Chapter Two
Stacy Martin flopped onto her bed, fluffed the pillow under her head, and frowned up at the woefully inadequate ceiling fan lazily moving the sultry air. New Orleans was a damn sight more humid than New York, and her house was like a steam bath. Humidity was supposed to be good for the skin, but her asthma didn’t like it one bit. She always had her inhaler close by.
But heat and asthma Stacy could handle. Her half-brother Brian’s crazy-ass behavior, she could not. She and Brian had inherited their late father’s ailing auto parts store, and she needed her brother on duty. It was either that or the bank was going to foreclose on their mortgage and they’d lose everything.
She’d made a deathbed promise to her father to get the business back on track from a recent rash of bad luck. She would go to hell and back to make good on that vow.
It didn’t matter that her mom was wealthy. Stacey wouldn’t be coming into her trust fund for ten more years, and she didn’t plan to spend them sitting on her ass begging for handouts. Business was in her DNA. She was determined to get to the bottom of the thefts plaguing the small shop in Gert Town and pull it out of the red. Which, apparently, made her a hell of a lot different from Brian.
Her stomach clenched in foreboding. What the hell was going on with her brother? Their dad had passed away a week ago. But instead of taking her through their father’s inventory and procedures as Dad had begged him, Brian had chosen instead to hang out at that drop-kick biker club, where he went by that ridiculous name, Animal. Which left Stacey alone to do both their jobs.
Well, fine. She was up for it. Monday she was taking over the reins because Brian had gone AWOL. Timeout, he’d called it. She snorted. More like an excuse to party and hook up with his new biker whore.
What the hell was wrong with him? Couldn’t he see they were both one step away from living on a grate? She adored her big brother. After their parents had separated when Stacey was ten years old, she had chosen to spend every school vacation she could with him and Dad. One of these days, he was going to get himself into real trouble, and she wouldn’t be around to save his sorry ass.
She gave her pillow an angry punch, trying to get comfortable. Sleep was a bitch. For an hour, she’d been tossing and turning in her bed like a fish flung on a hot rock. Even a cold shower hadn’t worked. Sleep was impossible with all the worries running through her mind.
She knew next to nothing about the spare parts business. Thankfully, she’d just finished her business degree—though her mom had tried to force her into studying law, offering to pay for everything if she did. Stacey had refused to be bribed. She was rock-stubborn, so her mother said. Accounts, organization, and office management—that was her wheelhouse. Mom wanted her back in New York, but Stacey knew exactly why. And she had no intention of being molded into a trophy bride for some hotshot banker. Like hell.
Someday—like in a million years—she might marry a polished New Yorker with an Ivy League education. A man of her own choice. Maybe. But she was going to make something of herself first, far away from her controlling mother and stepfather.
She yanked the sheet up over her silk nightie, briefly savoring the crispness before it warmed and wilted against her skin, and willed sleep to come. Strung out, she needed to banish the suffocating edginess of her troubles.
New Orleans was home now. She had promised her dying father she’d look out for her older half-brother. Clearly he needed her steadying influence. Since burying Dad, she’d never seen Brian look so crazed.
And dangerous. Hooked on some woman from that damned biker club. He wasn’t even a full member yet, just what they called a prospect—basically a lowly gofer—for a biker named Beast.
She rolled her eyes.
Beast. Seriously.
Then again… Her whole body had tingled when she’d met the huge biker a couple of weeks back when he’d been in her kitchen talking to Brian. Damn, what a body! She’d itched to get her hands on the compelling bad boy. Especially after he’d surprised her by volunteering to get Dad’s cancer medication. That was when she’d really melted. Kindness and hotness made for a lethally attractive combination. Yep, the man was pure sex on two legs. A big bit of rough with muscles up the wazoo.
Yeah, she’d happily tangle with Beast, then run away as quick as she could, laughing it off as just a wild adventure. He was totally wrong for her, of course…but sexy as hell.
