The Biker's Wench (3 page)

Monica couldn't think, much less breathe. Her senses were overwhelmed as Harley plundered her mouth with his tongue, stroking her higher and higher with every thrust against her lips. She rocked her hips against the hard ridge in his jeans, pressed her chest against his and nearly whimpered in disappointment when he pulled back after one last nibble at her bottom lip.

She prepared herself for the worst before she opened her eyes. Had she really just agreed not to have sex with this man for an entire year? Looking up into his intense blue gaze, she hoped like hell he wasn't serious. Because there was no way could she live with him and be expected to keep her hands off such a tasty treat.

"I think we get the point." The sheriff's amused voice broke the spell, reminding her that they had an audience. Heat fused with excitement at the thought of the display she'd just been part of, quickly followed by embarrassment as the sheriff's lips turned up. "Why don't you two take this show back to the ranch, and I'll escort Mr. Thomas here back to the hotel. I think we've seen what we needed."

Braden stepped forward, hands balled into fists at his side. "You bitch. You haven't heard the last of me." Monica leaned into Harley, her hands gripping his ribcage as he pulled her to his chest, turning a shoulder towards Braden in a clearly possessive move.

"Come on, Mr. Thomas." The sheriff took Braden's arm and pulled the man aside, following when he pulled away until they got back to the cruiser. The flashing lights went out a couple seconds after they got in the car, and Monica watched them drive away over the black leather-wrapped bicep of her...
fiancé
. She leaned back slowly, shivering as the cool night air took the place of his warmth. She wanted to snuggle into him again and pretend that they were really a couple. That he wasn't just another man who wanted to use her for his own gain. At least Harley only seemed interested in a short-term lease. Best deal she'd been offered yet, even if the terms were less than desirable. Though maybe he’d renegotiate, considering the electricity between them.

Finally gathering the courage to look up, she saw him staring out across the desert, toward the lights of Reno. Denying the urge to reach up and trail kisses over the hard line of his angular jaw, she lost her balance as she tried to shift back on the seat. The motion pushed her harder into Harley's groin and he twitched between her legs. Those intense blue eyes met hers for a long moment as he grasped her waist, lifting her easily off his lap so she could swing her leg across to stand beside the bike. It took all she had to keep her knees from buckling as he pulled away

"This isn't going to work." His voice was husky, and stared down at his bike as he spoke. "Put your helmet back on. I'll take you into town, and buy you a plane ticket. You'll at least get a head start before they come looking for you again." He pulled on his own helmet and started the engine, revving the engine loud enough to drown out any protest she might have made. Monica stood frozen for a moment, her head spinning at the unexpected words as she tried to decide whether he was insulting her or just crazy.

She didn't want to run anymore. He'd offered her a way out, and the thought that he could actually help her get her life back had taken root in her mind. Freedom was only a year away, and after offering her all that he was just going to dump her on the first flight out? Like hell. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared, willing him to shut down the bike so they could talk. He stroked the engine again, clearly impatient to get moving.
Screw that.

Grabbing the helmet off the back of the bike, she marched around to stand in the headlight beam where he could see her clearly. Lifting it over her head, she slammed the heavy item into the dirt, crossed her arms over her chest and waited. Several long moments passed before he shut down the motor and yanked his own head gear off. He swung a leg over the machine and strode toward her, his expression hidden in the darkness until he was standing so close she nearly took a step back.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" He leaned in, his breath warm on her face. "I just offered to pay your way anywhere out of here you want to go, and you start throwing my stuff around?" He stared at her a few more seconds before stepping back, rubbing a hand over his neck as he turned away. "I should have just handed you over to the sheriff." He turned back and put his hands on his hips, casting a striking profile in the dim moonlight as he waited.

Monica shivered, fighting back tears that had been close to the surface since Braden had walked into the saloon earlier that night. "I don't want to leave," she said quietly, looking down at the dark dirt. "You said you could help me, and I promise to do whatever you want. I can help you too." Looking up, she walked slowly to stand in front of him, her fingers sliding up his chest. "I can't run anymore. I'm tired. I don't want live like this." He flinched under her touch, but didn't pull away, and she hooked her hands lightly around his neck. "I'll do anything you want," she said, placing a soft kiss at the base of his throat. "Anything." She nibbled her way up the side of his neck to lick that scar on his jaw that had intrigued her earlier and tugged on his neck, wanting to feel his mouth against hers again.

