All the Way (11 page)

His hand shifted, curved behind her neck. Her brain stopped. Instinct took hold. She tilted her chin up to him, wanting him with the same craving she’d always had for him…yet fearing what might happen if her ex
was in that car. Jack was diabolically territorial. He’d try to dismantle Blake piece by piece if he saw them close like this, another man claiming what Jack still considered “his.”

But she didn’t want this moment to end until Blake’s lips pressed to hers.
Surprise gripped her when she felt his lips against…her forehead!

She’d been
rejected?
A hot, humiliated flush crept over her.

“Let’s go.” He
mounted the bike without looking at her.

Pulling on her helmet, she shielded the burning rejection to
her
pathetic pass. What began as a diversion had escalated into a torrent of desire she couldn’t deny. Why did she still want him? Why did her body still need his touch, her lips still crave his kiss?

She slid behind him, hating to put her arms around him, hating this longing for the way he’d once made her feel. She’d always been completely self-sufficient. That her body could so easily betray that independence
tore at her.

Her head snapped back as Blake gunned the motorcycle out of the lot. They pulled up to the traffic light while emotions surged inside her, confusion, desire, embarrassment over her need and Blake’s rejection—and tightly coiled anxiety at the threat of Jack on their tail.
Could it have been Jack sitting there
watching them?

That ominous possibility compelled her to search over her shoulder. She had to know if her fears were founded. She had to
identify who sat behind the wheel of that car.

But by the time she looked back, it was gone.

She picked Desanto over me.

Jack shifted the “Lucky Crown” into park under a tree in an abandoned lot, where he could clearly see
Blake’s motorcycle roll into the Paradise Motel.

The course of their journey was easy to follow.

But the course of events unfolding before him wasn’t.

A vein throbbed in his temple.
He hadn’t gotten out of the car to confront them at the restaurant because he’d needed to see it for himself. The evidence before him now—watching
Desanto strut up to the lobby desk while Layla waited patiently for him—told Jack all he needed to know.
One room.
One bed.
It meant one thing.

Desanto had taken back the only thing Jack had ever needed in his life. Layla was slipping from his grasp.

Eight months ago he’d seen the signs. Then, her true feelings came out into the open the same night he’d peeled Desanto away from a bar fight. Blake had been playing referee, but the justice system didn’t need to know that. Jack had hauled him into custody, hoping that slapping him with bogus charges would pay him back. Blake deserved it, for what he’d done.

The guy had cornered him off duty one night, when Jack was meeting up with Johnny to sell blow to one of the guys in Rob’s band. Rob wasn’t there. Neither was the band. But Blake was waiting for him with a lethal look in his eyes.

Jack rubbed his neck, recalling the move Blake put on him faster than he could react in self-defense. He’d almost blacked out under the pressure of Blake’s hand closing off his windpipe. He’d barely heard the threat—that if he ever so much as touched Rob again, threatened him, bullied him, even looked at him the wrong way, Blake would come back and finish the job. Blake had told him that right before Jack had passed out, when the last thought
leaking from his brain was whether he’d wake up again. When he came to, he vowed that Blake would never get the chance to finish anything.

Hauling Desanto into custody for that bar fight a few weeks later
had sent a wave of triumph through Jack.
Except the charges against Desanto
were dropped.
Damn lawyers.
He hadn’t realized Blake had access to that kind of cash for bail.

The momentary triumph had been about more than just regaining his pride. Jack had
been desperate to get Desanto off his tail. The bastard had reopened the case against him, the murder rap that wouldn’t go away. A wound that had festered between them for years.
But Jack had handled it, made the witness conveniently disappear. There was a weapon more powerful than the gun in his holster: fear.

The word brought Jack’s thoughts back around to later that night, at Layla’s place.
He’d needed to blow off steam and had told her about Desanto’s arrest, the dropped charges. “The guy’s six-three with two black belts, a loud Harley, and a bad attitude.”

“And that amounts to assault with a deadly weapon, using
himself
?”
Disgust had clouded her eyes. Her total disbelief was intolerable.

