BILLIONAIRE BIKERS: 3 MC Romance Books

by Kristina Blake

  "Look." I spin around after unceremoniously dumping my sugary cargo into the passenger seat. "I don't know who you think you met at Mal's Dive the other night, but that…definitely wasn't me. I had my reasons for being there, same as you."

  "I remember." Wolf's penetrating gray eyes look me up and down. I don't see disproval in his expression, and I definitely don't appreciate the feeling of minor relief that swims through me at the fact. If my being a uniformed officer of the law and an independent career-driven woman turns him off, then all the better for me, right? That gets rid of one nuisance, at least.

  "You were looking for some guy," he prods. "What was his unlikely name again? Merlin? Was it Penn? No wait…Teller?"

  "Houdini." The name escapes my clenched teeth like a hiss of steam. "You're awfully good at choosing all the wrong names for all the wrong people."

  "What? I thought you liked 'Goldilocks'!" Wolf crows. "I was sort of growing fond of it myself."

  "I seem to recall she wasn't the one who had to deal with a wolf." Why am I even still engaging with this man? The door to my police vehicle is open—all I have to do is slide on in and flip this guy the proverbial bird by driving off and getting the paperwork started on a restraining order. Sure, it's probably all a coincidence that we run into each other in town—but then again, if he's a local, why have I never seen him before?

  "Too bad my name isn't Bear," Wolf pretends to lament as he steps down off the curb to join me. "Then maybe I'd stand a chance of finding you back at my place. Eating my porridge, sleeping in my bed…"

  I scoff. It sounds too much like a laugh for my liking. I try not to think about what a relief it is to be talking to someone at least semi-intelligent, despite his near constant insistence on injecting sexual innuendo into the proceedings.

  "…or maybe just a date to start," Wolf amends as he stops short in front of me. There's no way I've backed off or backed down, of course, so we're standing almost pressed chest-to-chest. I remember too well how his body felt aligned with mine, and how I had found myself desperately craving more. Limbos and impasses, gray areas to the black and white orderliness I prefer, drive me absolutely crazy. Why do men always hold back when they have me pinned to a wall? Not that I've ever exactly found myself pinned that way recently outside of the training room…

  But this is a bad mental road to go down. I don't want to get to know anyone right now. I don't want to date, and I definitely don't think I want to have a one-night stand with someone I've just met. Not that I haven't done it before, but I'm just not satisfied by it. I need a man who is unafraid to take charge of me, not worship me for my looks and treat me like I'm delicate flower whose petal he's plucked.

  Assessing Wolf, I'm honestly not sure where he would fall on the spectrum. Better not to find out.

  "I'm all booked up," I mention, trying to keep from sounding amused. He's certainly persistent. It should feel annoying, but it feels more like a breath of fresh air.

  "You can always book me," he jokes. "If that's what it takes to spend time with you. What do I have to do?" He glances about himself in amusement, as if looking for a crime to commit. He points across the street to an elderly woman rolling herself along through the intersection with her walker. "What about her? I could go push her down."

  "To win yourself a date, Mr. Larson?" I chuckle blackly as I fold myself into the cop car. "You're going to have to do better than that."

  "A felony, maybe!" Wolf protests as I start the car. I hook my elbow on the rolled-down window and back out of the parking lot, departing with a two-fingered salute. At least I managed to depart with more dignity than I had intact when we first saw one another.

  "See you later, Big Bad Wolf."

  The scruffy man in the green, checkered shirt returned my wave. He didn't appear at all despondent, like the men I usually turn down—if anything, I swear his chiseled, darkly-stubbled jaw looks honed in determination, like he more than intends to take me up on my enigmatic offer of meeting at a later date.

  I wish I didn't feel as if I looked forward to it myself.

  CHAPTER 4

  WOLF

  No one can blame me for trying for the traditional date.

  And if that's the case, you doubly can't blame me for going the nontraditional route a few hours later.

