Then he smiled at her.
To her complete horror, she felt her cheeks heat. Just like those silly coeds. And when he leaned close so he wouldn’t have to shout, saying, “Well, hello there,” in a deep voice that was as smooth as silk sheets, she was hard-pressed not to fan herself. Also like those damned coeds. Now she got what all the fuss was about. “Do you have a request?”
“Huh?”
“For a song?” One eyebrow quirked as he straightened, his blue eyes threatening to suck her in.
Oh, for fuck’s sake, Sammie. Well done. So far, you’ve managed “hi” and “huh.” Someone’s going to run in here and rip up your Mensa card.
“Uh…” She sifted through hair metal bands, realized her mental inventory was scanty at best, and settled on, “How about the one that starts out with ‘Come on, feel the noise!’”
“Quiet Riot!” He nodded, eyeing her speculatively, probably trying to decide if that was her pick or if she’d overheard his conversation with the bartender.
When he turned and entered her selection into the jukebox’s screen, she noted how wide his palms looked, how knobby-knuckled and callused his fingers were. A workingman’s hands. Made sense, since he used those big hands to build badass bikes.
And speaking of…
She opened her mouth to segue into her reason for being there, but once again, words failed her. Because once again, he was looking at her. Like, looking at her. She’d never felt so…looked at in her entire life. It was disconcerting.
“I’m Samantha Tate!” She extended her hand, needing to do something to distract him from all that looking.
Uh-oh. Big mistake. Because he didn’t just shake her hand. He seduced it. His palm was warm and rough against hers, his fingers firm yet gentle. When he slowly pumped, the motion was strangely reminiscent of two bodies locked together in a vigorous bout of lovemaking.
“Ethan Sykes,” he said, or rather purred like a cat—like a big, warm, highly dangerous cat. Once again, he leaned close to be heard over the noise. The bad-boy smell of him—all worn leather and harsh soap and sexy, sexy pheromones—mixed with the sweet smell of the hops on his breath. “But everybody calls me Ozzie.”
Ozzie…
It fit. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe because he was a little mysterious, a little dangerous, a little rock ’n’ roll.
Ohhhh, Momma like!
To Samantha’s chagrin, she was a total sucker for a bad boy. In theory, anyway. In reality, she knew they were far more trouble than they were worth. But all that was beside the point. Because she had no time for boys, good or bad. She had a career to advance. And that started with getting a grip on her wildly celebrating hormones and getting the scoop on Black Knights Inc.
“Are you part of—” she began but was cut off when one of Ozzie’s friends sidled up beside them.
If Ozzie was the perfect mark, this new arrival was the opposite of the perfect mark. For one thing, he was huge. We’re talking arms that could easily Hulk-smash someone. For another thing, with all the scars on his face, he looked like he’d gone ten rounds with a wood chipper and lost. Definitely not the kind of countenance to encourage questions. And last but not least, she hadn’t seen him utter a single word the entire time she’d been watching the group.
She barely refrained from grumbling her displeasure at his ill-timed arrival.
“Hey, Boss Man!” Ozzie crowed, smacking a hand on the Hulk’s shoulder. “I’d like you to meet Samantha Tate. She’s got wicked good taste in music. Samantha, this is Frank Knight. But everyone calls him Boss.”
“Hi!” She forced a friendly smile and extended her hand. Unlike Ozzie’s handshake, Frank Knight’s was cool and perfunctory.
“Why does your name sound familiar?” he asked over the thumping racket of Quiet Riot as they yelled for the girls to rock their boys. Before Samantha could answer him, he answered himself. “Oh, right! You’re that rookie reporter from the Trib who wants to do a story on the shop.”
She bristled at the term. She might only be twenty-four years old, but she’d been working at the paper for two years, which meant her rookie days were far behind her. Not that you’d know it from the assignments Charlie gives me. It took some effort, but she managed to broaden her smile. “Nice to know my reputation precedes me.”
“More like your incessant phone calls precede you.” Frank’s tone was as firm and clipped as his handshake had been.
Her eyelid twitched, a sure sign her temper was spiking.
“You’re a reporter?” Ozzie asked.
All the smooth, unstudied charm was gone from his expression. Now he looked like the guy sitting behind him was a proctologist who’d decided to give him an impromptu exam.
“That a problem?” she asked curiously. Now it wasn’t her eyelid that was twitching; it was her reporter’s nose. The Black Knights’ blatant refusal to return her phone calls and Ozzie’s obvious aversion to her profession combined to have her smelling a story. Maybe a juicy one?
Man, I hope so. I need a break, or Charlie will never take me seriously.
Before Ozzie could answer, Frank/Boss leaned over and whispered something in Ozzie’s ear. After he straightened away, Ozzie said, “Well, it was great meeting you, Samantha Tate.”
She blinked at him and spun around when she realized the men who’d been in the back booth were now arrayed behind her, heading toward the front door. “Wait a minute!” she yelled. “You’re leaving?”
“You know what they say.” A glimmer of that sexy twinkle was back in Ozzie’s eye. “All work and no play!” He shrugged laconically.
The move drew her attention to two things. First thing: underneath his biker jacket, he wore a black T-shirt that sported a drawing of the Starship Enterprise. Printed beneath the ship were the words Property of Starfleet Academy. So the man wasn’t just a pretty-boy biker with a sinful smile and a bad haircut. He obviously had a little sci-fi geek in him too. Beautiful and brainy. She found the combination wildly intriguing. Second thing: she was fairly certain she’d caught a glimpse of a leather strap up near his shoulder. A shoulder holster, perhaps? And that she found even more intriguing.
As she watched the group of men push through the swinging front door, a lone question banged around inside her head. Who the hell are these guys?
One way or the other, she was going to find out…
Chapter 1
Red Delilah’s Biker Bar
Six years later…
“I refuse to spend another night in that ruddy henhouse. My plan is to find a willing woman who’ll take me in like a puppy in a rainstorm.”