Shooting Dirty

by Jill Sorenson

  “You don’t like it,” he said, appearing crestfallen.

  “I can’t afford it.”

  “I bought it.”

  “You bought it?”

  He nodded, his arms crossed over his chest. “I just got the keys yesterday.”

  “Where did you get the money?”

  “I saved it.”

  “You killed people for it.”

  He laughed, shaking his head. “Most of it I made in my demolition business. I’ve been living in a trailer and spending next to nothing for years. Some was Shane’s cut from the kidnapping job, which is rightfully yours.”

  She gave him an annoyed look. “Don’t start that again.”

  He raised his palms. “Fine. All I’m saying is, I put down a good amount of money, and I can afford the monthly payment. I want you to live here with me. You and Jamie.”

  Her breath rushed from her lungs and she stumbled back a few steps. “Live with you? That’s crazy.”

  He stared at her for a moment, his mouth tense. Then he seemed to realize he’d jumped the gun with his surprise offer. “Skye’s grandmother has cancer. She’s going to start treatment this spring. We’ve already done the court paperwork. The guardianship will be terminated, and full custody will revert to me.”

  “Oh my God,” she said, stunned by the news.

  “Bill told me last month.”

  “What about the club and...your deal to him?”

  “We made a new deal,” he said. “As long as I don’t talk to the police or move far away with Skye, we’re square. I might take Skye to the casino to visit her grandmother every so often, but I won’t be involved in any of Bill’s businesses. I’m completely straight now. Free and clear.”

  Janelle couldn’t believe it. “That sounds like a dream come true.”

  “Share it with me,” he said, drawing her into his arms. “I want to be a family. You, me, Skye and Jamie.”

  His body felt so strong and hard against hers. So warm and right, with his Western-style shirt covering all of those lean muscles and jailhouse ink. He was like a delicious present, waiting to get unwrapped. But she was afraid to hope for something that had always been so far beyond her grasp. Could an ex-con and an ex-stripper really make a family? She pushed away from him before the protective wall around her heart could crumble.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Ace, you can’t just throw four people together and expect it to work out. Skye might not even like me.”

  “She likes everyone. She’ll love you.”

  Tears filled her eyes. “It’s not that easy.”

  “Why not? Why does everything have to be hard, and horrible, and fucked up? Why can’t we just be happy?”

  She put more space between them, her chest tight with longing. She didn’t know what happy looked like.

  He followed her, unwilling to lose this argument. “I’ve spent the past month imagining this moment. I couldn’t wait to tell you about Skye. Now you’re finally here with me, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you.”

  She wavered a little, aware that brusque and honest and full-throttle was his only way. “When do you get custody?”

  “We’re doing a gradual transition,” he said, holding her gaze. “For the next two months I’ll have her on weekends. In May she’ll be with me permanently, so I’m planning to take off work for a couple of weeks, and I’m going to keep a light schedule over the summer. Shawnee has her enrolled in a preschool already. When she starts kindergarten in the fall, I’ll go back to working full time.”

  “It’s a big responsibility, being a single parent.”

  “I know.”

  “Is that why you want me to move in? To help with Skye?”

  “No,” he said, frowning. “I can’t wait to take care of Skye. I guess it would be nice to have someone with experience around, but that’s not why I’m asking you. I don’t want a mother for Skye. I want you here because I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to fucking marry you, Janelle.”

  She gripped the granite countertop behind her back. “Let’s not...go overboard,” she said in a breathless voice. Her pulse was racing with trepidation. She hadn’t been touched in weeks, and he was crowding closer, wearing down her last defenses.

  His eyes blazed with determination. “I’m going to fuck you until you say yes.”

  She laughed at this claim, bracing her palms on his chest. He knew that the only place she’d let him boss her around was in the bedroom, so he was playing dirty now—and she liked it. She liked his sexy vehemence and the hard muscles beneath his cowboy shirt. He pressed her against the countertop and covered her mouth with his. He took full possession, plunging his tongue inside, branding her with his kiss.

