He’s her weapon of choice
Psychologist Mia Richards wants revenge. Her new client, tattooed Cole “Shank” Shepherd, provides the perfect means. She just has to manipulate the felon-turned-informant into eliminating her husband’s killers—members of Cole’s rival motorcycle club. The first step, seducing Cole, is simple. As for walking away before she falls hard—it’s already too late...
Dirty Eleven practically raised Cole, and he plans to double-cross the cops rather than sell them out. But smart, sexy Mia is an irresistible distraction. While she’s evaluating his mind, all he can think about is her body...until he discovers her true intentions. Walking a fine line between desire and betrayal, they’ll have to outrun her past, his enemies and the law for a love that’s dangerously real.
Book one of the Dirty Eleven MC series
Riding Dirty
Jill Sorenson
Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
PROLOGUE
MICHELLE KNEW SOMETHING was wrong as soon as she walked through the door.
There was mail strewn across the floor, as if Philip had knocked it off the counter and not bothered to tidy up. That wasn’t like him. Voices in the study alerted her that he wasn’t alone. He made his own hours, and often invited colleagues up for a drink or to debate about art. But the tone of the discussion struck her as strange. It sounded more like barked orders than a friendly quarrel.
“Philip?” she called out, setting her satchel on a chair.
The voices went silent.
Feeling a stab of unease, she strode down the hallway. The door to the study was ajar. When she reached the threshold and peered in, her world tilted on its axis. Making sense of the scene was difficult; the visual images were scrambled. Philip was on the floor with his arms tied behind his back. The wall safe stood open, and there were two other men in the room. All three turned to look at her.
She got the impression of puzzle pieces, floating independently. Philip on the ground. Two strangers, dressed in black. One held a gun. He had a tattoo on his wrist, between his glove and the sleeve of his leather jacket.
“No,” Philip shouted.
One second ticked by, maybe two, while she stood frozen. Then she turned and broke into a run. She didn’t even try to make it to the front door. She was wearing designer high heels, and her ankle twisted as she fled. Smothering a cry of distress, she ducked into the guest room. There was an antique phone on the nightstand, totally inappropriate for an emergency. She didn’t have time to dial 911. Instead of reaching for the receiver, she dived behind the bed and scurried underneath it, praying she’d be left alone.
Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, drowning out other sounds. When a hand wrapped around her ankle and tugged, she screamed at the top of her lungs. The man dragged her across the polished wood floor. Rolling over, she kicked out with her free leg, but failed to connect. He caught her other foot and wrenched her legs apart. Some kind of mask covered the lower half of his face. He had dark eyes.
Those eyes were all she could see. Her soul seemed to separate from her body, drifting up to the ceiling. When he clamped a gloved hand across her mouth, she snapped back into reality. She bit down on his palm and bucked underneath him, pummeling him with flying fists. One of her wild blows connected with his throat, and his grip loosened. Her hands found the phone cord. The heavy antique piece came crashing down on his head.
It was just enough to hurt. Not enough to stop him.
With a growl of fury, the masked man picked up the phone and threw it, smashing a hole in the drywall. Then he grabbed her by the front of her blouse and slammed her into the hardwood. Pain exploded in her skull. Lucidity flickered in and out like candlelight. When she came to, her hair was wet and warm.
“Fucking bitch,” the man said, straddling her waist. “I was just going to fuck you. Now I’m going to fuck you and kill you.”
Another voice said, “Get off her.”
The man looked over his shoulder. His partner, also wearing a half mask, was standing in the doorway.
“No DNA,” the partner said.
“No witnesses,” her attacker replied. Then he grabbed a decorative pillow from the top of the bed and held it over her face.
Michelle didn’t think she had any fight left in her. She was wrong. Instinct took over and her muscles sprung into action. Robbed of oxygen, fueled by panic, she clawed at his forearms, searching for tender skin. Her fingernails found no purchase, only slick leather. Her heels scraped uselessly across the floor.
Stop fighting.
Philip’s voice spoke to her. Not from down the hall, but from another place.
Play dead.
She forced her arms and legs to go slack. The man continued to smother her, not letting up until she was almost unconscious. When he lifted the pillow to study her, she kept her eyes open, staring sightlessly into the dark recesses under the bed. Her lungs ached to draw in a full breath, and black stars twinkled behind her eyes. Her bladder released in an embarrassing rush, as if her system was shutting down.
The man made a noise of disgust and dropped the pillow. He scrambled to his feet to avoid getting wet. Urine soaked into the fabric of her skirt, which was bunched around her hips. She lay in a puddle of her own body fluids, dying.
“What a waste,” her attacker said.
“You’re a sick fuck, you know that?”
“You told me to take care of her.”
“I meant knock her out or tie her up. Jesus Christ.”
Unable to draw a breath, she let the black fog take her.