Iron fingers circled her wrists, and pried her hands away as he forced her back, holding her in front of him at arm's length. The tears she'd been holding back escaped, spilling over her cheeks and she closed her eyes, bowing her head in defeat as she twisted out of his grasp. Humiliation flooded through her at the thought of what she'd done. Was this what she'd been reduced to then - a woman willing to trade her body for protection? She might as well go back to her father, since she'd obviously lost sight of what she was running from in the first place.

Turning away, she swiped at her face with her half-frozen fingers. Not only had she become the very thing she'd always feared, but she'd offered herself up to a man who didn't want her. She might as well just crawl out into the desert and disappear.

"You don't understand," Harley said, frustration in his gravely voice. "I can't be around you, not after tonight. It's better for both of us if you just go."
She shrugged and walked over to the discarded helmet, shaking it off before stowing it under her arm. "I get it," she said, avoiding his gaze. "It's okay. I'm sorry I threw myself at you like some sort of...saloon girl." Smoothing over her skirt, she supposed she'd need to pay him back for the costume. "I'm just tired and it's been so..." She took in a deep breath, forcing a carefree smile to her lips. "Never mind. If you would just drop me off near a hotel where I could find a phone, I'll take it from there. You've already given me far more help than you'll ever know, and I appreciate it."
She walked past him to stand by the bike and pulled the helmet on over her head, keenly aware of him following barely two steps behind. "Where will you go?" he asked as she lifted one leg and awkwardly straddled the motorcycle.
"I don't know," she replied, her shoulders lifting slightly. "I never know until I get there - I just run until I find somewhere that seems safe. Somewhere my father might overlook, at least for awhile."

Harley stared at the woman on his bike, her slim body out of proportion to the large black head gear framing her face. The way she'd felt pressed against him on the ride out had been amazing, and when she'd been draped across his lap, her hot center pressed against his cock, he'd nearly come undone. Keeping her with him, even for the short jaunt into town was dangerous. Women threw themselves at him all the time, but he hadn't wanted one quite this badly in a long time.

Marrying her was a really bad idea, lawyers be damned. The fact that he couldn't keep his hands off her had the potential to create exactly the sort of emotional attachment he wanted to avoid. Unfortunately, men like her father only understood one thing.
Possession
. Until Monica was married off to a man strong enough to claim ownership, she'd get no peace from her own private nightmare.

Staring into her stoic brown eyes, he exhaled long and slow. Helping her the first time had been a mistake. Kissing her had been an even bigger one. The whole thing had been his idea though, and even though he knew it would probably be the biggest mistake of his life, he also knew there was no way he could just send her off to be hunted down by her father and his lackey again. He'd offered protection, and she'd get it. He hoped to hell she didn't take him for all he was worth when all was said and done.

Resigned to his fate, he pulled on his own helmet and straddled the bike in front of her, reaching back to pull her hands forward when she didn't automatically hold on to his waist. Satisfied she was secure, he started the machine and made a careful U-turn before gunning the engine. Her fingers flexed into his ribs as he drove back toward the ranch. The temperature had dipped lower, and he could feel her shivering against his back as she gave in and snuggled close to his heat. When he finally pulled into the ranch, she was plastered so tightly against him he wondered if she'd ever come off. Strangely, the idea didn't frighten him like it should have.

"Monica?" He removed his headgear and glanced over his shoulder after he turned off the engine, but she didn't move. "Hey, Princess. We're home." He grasped her ice-cold hands and pried them from around his waist. Swinging a leg over and off the bike, he stood and gently lifted the helmet off her head. Her gaze was as icy as her fingers.

"What do you want from me?" She wrapped her arms tightly over her chest. "First you want to marry me, no sex. Then you kiss me and it's incredible and your response is to put me on the first plane out of town. Now we're back here and I'm confused and tired and I really need to disappear before my father's goons get here. They're a lot scarier than Braden, trust me. So stop jerking me around, dammit!" She turned away, head bowed and shoulders hunched as she scuffed the toe of her boot in the dirt.

