Wanted: Devil Dogs MC (3 page)

They’re both silent as she shows him to a room only a few steps away from her office. It’s a room that doesn’t get much use – most patrons prefer the views the other floors have to offer. This was what her mother had called an ‘overflow’ room; it was the one she’d use when all the others were taken or when one of her staff had made a mistake and double-booked. It was sparsely decorated: a wardrobe, a sink, a nightstand. But the bed was the focus of the room. Although not larger than a double it had an intricate wrought iron headboard that looked like it belonged in a much grander setting.

Isabel suddenly becomes aware that Wesley is staring at her in that enigmatic way of his. His gaze flicks between her and the impressive bed behind her. Unbidden, thoughts of what it would be like to be tangled in those sheets with him spring to mind. The look in his eyes makes it seem as if he knows exactly what she’s thinking and she blushes what she is sure is an unflattering beetroot color.

She starts talking to cover her embarrassment. “The bathroom’s just across the hall. You’ll have it all to yourself since there aren’t any other bedrooms on this floor. The window sticks a little but you just have to persevere with it. We serve breakfast from seven to nine and dinner from six to eight in the dining room. If you need anything else, just let me know. My office is just down the hall.” She takes a breath, realizing she’s been edging towards the door. It’s not that she’s afraid of Wesley, but there’s something about him that seems to want to draw her in, like a black hole, and her sense of self-preservation kicks in.

“What’s your name?” Wesley’s deep voice stops her in her tracks.

It shouldn’t be an intimate question; it was an everyday one, but there’s something about the way he asks that makes her feel nervous. “Isabel. Isabel Bishop.” She doesn’t turn around as she answers him although she couldn’t say why.

He makes a sound behind her as if to say that her answer explains everything. “Caroline Bishop was your mother.” It’s a statement not a question.

Isabel jerks around, looking at him sharply. “You knew my mother?” She doesn’t manage to keep the surprise from her tone; this guy didn’t look anything like the normal lodgers that her mother had attracted.

But Wesley was already shaking his head. “Not personally, no. A buddy of mine recommended this place. He told me Mrs. Bishop’s a good landlady and a great person.”

Isabel swallows hard against the rush of emotion that his kind words bring to the fore. “She was.” Her voice is little more than a whisper, but she doesn’t trust it not to wobble if she speaks any louder.

“Was?” He looks askance at her but seems to read her answer in her expression, his eyes dropping to the floor. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” Isabel smiles bravely, refusing to allow the crushing sadness to weigh down on her chest. She becomes acutely aware of Wesley staring at her again. She puts it down to the fact that she probably looks like she’s taken a bath in her clothes after trudging through the flooded basement. “I’ll let you get settled in.”

“Isabel.”

The way he says her name sends a thrill through her body, but she puts the shiver down to her wet clothes. She turns to face him again and sees the play of emotions across his face. Whatever he’s about to tell her, it isn’t easy for him. She waits.

“You don’t have anything to worry about. I won’t be any trouble.”

The earnestness in his expression makes her heart melt a little. “That’s good to hear, Wesley…” She leaves her unasked question hanging, giving him a pointed look.

He laughs and Isabel is struck again by how much she likes the sound. “You don’t give up, do you?” He shakes his head implying mock despair and then sighs in surrender. “Raeburn. It’s Wesley Raeburn, but everyone calls me Wes.” He sticks his hand out, the manners Isabel had thought he was lacking suddenly out in force.

She clasps his hand in hers, returning his shake. “Pleased to meet you, Wes.” Isabel is impressed that her voice remains steady despite the turmoil she’s feeling. The heat of his skin seems to reach deep inside of her, into a part of her that makes her fingers tremble.

Wes seems to notice her reaction; Isabel watches his eyes soften. They look like melted chocolate, like a dark sea she could fall into and drown. Isabel pulls her hand away, a little faster than is strictly necessary and tells herself to stop behaving like a teenager. Sure, the man was more than easy on the eyes, but that doesn’t explain the way her brain seemed to have shifted down into Park around him. The moment is broken, but the tension remains in the room.

“There is one other thing I hoped you might be able to help me with.” Wesley’s voice is husky, like he’s just woken up.

“Whatever you need.” Isabel smiles, putting on her ‘perky’ tone and then blushes when she thinks exactly what ‘whatever’ might cover.

He cocks an eyebrow at her and Isabel goes even redder as it feels like he’s read her mind. He fights to keep his smile under control. “I was wondering if you have somewhere out of sight I could park my bike?”

Isabel blinks as she drags her mind out of the gutter and focuses on the question he’s just asked. “Somewhere out of sight?” She repeats his words as she stalls. She tries to figure out if he’s trying to keep the bike hidden because it’s stolen or because it’s been involved in a crime.
That’s why you’re supposed to run the background check before you give them a key, Issy.
She hears her mother’s voice in her head and frowns, knowing she’s right.

“It’s a collector’s item and I don’t want to risk it being stolen.” He spreads his hands, like a magician does to show he isn’t hiding any cards up his sleeves.

There’s no reason to think the worst of people, Issy.
Another of her mother’s pieces of advice echoes in her ears as she takes in what Wesley has just told her. Isabel nods in understanding. “Of course, that makes sense.” She says the words more to herself than to him and there’s a beat of silence that passes between them.

“So do you have somewhere I can keep it?” That amused smile is back on his face again and Isabel has the distinct impression that he’s laughing at her. It’s disconcerting the way he seems to know what’s going on in her head without her saying anything.

