Nikki’s heart had pounded harder as the guy had guided the bike into an old, dirt-and-gravel parking lot that looked like it had once belonged to a bar or maybe even a motel, she couldn’t tell in the growing darkness. Lights had blazed from inside the larger structure. Dozens of motorcycles were parked out front. Some people had been standing around outside, but not as many as she’d expected. Maybe they were all inside. She’d tried to convince herself that she didn’t know and didn’t care. Nevertheless, her heart still raced and adrenaline again surged. What would he to do to her? He hadn’t hurt her yet but now . . . now they were in his territory. In his home base. And, judging by the direction he’d turned the bike, to his private little cabin. She wanted to throw up but choked back her fear. If he so much as touched her, she’d fight him to the death. Likely hers, but she’d fight anyway.

She needed to get out of here. She needed to find the Jokers. Her sister. Was her sister still back in Albuquerque or . . . ? She didn’t allow herself to think the worst, that her sister was . . . dead and buried somewhere in the desert surrounding Albuquerque. She’d feel it, wouldn’t she? She’d sense it? They were twins! God, she didn’t really know. The thought brought a lump to her throat, and her head throbbed with despair, her heart pounding with renewed anxiety. What was this biker, this sexy but arrogant-as-hell biker going to do to her? Who were they, the Steel Kings? What did they have to do with the Jokers?

The bike had pulled up to a small, cinderblock structure a short distance from the main structure. At first she’d thought it would be a garage of some sort, but as they neared, she’d noticed that it wasn’t. He’d pulled the bike close, slowed to a stop, and put his feet down as he turned off the engine.

“Get off.”

Heart pounding even harder, she had. He’d pointed to the door and, legs trembling, she’d stepped toward it. He’d reached in front of her and turned the knob, then gently prodded her inside, flicking a light switch beside the door. She’d stood frozen, her gaze taking in the room in one fell swoop. A main living room seating area to the right, a small kitchenette to the left, two doorways in the opposite wall, one leading to a postage-stamp-sized bedroom, the other to what must be the tiniest bathroom in existence. He’d told her to sit down at a folding chair in front of a card table that served as a kitchen table as he’d strode through the space and turned on the bathroom light, then half-closed the door. The light gave the main room a cold ambience, all cement and sparse furniture. An overstuffed leather couch on one side, a flat-screen TV on a makeshift shelf on the other. And of course, the card table serving as a kitchen table. Through the doorway and into the bedroom, she’d seen the edge of a neatly made bed.

“Stay here.”

Just as abruptly, he’d walked out of the structure and closed the door behind him. She’d heard a key turn in the lock. Great, she was locked in. She’d listened as his footsteps crunched on the gravel outside, fading before she moved. She quickly jumped up from the chair and headed for the bedroom, seeking a window that didn’t face the main structure. Escape! She had to escape! She rushed into the bedroom so quickly she misjudged its size and toppled onto the top of the full-sized bed, which took up most of the room. Nikki landed with an oomph on the mattress. She quickly scrambled upward as a gasp escaped her throat, expecting it to stink of grease, sweat, and unpleasant male excretions. It didn’t. Actually, it smelled like fabric softener. She shook her head at the incongruous realization, scrambled off the bed, and stepped toward the three-foot-by-two-foot window opposite the bed set at head level. She reached for the metal latch on one side. The window design slid open sideways, but she couldn’t get it to budge. What the hell? She tugged repeatedly, sweat beading her brow. The room already felt hot and stuffy. He couldn’t sleep with the windows closed, could he? Why didn’t it open?

She wiped her hands on her jeans and then grasped the handle tighter, using both hands to tug. It didn’t budge. Why the fuck didn’t this stupid window open? She struggled with it for several moments, then with a grunt of disgust gave up and made her way out of the bedroom and into the bathroom. She eyed the tiny window over the toilet, not more than a square foot in size. Cringing, she reached out with the tip of her finger and closed the toilet lid, even though the thing was surprisingly clean. She stepped onto it and tried to tug open the window, again to no avail. It, like the bedroom window, was stuck or sealed shut. She growled low in her throat and tugged hard, the window rattling in its frame. If she cracked the glass, he would know she’d tried to escape. She didn’t care.