He reached out to touch her shoulder, but she stepped away. "I suppose I deserve that," he said, moving to her side. "Come on. Let's get this settled."
He took her hand in his, tightening his grip when she tried to pull it back. Pulling her along behind him he pulled out his cell phone with the other hand and dialed his assistant as they walked down the alley behind the Double D. "Cindy, I need you to call Pete. Have him meet me at the chapel. Yes, we'll need witnesses."
Monica tried to take her hand back, and he looked back, grinning at the fire in her eyes. It wasn't just anger, he was sure. He stopped abruptly, yanking her off balance so he could wind his arm around her back her as she fell against his chest. "Sure, come on down. You may as well meet the new missus." He hung up just in time to keep her from wiggling out of his grasp.
"Let me go!"
He tightened his grip. "No," he said, using the same tone of voice he'd developed as a bouncer to calm and control. Her eyes widened as he bent down to touch his lips once, twice, three times to hers. Straightening, he looked into her eyes again, the arousal and need mirrored there nearly his undoing. "Let's go get married, so your immediate problem is solved. I promise those guys won't lay one finger on you. Then we'll figure out what's next, take one thing at a time. Okay?"
She looked down at his chest, staring for a long moment while she nibbled her lower lip. Finally she nodded. "Fine."
"Atta girl." He released her and held out his hand, pleased when she took it voluntarily. "Regardless of the circumstances, I think you're going to like this. Most women do."
He winked and led the way between the saloon and several more buildings, each with its own specialty theme. At the end of the alley, there was a small chapel across the road, with a faux cemetery to one side and a wide park with a white gazebo to the other, barely visible in the darkness. The chapel was white with a tall bell tower and the door stood open, a warm rose-colored light spilling out onto the stepping stone walkway. He stopped at the wrought iron arch over the main gate, and looked down at her, finally remembering the costume she had on. The laces were tight across the center, and sometime during the night the shirt underneath her corset had slipped, allowing her cleavage more room than he remembered seeing when she'd come out of the saloon. Would she let him free her the rest of the way after the ceremony? How could he resist, if she offered?
She stared up at him, one eyebrow raised and her mouth turned up in a smirk. "Like what you see, Mr. Majors?"
"You have no idea." He grinned and crooked his arm, offering his elbow like the gentleman he wasn't. "Ready?"
"Ready." Monica slid her hand under his arm like the lady she wasn't, and forced her feet up the walk.
This is the biggest mistake of my life.
She stepped over the threshold and nearly jumped out of her skin as a tall, longlegged blond in a very short maid's costume entered through a doorway to the right.
"A lady of the night - a good choice, brother dear." The woman's voice practically hummed with sex, bringing a blush to Monica’s cheeks. A slight accent made her wonder how they'd managed to find a real live French woman to play the maid here. No doubt she was very well paid.
"Knock it off, Bets." Harlan's annoyed tone snapped Monica out of her musing. She looked and them both in turn, the woman's words sinking in. This was Harley's sister? "Monica, this is my sister Betsy. Betsy, would you show Monica to the dressing room, and let her pick out a gown? I need to find Ian."
"He's in the sanctuary," Betsy said, dropping the accent. Her lips curved up in a smile and she turned to Monica, her eyes glancing down and back up her frame. "You come with me - I know just the dress."
Too dazed to argue, Monica followed Betsy down the rose-colored hall to a small door on the right. She was ushered inside, finding herself surrounded by tall racks of what appeared to be five different styles of wedding dresses in every size, plus racks of the same bridesmaid dress in a rainbow of colors beyond. The door closed behind her, and she turned as the lock snapped home to see Betsy leaning against the wall, staring thoughtfully. Finally, she spoke.
"I know you're not in love with him, so why are you marrying my brother?"
Monica sank down onto a large upholstered stool, exhaling long and slow. "He's trying to protect me," she said, realizing how weak that made her sound the second the words crossed her lips. "My father wants me to marry this other guy, and I ran away. But he's coming to get me and take me back. He won't give up easily. Your brother is strong and confident and my dad respects that. He might leave me alone if he thinks I'm married to Harley."
"So you're just going to use him until your dad leaves you alone and then leave? Why would Harlan agree to that?"
Monica wasn't sure just how much Harley would appreciate her telling his sister about his predicament, so she just shrugged. "I offered to leave. This was his idea. The deal is for one year."
Betsy tilted her head, her eyebrows raised. "Interesting." Pushing off the wall, she walked past and Monica stood, following her deeper into the rows of satin and tulle. When they reached the back of the room, she pulled open a closet door and stepped in to take a garment bag off the clothes rod, holding it out to Monica. "This is your dress. And it's not a loaner - it's yours to keep. I'll wait by the door while you change - holler if you need any help." Avoiding Monica's eyes, she brushed past and strode back toward the front of the room.