  I lean against a tree at the precinct, in full Houdini regalia, and watch as Officer Lane leaves work for the day. I'm taking more than just a huge risk coming down here, I'm being flat-out stupid, but it's a dark night, and I feel at least semi-confident in my camouflage. The storm clouds from last night have been hovering over our little piece of heaven on earth all day, and they're just beginning to open up for the second night in a row and dump rain down on us mortals below. Not ideal conditions for driving, but I'm taking advantage of it to get close to Lane once more.

  Maybe I'm losing my mind, being this crazy and reckless. My brothers riding in the RBMC wouldn't be surprised with how far I've taken things with this woman, I'm sure.

  Wish I had thought to rainproof the note I left on her windshield.

  I watch her pause before entering her car to consider. I have no doubt she realizes who the folded piece of white paper is from. To her credit, she doesn't hesitate long—there are other officers leaving the precinct for the day, after all, and the more she stalls, the more she risks having someone notice and ask questions.

  I observe Lane from behind the visor of my helmet as she snatches the note off her car and hastily gets inside. I didn't sign it, and I'm confident I don't require a signature. I didn't leave much open to interpretation, either.

  Meet at the warehouse. Come alone.

  Time is irrelevant. We have the night, and I have her in my sights. When she pulls out of the precinct parking lot minutes later, I follow from the adjacent parking lot, whipping after her through the soggy, depressing conditions. Some nights I wish I could get her to chase me down the coast to California—at least the roads there are, for the most part, dry, and the sky above sunny and pristine. I won't deny the thought of Officer Lane in an itty-bitty red bikini certainly doesn't hurt my fantasies of what we might get up to down there.

  Twenty minutes later, we're alone on the familiar stretch of back road. I flip my lights on to let her know I'm following, although I wonder if she knew I was there all along anyway. She doesn't brake, or swerve at least, so I stick close behind her as she leads the charge back to Jefferson.

  We pull up outside the warehouse, and Lane gets out. She crosses her long, toned arms and considers me without a word. I take it upon myself to walk to her, pulling off my jacket in the process. She puts a hand out to stop me.

  "No, thanks."

  "Chivalry is dead because women like you killed it," I reply as I take back the gesture, trying not to feel a little hurt by her refusal. It's not really her fault, of course—I'm not sure I would be readily receptive to a lawbreaker I'd been after for years trying to make peace with me now, either. If I can't win her trust as Houdini, and I can't get her to be interested in Wolf, I'm not sure what chance I have with her. I'm doubling down with two identities and striking out on all fronts.

  "Is there a reason we're out here?" Lane presses me. "Did you find anything out?"

  "No." I turn away from her and start toward the perimeter of the fence, feeling pleased when I hear her gasp of protest. "Just testing you. Looks like your trust in me is coming along."

  "Well…! If I have no good reason to be out here, I may as well arrest someone!" Lane argues as she strides after me. "And you're looking like a really great candidate right now."

  "Look." I flex a finger up toward the upper branches of one of the trees. Lane shuts her mouth and considers what knowledge I have to offer her for once. I watch her crystal blue eyes narrow as they take in the security cameras scattered around.

  "No lights?" she asks me. "So someone has set up a perimeter here, but they're not filming anything?"

  "The Bastards took a hit a while back." I don't bother to ela
borate, and she doesn't push me on how I've gained my knowledge…for now. "They're becoming increasingly active in this area, and their influence is spreading, but they don't have the same resources. It accounts for the uptick in crime, and the sorts of crimes they're willing to commit. It also accounts for the fact that they set these cameras up for show around the facility but didn't bother paying to actually have them installed. They're playing it smart with their cash for once, investing it in more and more of their operations. Still, they're trying to keep up appearances to anyone who might happen by. Lucky for them, there aren't any other active motorcycle clubs around here to challenge their turf, so why waste money when they can get by with just the appearance of security?"

  "How do you know so much about them?" Lane asks me. "Did you defect from them, or…?"

