Which, as has been stated, isn't a whole lot…but it's enough."

"
Enough
for what?" I inquire nervously. I don't confirm nor deny his claim. I'm  too certain that at the end of the day, despite the cover of darkness, Lesher and his piercing eyes will see right through me. Despite his thuggish looks, he's too intelligent—and too accustomed to betrayal, both from within and from without—to attempt to convince otherwise. As soon as I get out of this, I have every intention of going to the police—I was just hoping for an emphasis on
soon.

His hand is on me again, this time clenching over my wrist, drawing me in. I let myself come, utterly mesmerized by how strong he can be without being forceful—and let's face it, I've seen Lesher forceful. His touch now, the brush of his gloves against my skin, is more an invitation than a lure.

"It's enough to ensure that I can't let you go. Not just yet."

My heart, which has been living almost exclusively in my throat these past five hours or so, drops straight into my stomach. His touch might be gentler, but as long as he refuses to relinquish me, I still don't have my freedom. I'm still in danger, and it's all by his devising.

"You have to take me somewhere else," I insist as we start back toward the road together. "Please. I don't care if you take my shoes or tie me up again, but I can't go back to the warehouse. You have to find somewhere else to hold me hostage."

"It's endearing when you make demands," Lesher says. I feel his hand come to rest on my ass as we crest the hill, startling me—but it's only to shove me the last few steps up and out of the wilderness and back onto the paved road. "I'd go so far as to say it's cute," he continues.

I glare over my shoulder at him as soon as I'm once more on even ground. "You know, I thought about asking whether or not you're always a condescending ass, but after witnessing that fiasco you call leadership back at the warehouse, I guess I have an answer to my question."

Lesher joins me, shaking his head. "I could have sworn I was taking the hostage of least resistance. I picked you out of that front desk lineup almost immediately as the easiest mark, and you didn't give me any red-flag indication that you would be otherwise. Are you always this uppity with your coworkers? Friends, family?"

I blush. "No way. Not by a long shot."

"Pity." Lesher's arm encircles my waist as he guides me toward his downed bike. "But I'm not surprised. You have that skirt on too tight, little Nancy."

"And let me guess," I mutter as he yanks his bike into a standing position. "You know how to lighten me up? Maybe something involving taking my skirt off?"

I watch the jocular smile unfold across his face before he turns away. I know I shouldn't feel encouraged, but there's no denying the appearance of that helpless smile has got my blood pumping. "Maybe something that doesn't involve, oh, I don't know, releasing me from a hostage situation that is one hundred percent the main cause of my anxiety and—"

I'm interrupted then, but it isn't by Lesher. Lesher might have let me go on all night for the sake of his own amusement.

What interjects itself rudely into our conversation is an explosion about a mile away.

The thunderous noise is concussive. I slap my hands down on my ears as Lesher whirls, the smile regressing to a horrible look of dismay on his pale face. He may be a man of many plans, but I'm fairly certain he wasn't expecting this.

I watch as a bright orange column of flame unfurls toward the darkening heavens in the distance. I've seen the surrounding terrain, and there's only one building that could have been the source of such a horrendous blast.

The warehouse is gone.

And as far as I know, so are the lives of the men inside it.

LESHER

There is the momentary compulsion to run toward the warehouse, toward the explosion.

              Of course, I speak for myself when I acknowledge it. I'm as much the man with the plan as I've boasted to Nancy, and a violent explosion was decidedly
not
a part of my plan.

             
"God dammit!"
I allow the curse to filter past my teeth as I half mount the bike, still standing, and wrench the kickstand up.

Nancy doesn't follow my lead. She stands in the dead center of the road, mouth hanging agape, as she watches the destructive plume of fire unfurl above the canopy.

"Did you…" She struggles for words as I wrench life into the bike. "That wasn't
you,
was it?
Was it?"

I don't like the way her voice rises in pitch. The last thing I need is for either of us to lapse into hysterics—and I'm being overly generous when I think that either of us are capable of doing just that.

"Get on," I say firmly. "Now."

"Was that also a part of your plan all along?" she shrieks as she piles on back. I decide to let her say her piece, so long as she realizes she doesn't have much of a choice when it comes to ignoring my orders to her now. "Is that why you left the door open for me? So you could trick me into letting myself out and play innocent after the fact? Jesus, Lesher,
how expendable were those men to you?"

"Nancy," I reply. "I'm only going to say this once, because despite what you think of me, I consider myself a gentleman:
Shut up
."

              The cold current that runs beneath the order causes her to clam up immediately, and I don't have time to regret my tone. I'll do damage control later—right now, I need to get us both out of here.