CHAPTER ONE
MIA RICHARDS ROSE to her feet as her new client, Cole “Shank” Shepherd, walked through the door.
She’d anticipated feeling resentment toward him, even loathing, so she schooled her features into a pleasant mask as she stepped forward to greet him. Not too pleasant—there was no need for coy friendliness or overt displays of interest.
Yet.
The stark prison photograph she’d pored over the night before hadn’t done him justice. With his chin up and his head tilted to the side, displaying the spider’s web tattoo on his neck, he’d resembled an ordinary white male thug. All hard edges and hooded eyes. He was better looking in person. Taller and more intimidating. She registered his towering height along with the span of his broad shoulders, his bulky biceps and ink-sleeved arms. He wore a plain T-shirt with no leather jacket for protection; maybe he’d left it with his bike. Faded Levi’s covered his long legs. His scuffed motorcycle boots were almost Frankensteinian.
She lifted her gaze to his face. His eyes were the color of amber ale, pale brown and a little bloodshot. He had dark hair, cut razor-short on the sides and longer on top. His jaw was angular, his nose had seen better days, and his mouth was a sardonic slash. There was a sharpness to him that extended beyond his features.
Mia felt a jolt of unease. She hadn’t expected him to be so attractive. He was the kind of man who would draw fema
le attention wherever he went, based on his build alone. Some women were excited by danger. They probably went crazy for his tattoos and checkered past, too. Mia was disturbed by her own lack of repulsion. Executing her plan was going to be even more difficult than she’d imagined.
Tamping down her nerves, she offered him a polite smile. “You must be Cole. I’m Mia Richards.”
He gave her figure a brief perusal as they shook hands. She’d taken pains with her appearance today, applying extra makeup and styling her sleek brown hair in tousled waves. Her slim-fitting skirt clung to her hips and her silk blouse accented soft curves. Overall, the effect wasn’t showy or obvious. That was next week.
His hand was big and rough, dwarfing hers. The warmth of his skin seemed to soak into her bones, making her aware of the chilly air-conditioning. She’d cranked it down to compensate for her nervous sweat, and the one-hundred-degree heat outside. Although it was late October, the blazing temperatures hadn’t waned. It was summer all year round in Indio, California.
He smiled back at her in a way that suggested he liked what he saw. There was a hint of dark humor in his expression, as if he thought this was all a ruse. “Should I call you Dr. Richards?”
She released his hand and closed the door behind him. “I have a PhD in psychology, but I’m not a medical doctor. You can call me Mia.”
“Mia,” he said in a lower pitch.
God. The man’s voice was a deadly weapon. Instead of using him as an informant, the DA should be employing his services to interview uncooperative female suspects. They’d melt into puddles as soon as he spoke.
She gestured to a set of chairs by a coffee table. “Make yourself comfortable.”
“I thought there’d be a couch.”
It was a typical comment in her field of work. She doubted he meant to be suggestive, but her mind conjured a vivid picture of him pushing her down on leather cushions. “Sorry,” she said, flushing. “No couch.”
He examined the room with acuity, as if searching for hidden cameras or escape routes. There were no secret-spy devices in here, as far as she knew. A single window dropped three stories to a crumbling asphalt parking lot. The chairs were cheap, with worn mauve wool cushions and polished beige wood. An art piece of smeared pastels hung on the far wall. She’d seen better prints at fast-food restaurants.
“Is this your office?” he asked.
“No, it’s just a space that was private and available.”
He returned his attention to her. He didn’t seem eager to get started, but that wasn’t unusual for required sessions. Many of her clients were reluctant and incommunicative. She didn’t take it personally. What concerned her more was her ability to act natural in such a high-intensity situation. She’d been waiting three years for this opportunity.
Three weeks ago, when she’d glanced at Cole’s file, she’d known he was the one. The perfect instrument for her needs. She hadn’t anticipated her physical reaction to him. She’d been numb for so long, she’d forgotten she could feel.
“Do you know what a forensic psychologist does?” she asked.
His eyes dropped to her mouth and lingered there. “No.”
She got the impression that he didn’t care what her lips said, or did, unless it included performing blow jobs. Her cheeks heated again as she imagined that scenario. The carpet on her knees. His hands in her hair. “Most people don’t.”
“Forensics means dead bodies to me,” he said. “But I’m still alive. For now.”
Mia didn’t blame him for assuming his days were numbered. He was in a very vulnerable position. “Forensic scientists often study evidence, including dead bodies, but forensics is anything related to law. Forensic psychologists work in the justice system. We counsel victims of crimes, correctional inmates, police officers...”
“You’ve worked with inmates?”
“I have.”
He gave her a skeptical look. “Male inmates?”
“No,” she admitted.
“Figures.”
“Why?”
“You’d start a riot in Chino.”