  "Asking the personal questions now?" I notice. "Why don't I reward your show of trust by following me back here with a show of my own? No, I'm not with the DBMC. I'm with a rival group, but I'm the only one active in this area. So you could say I'm the only real threat they have to worry about."

  "They should be worried about the police," Lane insists. "We're onto them. Probably more than they think."

  I snort; the helmet translates my disbelief into a rude burst of static. "And there are probably more of their plants in your precinct than you think. That is to say: at least one."

  "Well, how do you know I'm not one of them?"

  I swear, if Elizabeth Lane could cross her arms any harder at me, she would. I meditate on my response before answering in three easy words: "I just know."

  "Take the helmet off," she prompts me suddenly. I wonder if her request comes about because we're having a moment.

  "Nice try."

  "No. It wasn't." She grimaces a self-deprecating smile. It's stupid, but I feel my pulse pick up speed when she does this. Her gorgeous face is always so stern or inert. "So why did you bring me out here, anyway?"

  "I didn't have a chance to show you the other night,” I explain. I look up at the rain dripping through the leaves above. "Your hunch about this place still being active is right. I'm not sure yet when they’ll be back around, but I intend to find…"

  "Find out," she finishes, but I suddenly get the terrible, horrible feeling that she isn't listening to me. "Right. I'm going back in."

  "Hey!" I shout after her, but it's no use; she's already jogging back around toward the entrance. "No, that's definitely not what I—"

  "You keep watch," Lane instructs as she ducks through a gap in the fence. "Just…honk your little horn or something if someone gets too close. If you even have a horn on that tricycle of yours."

  She chuckles as if she thinks this dig at me is hilarious. As though I hadn't heard her deal better insults to Wolf. I jog after her and slip through the fence after her with decidedly less grace. That's one thing about parading around in full biker regalia: you definitely don't feel lithe doing it.

  "I think you know exactly what that 'tricycle' of mine can do," I say as we dart along the side of one building. I guess Lane isn't taking any chances despite the seemingly abandoned complex. I find it in me to kind of wish I hadn't trashed her firearm now—it doesn't look like she has one on her. I wonder if they've issued her a replacement. Maybe she doesn't get a new one until she's graduated from being Donut Errand Girl. "And anyway, my ride's a lot more discreet than the one you're driving."

  "I thought I told you to stay—" She begins to chastise me, and I can see already that our hushed conversation is falling too easily into the cop-condescending-to-a-citizen role for my taste. I think I liked it better when she was cursing me out over the police radio…

  …but my nostalgia, and Lane's orders to me, are interrupted by another voice. Voices.

  "Shit," she murmurs.

  "Shit," I mutter, and we both flatten ourselves back against the container we had been about to sneak around. Lane leans slightly to look around the side, and I have to snatch her shirt collar and haul her back before she risks being spotted.

  "You really suck at this undercover thing," I say under my breath.

  She actually turns her eyes on me, then, wearing a look of puzzlement. "What?"

  Whoops. Thankfully, she doesn't call on me to explain my slip further, because the next instant we're both straining to listen to the distant conversation without being seen.

  "We gotta move this stuff out!" a man's voice, panicked, is expressing to another. "I've been telling you since that fiasco with Diablo, it ain't safe!"

  "Diablo's not here right now," replied a more tightly controlled, masculine voice. "And while he's not around, I'm in charge. You take your orders from me, and I say we're staying fucking put."

  "Can't risk it after that fire the other night," interjects a third voice.

  "Right. That's why we're taking it across the border…for now. This is the long con, boys. And I'd appreciate it if you'd start to show me some fucking patience."

  "It ain't right." The ratty, second voice again. "It don't feel right to me, Guerrero. And before you shut me up and say you don't give two shits for feelings, just listen to what I have to say. We've got a lot of product around here. If the Barons decide to come back here and bring the real firepower this time—"

  "We have less product now since you sent it up in flames!" exclaimed the third voice. "You're a shit-stain coward, Ricky. Those sirens were headed for somewhere else, and you panicked."

  "That true, Ricky?" Guerrero asked. "And how do you intend to reimburse the club for your error?"