              I rev the bike, and the back tire nearly skids out from underneath us as I execute a tight turn. Nancy hikes her legs up and latches onto me of her own volition this time as we hurdle into the night in the direction opposite of the road back to the warehouse.

              My mind works nearly as fast as the components that make up the devil's engine beneath us. Despite Nancy's fearful—and not totally unfounded—accusations, I am not the one responsible for the warehouse demolition. Events had been unfolding precisely as I had told her they would up until this point.

              The plan was this: hire the most competent guns to help me get what I needed out of the vault at the Grand National Credit Union. Obviously, factors like loyalty and intelligence didn't always go hand-in-hand with competence, but I had dealt with any mutiny or dissension exactly as I told myself I would. The next step was to claim a hostage as insurance, and to leave the boys in blue to stall and plan for anticipated negotiations while we reorganized back at the warehouse.

Details like Nancy’s uncovering my real name were minor setbacks I was willing to work with. The encounter and public punishing of Marcus was a hitch, but nothing that could slow my stride.

Getting hot and heated with the hostage… I'd be lying if I didn't say I’d allowed myself to think about it,
frequently,
and in a detail worthy of my most nuanced criminal plans. But even the complication with Nancy, I had been certain, I would know how to handle when the time came. I had to keep her protected, first and foremost, from the men I had intended to turn on all along. She was my lynchpin, my asset, and the sexiest ticking time bomb, could-go-wrong-at-any-moment factor I had ever willingly introduced into an otherwise seamless plan.

But I hadn't accounted for explosions. I hadn't accounted for a death toll, other than—let's face it—an excusable total of one if Marcus didn't pull through. Despite what passed for my detached assurance to Nancy that I hadn't killed the man, the minute I put a bullet in him, he was out of my mind for good. Let the others clean up the mess—they had certainly been paid well enough to do so.

But something had gone wrong. Absolutely and completely wrong. And while my first inclination was to rush back, to hunt for clues that would lead me to the how and why and who, it was only a matter of time before someone reported a warehouse fire and the cops descended.

Rule number one: never return to the scene of the crime. Especially when you don't know who might be after you.

Especially when you have another rider on back.

We eat up the road, driving too fast for anything resembling a conversation. I don't have to warn Nancy to keep alert despite the long hours and gruesome speed I insist on clocking; her arms remain entwined around my midsection and tightened resolutely, maybe even in an attempt to cause me discomfort.

The thought draws a grim smile to my face, even though I can't really say that I find anything about our mutual situation to smile about. My plan is in shambles, there is smoking wreckage and probable charred corpses in our wake, and I think that it is very likely that we have an unknown aggressor after us now, on top of the police force to contend with. I’m not sure which I would prefer at this point. At least if we are apprehended by the authorities, I know Nancy will be safe.

But I'm not ready to give her up. Not yet. I need to find out what's going on for myself and assure us both that she isn't a part of it. After that, she's welcome to return to her civilian life, and I'll become a ghost like I always do. She doesn't need to worry about ever seeing me again.

We stop to gas up out of necessity. Dawn is just breaking over the horizon when we pull up to the pump.

As soon as we're parked, I can see that Nancy still isn't talking to me. I regret more than ever speaking to her as though she were one of the men I’d hired on to willfully participate in the madness. I didn't realize in advance how much having a partner, even a reluctant one, would be appreciated.

I lay my hand on her knee before I move off the bike. She stills at my touch, but doesn't move out from beneath it.

              "Lesher…" The quiet, almost expected word comes, and I draw my hand back.

              "Wait here. Right here," I instruct. "Don't attempt contact with anyone. I’m not just speaking as the man who took you hostage; I’m speaking as the man who took on the responsibility of your life."

              "Yeah. Got it," Nancy says sullenly. I drop the kickstand and leave her astride the refueling bike; she's so petite that the stationary Ural barely moves beneath her and gives no indication of tipping.

              I purchase provisions inside the store—I'm in and out in less than a minute. I pay in cash. When the bell above my head tolls and admits me back outside, I notice a concerned couple in a pickup standing around and shooting awkward glances toward the station where I left the bike. Only at a distance can I see what they're looking at.

              It's Nancy. She looks like she has been through more than just a harrowing twelve hours at this point—she looks like the victim of a violent crime, if not the crime scene itself. There are twigs and leaves in her windblown auburn hair, and smudges of dirt and filth marring what is still easily identifiable as a pretty face.