Muttering curses, she stepped off the toilet and out of the bathroom, then back into the main room. Two small windows on this side of the small house; one in the living room, one in the kitchen area. To her dismay, those windows were stuck as well. No way would he sleep in this box without any fresh air, no night breeze, no nothing. Or did he? Maybe he didn’t sleep here at all. Maybe this was just a room where they brought captives, to rape, torment, and God knows what else.

She needed a weapon. She stepped into the small kitchenette area and began yanking open drawers. Seriously? No silverware? Well, not exactly. She spied handfuls of plastic spoons, forks, and knives. From fast-food restaurants. Sporks they were called, those silly little contraptions that looked like a spoon with jagged edges. The small, fifties-style four-burner stove looked spotless, with only a cast-iron skillet and a plastic spatula sitting in it on the stovetop. She sighed. He might be a junk-food junkie, but he sure as hell didn’t look like it, all tall and muscle. Then again, this might not be his private domain, either.

Moaning with frustration, she returned to the makeshift kitchen table and sat down in the metal chair, her foot bouncing nervously up and down on the floor. Now that the adrenaline had started to wear off, she felt the achy muscles, the spinning sensation in her head, the fatigue tugging at her. She’d never had an adrenaline crash before. Was this what it felt like? It was obvious that she couldn’t escape right now, so she’d have to bide her time and watch for the perfect opportunity.

Would it come?

How could she get to her sister if she couldn’t get out of this place? Her sister . . . what was happening with Stacey? Was she alive or lying injured out in the middle of the desert? Or was she trapped in a metal container loaded onto a ship headed for God knows where? Or was she in a semi being transported down into Mexico, or Indianapolis, Tampa, or New York City? She formed a fist with her right hand and placed it hard against the middle of her forehead, trying to think. Had she seen anything at the auto shop that might give an indication of where they had taken Stacey? Had she heard anything when she was kidnapped that would indicate they were the same fuckers who had taken her sister? Doubts assailed her. Had her sister even been kidnapped? Maybe Roger had killed her. Maybe her body was stuffed into a trunk of a car in a local junkyard. She just didn’t know.

Maybe her plan to let herself be kidnapped by the Jokers would gain her nothing, but it was her only option. She couldn’t just walk up to one of them and ask what they had done to Stacey. As for herself, she barely remembered what happened. She recalled getting home, throwing her keys in the small dish by the front door, then nothing until she woke up in the back of that truck, covered with a tarp that stank of . . . what? Was it a clue? She wracked her brain and imagined herself back in the truck. No matter how much she wanted to stay away from it, she had to remember. It didn’t smell like the ocean, she knew that. So perhaps her sister’s body hadn’t been wrapped in that tarp and dumped in the ocean . . . no, that was stupid. If they’d dumped her sister in the ocean, they wouldn’t have retrieved the tarp.

The fabric hadn’t smelled of grease or oil, either. It certainly didn’t smell new, so where had it been? Damn it, she’d never figure it out. The tarp had covered not only her but pot, so no matter how hard she tried to identify what the tarp smelled like, her memory only caught on whiffs of raw weed.

What if she—

Footsteps approached from outside, and she stiffened in the chair, heart thundering in her chest, her eyes wide as she turned toward the door. Was it the guy who she’d ridden here with or another one? What would happen now? What did—

A key turned in the lock, and the door swung open. The dim light inside the cabin illuminated a figure in the doorway, blackness outside. The figure was shorter than she expected. Another shape behind her, maybe six feet beyond, stood, taller, feet spread slightly. That must be the guy who put her on the back of his bike.