  "Guy talks like he thinks he's fucking Tony Soprano," I mutter. Lane shoots her arm out to silence me, pasting me further back against the side of the container—just like Mom used to when she braked too hard at an intersection with me riding shotgun.

  Almost as soon as I think the word "shotgun,” the air cracks with a sudden sound. A gunshot.

  The hairs on the back of my neck and arms stand at attention. I freeze. The sound echoes through the lines of shipping containers, and we've only been eavesdropping on the heated argument for a moment, I can't even be sure where the gunshot originated from.

  Lane reacts. She's been trained for this, and has a sprinter's almost Pavlovian response to hearing a gun go off. She grabs me and pulls me after her. I want to protest that we're sure to be caught, having got this close to the action and with our vehicles out in the open.

  We need another plan.

  "In here!" I command. As we come around the side of the open container, I grab her hips and leverage her up. I can tell by the stiffness of her body that she doesn't entirely agree with my plan, but she's also the one who just saw some poor Bastard get his brains painted along the side of the warehouse wall—I doubt she feels in a position to argue. She scrambles up, and I hoist myself after her. We exchange no more words—just dart as soundlessly as we can into the back of the container.

  "Yo! We got company!" I hear a panicked voice yell from outside. I duck down behind the sealed crates beside Lane. The sound of my pulse in my ears inside the helmet is thunderous. I feel like I'm caught in a trap within a trap, but I don't give over to anything resembling fear. The cold dread in my stomach is slowly replaced with a feeling of savage protectiveness for the woman crouched beside me. If they come for us, Lane might still stand a chance of escaping if I make my own presence known immediately…

  "My car," Lane whispers mournfully. "God damn it, I should have parked it at least a mile back. I was certain this place was abandoned after the other night. Stupid, stupid."

  Well, she's not the only one worried. Thoughts of what they'll do to the Hawk are never far from my mind. I worked a lot of long nights on that girl, but you know what they say about loving something—

  "Get the product out of here. Now!" what sounds like Guerrero shouts. "You and you, follow me! Secure the area!"

  "Get back!" I push Lane back against the wall as shadows stretch across the floor of the container.

  Then the worst thing imaginable happens. We aren't
caught—I had prepared myself for a confrontation, and the fact that my last stand would be dying in defense of the woman I'm crazy about without ever telling her the truth about myself. It's fine. I can handle it.

  What I'm not prepared for is the grind of the back door as it descends and slams into the floor, effectively closing us off from freedom.

  The container is plunged into darkness. What feels like a world away, a truck engine starts up. Lane and I are out from behind the column of crates and sprinting towards the back, but it's too late—our exit has been cut off, and we're moving.

  We're trapped. Together. And the Devil’s Bastards are taking us God knows where.

  Not exactly what I had planned for our second date.

  CHAPTER 5

  LANE

  Houdini isn't talking to me.

  Which sucks. Because I'm the one who shouldn't be talking to him. But I can't seem to stop myself.

  "It's your fault we're locked in here!" I complain for what feels like the umpteenth time. "The least you can help me do is go through these boxes."

  I'm a strong woman, but even my strength has a limit, and I'm pretty sure I reached that limit four or five crates ago. Leveraging the lids off the Devil’s Bastards’ cargo isn't exactly the easiest thing to do when I'm out of uniform and without anything resembling a toolkit. That's the reason for this exercise: to find something to help us arm ourselves, or to break whatever lock they have on the back doors from the inside and escape.

  They didn't train me for this sort of thing. I don't know who in their right mind would even dream that I would ever find myself in this scenario. I'm certain the first thing they would recommend is utilizing whatever allies I have at my disposal, but my ally is sitting in the shadows of the back of the hold, leaning against the wall and wearing God knows what expression on that smug face I suspect lies beneath that helmet.

  "Why don't you at least take that off?" I suggest, fighting to control my tone and temper and not go totally ballistic on him. "It's dark enough in here that I can't see you. It's got to be uncomfortable."