  She melted into him, already lost. She couldn’t deny her feelings any longer. They belonged together. He was hers, and she was his.

  His big hands gripped her bottom, lifting her against his erection. She thought he might spread her out on the countertop and feast on her, but he didn’t. He carried her down the hallway, still kissing her, squeezing her buttocks. Then he entered one of the bedrooms, which was empty except for a four-poster bed. Before she knew it, she was flat on her back on a soft mattress, and he was stretched out on top of her.

  God. His weight felt so good.

  She tore open the front of his cowboy shirt, desperate to touch his skin. He broke the kiss and reached under her dress, removing her panties with rough hands. She untied the sash at her waist and pulled the dress over her head. His nostrils flared as she unfastened her bra, exposing her breasts to him. He used the sash from her dress to secure her wrists.

  “Christ,” he said, unbuttoning his pants. “You’re even hotter than I remember.” Then he freed his cock and positioned himself over her.

  She was barely wet, and his first thrust hurt more than she’d expected. He felt so big inside her. He waited for her body to adjust, panting against her neck. When the twinge of pain faded, he started to move. He made a fleeting attempt to give her pleasure, pinching her nipples and strumming her clit. Then he gave up that pretense and pounded her into the mattress, fucking her hard and deep.

  It was over in less than a minute.

  He ground his hips into hers and shuddered to a climax, collapsing on top of her. Then he lifted his head and looked at her. “Did that convince you?”

  She laughed softly, glancing around them. The sturdy bedposts had delicious potential. He’d obviously bought the bed with her in mind. She imagined him doing all sorts of depraved things to her on long, quiet nights.

  He reapplied himself to the task of convincing her, not rushing on the second round. She came three times before he took his own pleasure again. Then they lay tangled on the bare mattress together, kissing like teenagers. He couldn’t seem to get enough of her mouth. She stared into his eyes, studying the red fleck there.

  “It’s the shape of a heart,” she said.

  “It’s ugly.”

  She didn’t agree. His eyes looked different now, but it wasn’t because of the injury. There was something new in them. Hope.

  Love. Life.

  They finally got dressed, and she wandered around the house again. There were two more bedrooms, one for Skye right next door, and another for Jamie on the opposite side of the house. Ace showed her the garage, which had plenty of space. Then he slid his arms around her waist from behind. “I can be normal, Janelle. I can be whatever you want.”

  She turned to face him, lifting her hand to his cheek. “I don’t need normal. I need steady, and responsible, and decent.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I promise.”

  The last vestiges of her resistance drifted away. He never said anything he didn’t mean. She could trust him to be her partner. “I’ll talk to Jamie
about it.”

  Ace smiled at this answer. “I’ll talk to Skye.”

  “I can’t just move in with you overnight, either. We have to introduce them and see how it goes. She might like everyone, but he doesn’t.”

  “He’ll be good to her. He’s a good kid.”

  Janelle was more concerned about him clashing with Ace. She couldn’t imagine Ace being cruel to her son, though. Jamie was smart and talented. He’d have a safe home and a supportive family. That was better than she’d had at his age. “He’s always going to come first with me.”

  Ace’s gaze darkened. “I know.”

  “You’re fine with that?”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  She took a deep breath, trying not to cry.

  “Are you saying yes?”

  When she nodded, he crushed his mouth over hers in a possessive, triumphant kiss that left her knees weak.

  “Don’t make me regret this,” she said.

  “You won’t.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” he said, and swept her off her feet. Then he carried her over the threshold, into their new life together.

  * * * * *

  Also available from Carina Press and Jill Sorenson

  Go for a wild ride with criminal informant Cole “Shank” Shepherd and forensic psychologist Mia Richards...

  Read an excerpt from RIDING DIRTY

  The first book in the sizzling DIRTY ELEVEN MC series

  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 sprang 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 female 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.