She shook her head. Nah. Who was she kidding? No way would she ever do something as dumb and dangerous as sleeping with a man from the Slayers. Bikers weren’t her style. It’d be like playing with a rattlesnake.
She wished Brian would come back. Something was very wrong about his sudden disappearance. Did Beast have something to do with it? Unease rippled along her spine. It was one thing to have a crush on a woman, but when Brian had casually said she was the MC president’s daughter, Stacey’d told him he was insane. Even she knew that was not anyone to muck around with. There’d be consequences. Dire ones.
But Brian had never understood the word “no.” It was like a flame to a moth. And ever since Dad died, Brian had been as out of control as he’d been inconsolable, a drifting boat with no anchor. She’d hoped her moving down here would help pull him out of his grief. But it hadn’t.
Finally, the woozy sensation of sleep crept over her, and she started to drift off.
Then, suddenly, a large hand closed over her mouth.
Her heart slammed into her throat and fear surged through her. She couldn’t breathe. She bit down but couldn’t get traction. Fuck! She clawed at the hand, digging in with her fingernails. It was a strong, firm, man’s hand, smelling of liquor and a trace of engine exhaust.
Thrashing and kicking, her leg met rock-hard muscle, and she heard a grunt. Momentarily, the hand came off her mouth. She sucked in a much-needed breath and tried to scream, but it soon clamped down on her again, this time with something sticky.
What the fuck? She couldn’t open her lips.
“Feisty, aren’t you?” the man growled, but he sounded more entertained than angry. He flicked on a flashlight and shone a thin beam of light in her face, blinding her.
The calm amusement in his deep voice was maddening. He was entertaining himself like a cat would with a captive mouse. He rolled her over onto her stomach and pinned her with his knee. But at least she could breathe.
She arched up and turned. In the semi-darkness, she could barely make out the huge figure looming over her. Her pulse raced as terror clotted her thinking. He was wearing a black leather vest with distinctive patches.
A Slayer. Shit!
In his hand was a roll of silver tape. Calm as you please, he’d stretched out a length and was biting it off with precision. He’d obviously done this before. Composed and unaffected by her struggles, this was a man who clearly loved his work.
Why didn’t he kill her? Wasn’t that what lawless bikers did?
Or rape her? Hell, she was nearly naked.
His hand seared her flesh as he grabbed her wrist. Hitting out with her free hand, she aimed for his balls. He shifted and laughed. Laughed, the bastard!
Her chest heaved as he secured her wrists and taped them together. Heart pounding, she realized she couldn’t suck in enough air. Her desperate wheezing filled the room as she clawed for her puffer on the bedside table. No chance to reach it. Not against his overpowering strength.
He taped over her eyes and everything went black. Then he wrapped the tape around her ankles as if securing a bag of potatoes and slung her over his shoulder.
Her nightie slid up her back. Damn it! She wasn’t wearing underwear. Desperate and exposed, she rose up and thumped his head with the full weight of her bound hands.
“Settle down, and you won’t get hurt,” he muttered, unperturbed.
Pure primal instinct kicked in. She brought her fists down again on his back, thumping his kidneys.
He growled. Slap!
Pain hit her, and her back arched up as the sound rang out. The skin on her bare bottom seared like steak on a BBQ. Tears sprang to her eyes. She heard him chuckle as he closed the front door with a snick and carried her outside.
All of her neighbors’ lights were off, so there’d be no help there.
She moaned and writhed in distress, but he easily deposited her on the back seat of a roomy vehicle, throwing a blanket over her. The car started and backed out of her driveway, the sound of the engine smooth and low enough not to alert anyone.
The blanket smelled of stale beer, earth, and dust. She coughed and wheezed, her breath backing up in her lungs as she twisted, thrashing her head from side to side, trying to get the rug off her face. Her chest heaved with the alarming rattle of an asthma attack.
Shit, shit, shit.
Without medication, she’d suffocate.
It was only a matter of time.