In a moment of heat he’d made an accusation he regretted now.
But she’d sided with
Blake. A
repressed, deep-rooted wrath had surfaced and
blurred the outer edges of his vision with red haze.

“You’re taking his side? How could you? Unless you are back with Blake.” The mere thought had sent a surge of aggression through him. “Are you sleeping with him?”

“Did it ever occur to you that
you’re
the problem? That no one else is to blame?”

“You picked the wrong night to test me.” He advanced on her. “How long?” he demanded.

“We’ve never slept together,” she said. “But maybe I should consider it. Sex with anyone has to be better than Strictly Missionary
Control-Freak Jack.”

At her cruel outburst, the taste of rage
had filled his mouth. He’d exploded into violence. Fear had filled her eyes when she shrank back. The submission that accompanied her fear had felt like cool, quenching water riding the fury
that burned
through his veins.

That look of frightful submission, that inkling of doubt inside her, lowered her defenses enough to give him the control he craved. He’d gotten high off the rush.

But the memory of that high was replaced with a sinking feeling. He
scowled.
Strictly Missionary Control-Freak Jack
. The name taunted him,
the way he’d been taunted by the neighborhood kids when he’d been left behind and had to fend for himself in his uncle’s trailer park. His lips trembled with barely suppressed ferocity.

He stared hard at the motel across the street, thoughts swarming in his mind…all the things he should’ve done to make Layla stay with him.
He could be everything for her. Emptiness lived inside him that only Layla helped him forget.

Instead of letting him fill her empty places, too, she’d told him to keep his creepy,
vicious tendencies to himself and stay out of her life. Then she’d shut him out. Did she really think a door would stop him from getting to her?

She’d never
have to worry about being lonely—because he’d never leave her alone. He would always be
there, protecting her from men like Blake who’d only make her heart break with disappointment.

It had been so easy, convincing
Layla the night her brother went missing that Blake had abandoned her—Layla’s worst fear.

Where was her fear now? How could she forget how Blake betrayed her?

If what Jack saw before his eyes was true, and she was going back to Desanto, then the guy must have offered her something she couldn’t resist.

Security? No, she couldn’t trust him.

Money? Maybe, the guy was on his way to becoming a self-made millionaire with his stupid landscaping business. But then, Jack was, too, and after he sold the kilo from the drug bust in Sturgis he’d come close to matching Blake’s status. If not money, then…

Sex?
Oh, hell
. His chest rose and fell on quick breaths.

If she was turning to Blake because she thought he’d be better in bed, then Jack had news for her. He’d unleash the secret, darker side of his lust, if that’s what she wanted. He’d show her he could be all the man she needed.

He craved her, needed her. She belonged to him.

He clenched the steering wheel.
“Fifteen minutes with her. That’s all it’ll take.”

Now he just needed to get her alone. Good thing he’d planned ahead. A smirk twisted his lips and the tension in his body eased a fraction.

Jack started up the car. “I have a surprise for you, Desanto. Stop in the bar across the street, have a nightcap,” he urged from the secret sanctuary of the tinted-glass Crown Vic, as if he could will Blake to do his bidding.

Driving it out of the abandoned lot, he steered diagonally across the street into the parking lot of a local bar. He smirked when his eyes landed on three motorcycles parked near the door. Perfect.

Jack had gotten in touch with Johnny again, who had an “in” with someone in the gang
L
ittle Robby
rode with.
Jack had sent word through the pipeline that he’d make any outstanding warrants—for anything—disappear, if some of them stayed behind in a nearby bar to do Jack a small favor. He’d wipe out a warrant in exchange for ‘em
slamming a fist into Desanto’s jaw and sending him to the hospital. That would get him away from Layla for a good long while. “And I’ll arrive just in time.”

He pulled his cowboy hat low over his eyes and stewed silently, his hands opening and clenching, the anticipation riding his nerves raw. He wanted to see Blake go down. Jack could almost taste the satisfaction. He planned to watch it happen from a front row seat at the bar.

Then nothing will come between me and my girl.

His jaw tightened with the pressure of having to wait for what was to come.

This time I’ll take her the right way. I’ll show her everything. Then she’ll see. She’ll come back to me.