He was speaking of the prison where he’d spent almost four years. Mia didn’t acknowledge his comment on her appearance. Male patients had complimented her before. Sometimes they hit on her as a defense mechanism. Although she wanted Cole to find her attractive, she hoped she hadn’t overdone her makeup and outfit. She was conventionally pretty, not a bombshell. Her curves weren’t riot-worthy.
Clearing her throat, she soldiered on. “The important thing to be aware of is that there is no confidentiality agreement between us. If you share incriminating details, I’m under no obligation to keep them secret. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” she said. “I want you to feel safe here.”
“Safe,” he said, his lips twisting. “Right.”
“Being a criminal informant is incredibly stressful.”
“No shit.”
“In this space, you don’t have to pretend you’re anything else. You can let down your guard with me. I’m not an investigator.”
“You just work for them.”
“As an impartial consultant.”
“There’s no such thing as impartial.”
He wasn’t the trusting sort. That was fair; she wasn’t trustworthy.
“I have to evaluate officers, too, so I’m hardly one of their cronies. My assessments wouldn’t be very useful if they were biased.”
His eyes slid down her legs and back up. “Why you?”
“Why me?”
“They picked you for a reason.”
“I was qualified and available.”
“You’re young and hot. I’ve been in prison for years. They thought I’d be more likely to show up for a doctor who gave me a hard-on.”
His crude words sent a thrill down her spine. The sensation felt strange, foreign. As if her body belonged to someone else. Had the DA investigator chosen her to tempt Cole? She hadn’t considered this angle before, but it made sense. Damon Vargas was a shark. He’d asked her to work pro bono so they could keep this assignment off the books. As a victim of a home invasion robbery by motorcycle club members, Mia had a strong motivation to help the investigation. She also had to take extra precautions to protect her identity.
“These sessions are required,” she said.
“My participation isn’t.”
“I won’t be able to evaluate you as stable if you don’t cooperate.”
“I signed on to be a rat,” he said, leaning forward for emphasis. “I agreed to collect dirt on my uncle and regurgitate it to that DA prick. I didn’t say I’d sit in an office with a sweet little piece and cry about my childhood.”
Although his combative attitude was no surprise, she hadn’t expected him to be so frank. “We don’t have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable.”
“Looking at you makes me uncomfortable.”
She studied him with trepidation. He was quick and sharp, parrying like the object of his nickname. She didn’t know if she could handle him as a client, let alone for other activities.
“Would you prefer a male psychologist?”
“Hell no,” he said. “I’ve had enough male company.”
“Then I guess you’re stuck with me.”
He settled back in his chair, resigned.
She reached for her pen and notebook on the coffee table. The familiar weight in her hands felt reassuring. Professional. She’d never counseled an informant before. The last time she’d tangled with a violent criminal, he’d attempted to rape her and smothered her with a pillow.
She didn’t trust Cole not to hurt her. She didn’t trust any man.
But “Shank” Shepherd wasn’t known for abusing women. Cole had earned the nickname after taking vengeance on the man who’d raped his female cousin. He’d stabbed the perpetrator with a broken bottle, almost killing him. This vigilante act had led to his first felony arrest, a two-year stint for aggravated assault when
he was just nineteen. His more recent sentence was for arson. Cole had torched a liquor store owned by a wife beater with motorcycle club ties.
The fact that Cole had been caught for these particular crimes didn’t mean he was a noble crusader for female victims. Some men took up arms because they liked to fight, not because they believed in the cause.
Mia didn’t choose Cole just because he had a soft spot for women. She chose him because they had common enemies. He had a hair-trigger temper and a tendency toward aggression. She needed a blunt tool, nothing more. She hadn’t considered his masculine appeal or his other good qualities, but she should have. An unattractive, morally repugnant man would be easier to use and discard.
“How do you feel about being here?” she asked.
“Trapped.”
“Coerced?”
“I made my own bed,” he said, after a pause.
“You can tell me if you’ve been mistreated by anyone in law enforcement.”
“I’m not worried about that. I can defend myself.”
She supposed that was true; he looked like a coiled mass of tension, ready to spring. “According to your file, you were offered an early release in exchange for insider information about the Dirty Eleven Motorcycle Club. Your uncle is the president.”
“That’s right.”
“Investigator Vargas said you took the deal because two inmates made an attempt on your life.”
He touched the tattoo on his throat, reflexive.
“What happened?”
“They caught me in the laundry room, where I worked. One of them hooked me around the neck with a twisted towel.”
“How did you escape?”
“I flipped him over on his back and knocked the wind out of him. His buddy went down after a few punches. The first guy was harder to beat, but I got lucky with a choke hold. He was unconscious by the time the guards got there.”
“Why would they want to kill you?”
“They’re Aryan Brotherhood,” he said, shifting in his seat. “We don’t get along.”
“You and them, or them and your club?”
“Both.”
“Would they have made another attempt?”
Riding Dirty Page 1