Last night I’d had to watch her on the arm of another preppy douchebag. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to handle that again without drawing blood or breaking bones. I knew dozens of ways to kill a man with my bare hands, and I’d be happy to demonstrate on Lucas Titan if I ever saw him touch her again.
I pulled open the door, and the orangey-peach colored dress she was wearing cast my dark mood into the gutter. She reminded me of a Flintstone’s push-pop I’d had as a kid, and I wanted to lick her from neck to knees.
“Can I come in?” Her question and hesitant smile almost had me stepping aside to let her in. But that wasn’t the plan. And with this woman, if I didn’t have a plan, everything would fall to shit in a hurry.
“No. We’re going out. For lunch.”
She froze. “I don’t… I can’t…”
Her stomach rumbled, breaking the awkward silence that followed her trailing words.
“You don’t what?” I prompted. “Because it sounds to me like you’re hungry.”
Her hands clenched the fabric of her skirt before smoothing it, and her stomach growled again.
I crossed my arms and leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, daring her to refute the fact.
“Is this part of the ‘be where I say, when I say,’ stipulation?” she asked.
“Yes. And it’s just fucking lunch. It’s not like I’m telling you to strip and climb into my bed. Although, if you’d prefer…”
Her eyes flicked to the door just beyond me—the door that led up the stairs to my apartment above the shop.
I shoved off the doorframe, hot anger spreading through my veins. “You’d rather go upstairs and fuck than go out to lunch with me?”
She bit her lip and looked at the floor. “It’s complicated.”
“It’s just lunch. How fucking complicated can it be?” And then it dawned on me. “If you’re worried I’m going to take you somewhere we’ll be recognized, don’t be.”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what?”
Her silence fueled my annoyance. Picking her up by the waist, I kicked the door shut, carried her over to my bike, and dropped her onto the seat. I ignored her sputtered protests and the skirt hiking up around her thighs as I strapped a helmet on her head.
“Wait—”
“Done waiting, princess.”
I secured my own helmet and climbed on the bike.
“Just hold on.”
The man was a brute. Apparently no one had informed him that picking up a woman and moving her where he wanted her was passé. As in, men haven’t done that since they stopped painting on cave walls.
Constantine Leahy had missed the memo.
When he tossed out the command to ‘just hold on,’ I’d stubbornly refused. For about three seconds.
As soon as he fired up the bike and revved the engine, my self-preservation instincts had overridden my pique. I wrapped my arms around Con’s middle, and he rocketed away from Voodoo, the brick walls of the alley flying by. I buried my face against his back, certain I was going to die before we even made it onto an actual road.
With my eyes squeezed shut, I yelled over his shoulder, “What if someone sees me?”
The wind carried Con’s laugh back to me. We slowed at a stoplight, and he turned his head to reply, “Princess, no one would ever think you would get on the back of my bike. If anyone sees us, they’ll just assume you’re my newest piece of high class ass.”
I opened my mouth to deliver some sort of scathing reply, but the light turned green, Con gunned the engine, and we were off again.
“Where are you taking me?” I yelled. The wind whipping the ends of my hair drowned out my words. Con ignored me, changing lanes and heading into an area of town where I’d be more than hesitant to venture alone.
He didn’t stop again until we pulled up in front of a crumbling brick building. There was no sign, no awning, not even a flashing neon light announcing ‘topless women’ in sight. He booted down the kickstand, hopped off the bike, and unhooked his helmet.
He reached for me, and I flinched, unsure of what he was trying to do.
“Easy, princess. Just want to get your helmet off.”
I relaxed as he unbuckled the strap and sat it on the seat.
He held out a hand, and I stared at it, eyes caught on the name tattooed on the inside of his wrist. Joy. His adoptive mother. She’d been a happy, vibrant woman. I’d heard that she and Andre had died holding hands. I glanced at Con’s other wrist. Sure enough, Andre was written in black script. It seemed overly sentimental for the tough exterior Con exuded.
Which just highlighted how much I didn’t know about this man.
The question was, did I want to know him?
I looked up at the brick building. I supposed the question I should really be asking myself right now was whether I trusted him enough to take his hand and follow him inside?
The heavy, humid June air pressed down on me as I sat, showing way too much leg, on the seat of his matte black Harley. The fact that I was sitting on the motorcycle told me that I trusted him. When he’d picked me up and sat me on it, he’d ignored my protests…but they’d been half-hearted at best. Because a part of me—the part that had made the decision to go home with him that night two years ago—already trusted him far more than I should.