*

The pessimism that
Layla had felt since sunset had begun to drift away. In its place sat an indefinable heaviness, something close to foreboding.

She watched Blake slide off the bike, shed his coat and stretch the stiffness from his muscles.
Lord, he was a beautiful man, bulging in all the right places, tight and hard everywhere.
She discreetly eyed him as he sauntered over to the check-in window of the Paradise Motel, noticing the back view was nearly as appealing as the front.

Maybe that’s where this apprehension was coming from. More than the nervous suspicion that her ex might be following her, the thought of spending the night in the same room—in the same bed?—with Blake had her heart pounding hard against her ribs. The blood in her veins thickened at the prospect. The curves of her body filled with awareness, desire.

Even his curt rejection back at the restaurant parking lot didn’t dampen her urges. It had to be weakness. A character flaw she’d contained until faced with Blake’s presence again for hours on end.

There had to be a reason why women trailed after him, vying for his attention, landing on his doorstep whenever the opportunity arose. She didn’t want to be one of those women, a quick hit between the sheets and nothing more.

Shuddering at that sordid notion, she reinforced her defenses, shielding whatever weak part of her caved in to his appeal. Could she survive the constant sensual triggers he evoked? The image from the rest stop bathroom stall came to mind. Blake, on his knees, about to—

“We got lucky, landed the last room available.” Blake made the announcement as he sauntered toward her, where she waited on his motorcycle. He tossed the silver room key into the air and caught it. His gaze settled on her, watchful as he said, “But we had to settle for one bed. Hope that won’t bother you.”

“Really?” She shrugged with false disinterest, while her heart galloped in her ribcage.

She couldn’t openly reveal the desire pluming like a hot air balloon fired by lust. He’d turned her down flat an hour ago, the disappointment still pinging inside her.

He slid in front of her and shifted the out of idle. Layla wanted to shift, too, but there seemed to be no other way to ride on this bike unless she was suctioned to him.

After driving the Harley behind two buildings, he pulled diagonally into a space in front of their motel room door. He got off, unlocked the door and disappeared inside.

Layla craned her neck to steal a peek at what the arrangements would entail for the night. Her gaze softened with surprise when she saw that the interior defied her expectations. The walls were painted a soft sea-foam green. The carpet looked plush and new, the color of sand. The bed seemed inviting, a pouf of white pillows nestled under a comforter with a seashell motif. A clean scent floated to her. It was nothing like what she expected a motel would offer.

Soft light spilled out from inside. Blake had left the door wide open for her to follow.

And she would have—only she couldn’t move.

The bottom half of her body had glued itself to the leather seat.
This was worse than before, at the rest stop. She felt completely frozen, helpless. Then the tingling started. She inched herself up from the seat. The sensations strengthened, washing through her. Just like before.

Uh-oh.

“Um, Blake?”

“Huh?”

“I need you—I mean, I could use your help.”

He stuck his head out. “What’s up?”

“I can’t get off your motorcycle.” Her teeth tugged at her bottom lip as she lowered her gaze. She sat on the leather seat, bent forward slightly, her back arched, hands pushing against the tapered cushion.

When she looked up, she caught his gaze. His eyes narrowed, sharp and focused. With a leisurely strut, he crossed the distance between them. A conniving look crossed his features, which were illuminated on one side of his profile by lamplight pouring out of their room. The other half of his face was lit by streetlights along the road.

“Can’t get off, huh?”

She threw him a look. “Something like that.”

“That’s a shame.”

Alongside the motorcycle Blake paused, assessed the scenario, and bent down. A second later Layla bounced over his shoulder.

She had expected a suave, fluid move like him lifting her into his arms. Humiliation fueled annoyance. Miffed, she
said, “Another Neanderthal moment brought to you by Blake.”

“Hey, I’m trying to help you out.
I have to carry you like this.” He stepped across the threshold of the room, into the soft spill of light. “How else am I supposed to tell if you can feel this?” He wedged a hand between her legs, sliding it from her ankle to her calf. The strength and dawning familiarity of his touch conjured dangerous desires.
“Does that help? Can you feel it?”