“Sure, of course.” Isabel gives herself a little shake. His explanation sounds genuine enough. What reason would he have to lie? She frowns, refusing to allow the cautious side of her brain to answer her own question. “There’s a garage out back. It’s not much but it’s all we have.” She doesn’t wait for Wesley to answer before leading the way out through the back porch steps. Instinctively she takes a deep breath in, smelling the flowering wisteria tree her mother had taken care of as if it were a beloved pet. She shivers in spite of herself at the cold air; she was still acclimatizing to the Chicago spring again after the heat of Dallas.

“Here.” Wesley’s voice takes her out of her musings. She turns around and sees he’s shrugged off his leather jacket and is holding it out to her, exposing muscled arms under his t-shirt. “You’re cold.” He pushes the jacket towards her again when she remains staring dumbly at it.

“Thanks, but I’m fine.” She waves his concern away, surprised at the kindness of his offer.

Wesley rolls his eyes at her, making no secret of his frustration. “You’re cold, you’re wet. Take the damn jacket, Isabel.” There’s a commanding note in his voice that makes Isabel think that he’s used to being obeyed without question.

“Keep it. I’m fine.” She gives her head a little haughty shake and carries on down the path to the side of the house. She hears him sigh behind her but he seems to think better of saying anything else.

Get a grip, Bishop. It’s just a jacket. He was just being polite.
Her inner voice berates her for her rudeness. She had always been touchy about people doing things for her, especially men. Isabel had been taught by her mother to be self-sufficient, to be able to change a tire, a light bulb, all the things the man of the house would normally do, because there was no man of the house, not anymore. Isabel had learned not to depend on anyone for anything. The only person she had really depended on was her mother. It was a source of contention with pretty much every guy she had dated. They always wanted her to need them and she never had. But that wasn’t what Wesley had done; he’d merely offered her something because he’d thought she needed it, and she’d responded like a bitch.

As they reach the back door of the garage, Isabel stops before she uses the chunk of keys she’s gotten used to carrying around with her, like a jailer, to open the rusty padlock. She takes a deep breath and looks up into his dark chocolate eyes. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

Wesley shrugs noncommittally, his expression taking on the same guarded expression she’d seen from him. “Beautiful, if you want to freeze, it’s no skin off my nose.” He raises an eyebrow at her, giving her that amused look again that infuriates and heats her from the inside at the same time.

She was half hunched over the padlock, her brain still processing that he’d just called her ‘beautiful’. It had been a throwaway comment; rolled off of his tongue like it’s something he says to every girl he meets.

He looks at her expectantly. “So are you going to open that or are you just going to look at it?” He nods towards the lock in her motionless hands.

“Right, sorry.” Isabel blushes again, hating that this man has the ability to make her usually calm exterior wobble. She clears her throat as she pushes open the double doors. “This is it.”

Wesley steps past her, walking into the space as Isabel finds the switch on the wall. A solitary bulb in the center of the room bursts into light, exposing the boxes and workbench that Isabel hasn’t seen in years.

“The front door is street-side. I can give you a key so you can come and go as you please.” Isabel watches as Wesley walks around the space, seeming to take inventory of what he’s seeing.

The garage had always been her father’s space. It was where he would retreat when he had a long day at work or when he’d been working a difficult case. As a Homicide Detective, there were quite a few of those, or at least that’s what Isabel had gleaned from the stories her mother told her. There is a layer of dust over everything and Isabel wonders if, perhaps, she should have checked out the garage before offering it to Wesley. The place is like a shrine to her dad; his tools are still strewn haphazardly over the workbench next to what looked like a half-finished wooden bird feeder.

Everything has remained as if her father was going to turn up one sunny afternoon and walk back in, ready to finish the woodwork that had been his hobby since childhood. There’s no way for Isabel not to feel as if she were intruding, as if she doesn’t belong here. It is becoming abundantly clear that her mother hadn’t been able to bring herself to move anything after her father had died. Isabel wonders if, perhaps, she should have followed suit and left this space as her mother had, a memorial to a man she could barely remember instead of handing it over to a man she’s only just met.

“It’s perfect.” Wesley nods in satisfaction, his hands on his hips as he surveys the scene. He looks at her and catches something in her expression that makes his own features soften. “How long since you’ve been in here?”

“About nineteen years.” Isabel doesn’t even pause before replying. She swipes a finger over one of the boxes just inside the doors, watching it leave a trail in the dust behind, like a snowboard track down a snowy mountain.

Wesley nods in understanding. But how could he possibly understand? “How did he die?” There’s no hesitation in the question, no concern at dredging up old emotions or pain.

Isabel has become so used to people pussy-footing around her that it’s refreshing for someone to be so direct. “He was a cop, a detective. He was following up on a lead with his partner, the suspect ran, my dad gave chase. He was quick, a runner. He used to run marathons before I came along. Anyway, the perp got bored of running and decided to shoot his way out. My father took three to the gut. He’d left his vest in the car. It was just a routine visit; he hadn’t expected it to go down that way. His partner heard the shots and called it in, but my dad had lost too much blood. He bled out before the ambulance even arrived.” Her voice is monotonous, robotic almost, just repeating a story she had been told. She shrugs. “I don’t have all the details, just what my mother told me peppered with a few of the newspaper articles I managed to find when I was old enough to search the web.”