              But that isn't the worst of it. Without a larger body seated in front of her and a moving bike to keep her warm, she's hugging herself to keep the early morning chill off, clutching her arms closed over a blouse that, thanks to my efforts, will never button the same way again. Her skirt barely covers her bare, bruised legs, and one of her heels has broken off—why didn't I notice before?

              Why didn't I notice
any
of this before? That until now it's been dark out seems a poor excuse, and I'm not a man to take excuses. Not even from myself.

              "Damn it!" I curse below my breath. I stride back to the bike and whip off my leather jacket. Nancy opens her mouth, possibly to protest my regifting it to her, but I'm not going to be put off by her rejection. I invert the jacket to hide the MC patch I ride under, previously concealed from view with Nancy sitting so close behind me. I force the coat down over her shoulders, and she accepts it without thinking, pulling it close as I disengage the pump.

              "Chivalrous," I hear her mutter to herself.

              Something comes over me then, but I force myself to ignore it as I remount the Ural. It's a strange comfort when she rigidly wraps her arms back around my waist. My midsection feels empty without her touch; I shouldn't allow myself to adjust so quickly to the little things. I want to place a hand on them in a gesture of security, but there's not time. I'm too conscious of other eyes on us.

              We pull out of the gas station and reclaim the road.

              I'm left with no choice. Maybe I've known it all along, and I'm only just coming around to accepting it now. The thought of where we're headed next leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, but at least it tastes better than the ash we leave behind us.

              I'm taking us to the Clubhouse.

#

"Lesher…what
is
this place?"

              The estate that sprawls before us would never normally be accessible to someone like Nancy, so I don't blame her for openly exhibiting her awe now.

              We've left the main road long behind us, traveling down a country lane that is more hospitable than usual to motorcycles. Nancy is too busy admiring the landscape to notice the fresh tracks we follow; I narrow my eyes at them. I'd known Flint was in the area a few months back, but there are indications that more than one bike has passed down the same lane in the past few days. This already doesn't bode well for my unannounced visit.

              "Clubhouse," I reply. "One of many."

              "How many is 'many'?" Nancy inquires. She holds onto me exactly as I've trained her to, but I feel her leaning back and to look as we pass immense green pastures and fly by well-tended groves of trees.

              "There's one in every state."

              "I…oh."

              She pauses her questioning as we approach the actual Clubhouse. She will probably be able to deduce now that the expansive, perfectly manicured acreage leading up to the main property all belongs to the same deed.

              The Colorado Clubhouse is a five-story, pristine white mansion, adorned with red roofs and gables that look as if they have been repainted every season to combat the frequent changes in weather. I can almost hear Nancy's jaw unhinge as we glide up to the black iron gates and I input the code to grant us entry.

              "Never thought I'd be doing this again," I mutter as I press each button decisively. I'm certain they would have authorized a change in code by now to keep me out, but the gate swings open on soundless hinges. I take us through, driving less than five miles an hour to give Nancy the full tour of the inner grounds. Now that we're beyond the gate, I don't feel in a hurry to be inside. The cargo I carry is safe from the outside world and that's all that matters.

"My head is spinning," Nancy confesses, and I feel her arms constrict to emphasize her point. "I have so many questions. Like…
why?"

             
"Because our members are always moving," I reply. "It's the reason any club has multiple properties located around the US."

              "I mean,
why is it so huge?"
she all but combusts. "Lesher, your gang's clubhouse is a
mansion!
Do you mean to tell me you have a mansion in every
state?"

             
"I'm not a man to repeat myself," I say as we wind through the emerald green garden. I note that the fountain is turned on; so does Nancy, although she does so out loud. "So I'm going to move on and fill you in on other pertinent information. These people are in no way affiliated with the moronic fucks I hired back at the warehouse to participate in the heist."

              "Hey," she murmurs. "Easy. We don't even know if they survived, remember?"

              "And they wanted to know what room you were in," I fire back. "Remember?"

              "No," she responds after a moment. "I…didn't overhear that part. But Lesher, don't pretend that men don't bullshit and talk rough to each other. I doubt any of them really
meant
it, except for maybe Mar—and anyway!" she interrupts herself quickly, dismissing the subject of Marcus. "You promised to keep me safe from them. I wasn't worried—well, that's a lie. I was
less
worried thanks to you."

              "The Clubhouse, pretty much the
township
, belongs to the Robber Baron MC," I continue. "That's whose patch you're currently wearing."

              "When I asked you
why
earlier, I wasn't referring to what I personally feel is a blatant display of ridiculous excess," Nancy corrects me as we pull up to the garage. She teeters on her broken heel as we both step off, and I take sole command of the Ural.

              "Noted." The electric panel door rises, and I see the shadows of two bikes inside.