Monica frowned, hanging the bag on a nearby hook to the side of a large mirror. She pulled the zipper down slowly to reveal a simple strapless bone-colored sheath with an intricate vine pattern of seed pearls hand sewn around both the top and the knee-length hem. The style was timeless, classic and yet she had the feeling it was very old, a perfectly preserved antique. Stepping back, she shook her head. There must be some mistake. This was someone's heirloom, one of those dresses you pass down over generations. What was Betsy doing letting her wear it, much less telling her to keep it? She turned to find the other woman watching her, arms folded across her chest.
"I can't wear this," Monica said, waving a hand toward the garment. "Something tells me this is supposed to be yours."
Betsy nodded. "It was our mother's. She gave it to me to wear on my wedding day." She let out a long breath. "The thing is, I'm in love with a man who isn't going to marry me, ever. And I saw the way you and my brother looked at each other. I think mom would have wanted you to wear it, no matter why you're marrying him." She walked over to the dress, taking it carefully out of the bag. When she held it out draped over both arms, a long train that hadn't been visible before spilled out in a riot of creamy satin, displaying more of the beautiful beadwork Monica had been admiring. "Please. Harlan deserves that much for helping you, don't you think?"
Reluctantly, Monica took the dress, marveling at how smooth the fabric felt after all these years. To wear it would desecrate the memory of Harley's mother, that much she knew for sure. But was Betsy right? Would it make Harley happy to see her wearing it? Part of her said no. The other part pushed her to hurry up and make a decision. He was waiting, after all.
"Okay," she said finally, her voice barely over a whisper. She laid the dress over a chair and looked around, grateful Betsy had apparently gone. Quickly stripping out of the saloon girl outfit, she pulled the dress on and zipped it up the side, then turned to examine her profile in the big mirror. It fit perfectly, hugging her curves as if it had been made especially for her.
She tried to blink back tears of guilt and longing, wishing that for one moment, she could pretend that everything was real. But she couldn't. Instead of wearing a dress lovingly passed down by her mother, hers was meant for someone else. Rather than marrying a man she loved and couldn't imagine living one more day without, she was using marriage as a means to solve a problem. Everything was wrong. She brushed furiously at the tears on her face with one hand while reaching for the zipper with the other. So much was already wrong with her life. She wouldn't add this to her sins, and she certainly wouldn't drag Harley into it. There had to be somewhere she could hide until her father had gone...
Heavy footsteps came closer and somewhere in the back of her mind she registered that they were too firm and deep to be Betsy's stilettos. She wiped her face with both hands, blinking quickly in an attempt to compose herself as Harley came around the corner. Catching sight of her, he stopped, just staring for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was husky and raw.
"Beautiful."
Monica looked down at the dress, pulling the train out and pretending to examine it closely. "It is beautiful, isn't it? Betsy tells me it was your mother's. I know I shouldn't wear it, but she insisted..." She knew she was rambling, and let the words trail off as he moved closer.
"It's perfect." Harley stood just in front of her and when she finally looked up, she found herself hypnotized by the soft, serious look in his eyes. He reached out to touch the beads just over her breasts, tracing the vine as it danced over her chest. She inhaled deeply then exhaled, his fingers sliding over the fabric to touch her warm bare skin. Her pulse raced under them, and she took a tentative step forward.
Behind Harley, Betsy cleared her throat. "Sorry bro, you'll have to wait. The front gate just radioed down that a group of suits just arrived, demanding to see the owner. If they're the ones after your girl here, you might want to get this wedding started."
Monica stepped back, breaking contact so she could think. This was it. Time to tell him she couldn't go through with it. "I ca--"
"Come on," he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward the door. "It's time to get hitched."
Struggling to keep up with his long strides in the unfamiliar heels, Monica let him tug her out of the dressing room and back down the hall, through two large double doors on the right. She was practically jogging to keep up as they hurried down a wide aisle between rows of glossy white benches. Finally they stopped under a white trellis arch with what appeared to be real vines growing in and around it. A tall, clean-cut man dressed in black with a white collar stood before them with a small white satin pillow in his hand. Two small bows on top secured one gold ring each, and Monica looked up at Harley, stunned. He merely shrugged and turned back to the preacher, a slight smirk on his lips.
"And do you, Monica Burns take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
She blinked, frozen with panic. She had to end this. Now.
A commotion behind them made her turn, panic becoming fear as she saw her father walk confidently through the door with his goons on either side. "What the hell is going on here?" His deep, commanding tone echoed off the chapel walls.
"I do," she said, just loudly enough for her own voice to carry. Something cold and metal slipped onto her ring finger, and she looked down to see a thick gold band not unlike what she would have picked out herself. Quickly she placed the other ring on Harley's hand, and the preacher continued.
"By the power vested in me by the state of Nevada, I hereby pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride."