“I like clean.” The man’s lips twitched as she gingerly reached for the weapon. “I took the liberty of removing the bullets. You may have them back when you leave.”
So he wasn’t going to kill her. She met his gaze evenly, at a definite disadvantage still sitting in the bed, but she liked being partially covered, considering the slutty dress she’d worn earlier to hunt. “This is kidnapping.”
He shrugged one massive shoulder. “When I knock a woman out, I like to make sure she survives the experience.”
Heat ticked down her spine and uncoiled in her abdomen. Why the hell did everything he say sound sexual? She narrowed her gaze. “You assaulted a police officer, buddy.”
“Kellach. Kellach Dunne.” He smiled, revealing perfectly white teeth in stunning symmetry. “I didn’t mean ta hurt you, Alexandra, and you know it.”
True. He had been busy shielding her from careening fire when his shoulder had connected with her still aching face. “Detective Monzelle to you. How about you come down to the station with me and answer some questions?” She carefully slid from the bed, her bare feet touching cold concrete.
“No.”
She glanced around the pristine room again, wondering if she could take him down. “This isn’t what I expected,” she mused to herself.
“This is your first time in a bed at Fire?”
She stilled and turned to face him, hiding her vulnerability. “I try not to fuck motorcycle gang members, especially those involved in the local drug trade.”
His grin was slow—dangerous—and amused. “Club. Motorcycle club members. Titans of Fire Motorcycle Club, to be exact.” He stood and leaned against the door, blocking the only exit. “We need ta discuss that allegation before we get to the fucking.”
He was laughing at her. The criminal, the one who’d held some new fire-shooting weapon, dared laugh at her.
Temper tickled up the back of her neck. “Listen, asshole. You assaulted and kidnapped a police officer, and now you’re committing false imprisonment by barricading that door. Move your butt, now.” She put every ounce of power she owned into her voice.
Muscles flexed when he crossed his arms. His gaze swept her barely-there outfit, head to toe, leaving sparking tingles along her skin. “You don’t look like any garda I’ve ever seen.”
Garda. Cop in Irish. She eyed the leather cut hanging on a hook by the door with the full club emblem across the back and an enforcer’s patch across one shoulder. Then she looked up—way up—into his implacable face. “Your cut says you’re a full member here in Seattle.”
“Aye.”
She frowned. “How?” Sure, he could be part of a different chapter, but not this one. The cops kept files on all members and recruits, and this man wasn’t in a Seattle file.
He sighed. “It was a merger of two affiliate clubs, and I was assigned here.”
She put both hands on her hips, facts clicking into place. Resignation and anger swirled through her chest. “I see. What would a Seattle based motorcycle club want with an Irish based motorcycle club?” This new drug killing people on her streets—did it somehow originate in Ireland?
He shrugged. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”
She exhaled slowly. “What part of Ireland you from, Kellach?”
He smiled. “I like how you say my name. Smooth, with a feminine hint of sass.”
She was too damn tough to feel feminine and fragile, but this guy? Yeah, he knocked her off her game with such blatant masculinity. Shoving down any awareness of him as a man, as if she could, she concentrated on solving the puzzle in front of her. Guns. The Seattle club was known to run guns, and didn’t they seriously need those in Northern Ireland? “What are your ties to the IRA?”
His gaze hardened. “None. My only ties are to my club.”
Ah ha. “So, let me get this straight. Ireland merges with Seattle, providing drugs, and Seattle merges with Ireland, providing weapons. A win-win for the streets.”
The air in the room changed slightly as tension built. “You leap ta conclusions faster than a Blue Hare during mating season.”
The emphasis on the word mating skittered awareness down her spine. “What kind of weapon do you have that throws green fire?” she asked evenly.
“No weapon. You hit your head and ended up out cold. It was your imagination,” he said just as evenly. A whistle echoed outside, and he inclined his head. “Your taxi is here.”
She blinked. “You called a cab?”
“Aye. I didn’t think you’d like me to drop you at the station on my bike.” He slid to the side, all male grace, and opened the door.
She faltered and glanced down at her pink-polished toes. “Where are my shoes?”
He reached out a hand and enveloped hers. “They fell off your feet when I brought you back here.”
She paused, her mouth almost dropping open. “You rode your bike back here with me unconscious?”