She turned back toward the shorter figure as the door closed again. She blinked again, startled by the sight of a surprisingly young man, maybe in his mid-to late twenties, his baby face clean cut, not a whisker to be seen. He wore faded jeans, cowboy boots, and a black T-shirt, all fitting his frame like a glove. That glove was packed with muscle. He couldn’t be more than five-eleven but nevertheless oozed strength. Not the overdeveloped musculature of a bodybuilder at the gym, but real strength gained from hard work. Pale skin, small but full lips, and—the eyes . . . she barely stifled a gasp. She’d never seen eyes that color. The very palest hint of light blue but mostly grey. Like clouds gathering over the sea. The black pupils in those grey irises were disconcerting to say the least.

He stared at her. She stared right back. He held a plastic grocery bag in his hand and took several steps toward the card table, still eyeing her without an ounce of expression. She unconsciously pressed her back deeper into the chair, sucked in her stomach and shoulders, and tried to put as much distance between them as she could.

“I’m Doc.”

A frown tugged at her eyebrows. He was a doctor? He looked too young to be a doctor. What was he, a Doogie Howser or something? Riding with a motorcycle gang—club? Can I see your credentials? She bit back the words before they came out of her mouth. “You’re a doctor?” she asked instead, voice tinged with disbelief.

He grinned. A grin that altered his features. She felt the figurative punch to the gut. Curiosity. God, were all the members of the Steel Kings devastatingly handsome? What was up with that?

“Levi told me to check you out—” The grin widened. “Wait, that came out wrong.” He shrugged. “To make sure that you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” she said. She didn’t want him anywhere near her. Nope. He stepped closer anyway, pulled out the other metal chair, and sat down with a sigh.

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Are you hurt? What happened to you? I see a few bruises and scrapes and bumps, but you feel like anything is broken?”

Did she? Now that the adrenaline had worn off, there was no doubt that she was hurting in places she never knew someone could hurt, but as far as broken bones, she didn’t think so. She gently shook her head.

“Would you mind if I cleaned up the scratches on your face, just check out that bump on your head? You’re not feeling dizzy or lightheaded? Extraordinarily sleepy?”

Nikki frowned, still confused by the man’s presence. “Wait a minute,” she said, gesturing with her hand as he reached into the plastic bag and retrieved a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide, some cotton balls, gauze pads, and medical tape. What was going on? Could his presence be that simple or was it just a ploy? “You guys care whether or not I’m injured?”

He inhaled deeply and released the air slowly, as if striving for patience. Those grey eyes bored into hers. “I was told to provide care if you needed care. Do you?”

“I—no,” she said softly, her voice caught in her throat. “I think I’m fine. No need to—”

Without hesitation, he nodded, stood, and gestured toward the supplies he’d left on the table. “If you start feeling funny or you think something’s wrong with you, tell Sticks. He’ll come get me.”

“Sticks?” she asked, staring at his back as he strode toward the door—in quite the hurry it seemed. “Who’s Sticks?”

Doc glanced over his shoulder as he reached for the doorknob. “The guy who brought you here.”

Before she had time to ask another questions—and she had plenty—he opened the door and closed it none too softly behind him. What the hell? Had she inadvertently insulted him? He’d seemed pissed, but was he pissed at her or at this Levi guy for ordering him to check on her? She turned away from the door and glanced at the cotton balls, her thoughts turning back to escape. She needed to—

The door suddenly swung open, and a smiling woman about her age wearing lavender scrubs entered. Nikki frowned in consternation. What was this?

“Hi, I’m Callie,” the woman said, approaching the table with a smile. “I just got off of work,” she explained. “I work at a rehab facility in town.”

Still Nikki said nothing. Her thoughts raced. First the young man claiming to be a doctor and now a woman claiming to be a . . . a what?

“My boyfriend . . . fiancé now, used to live in this cabin. Anyway, you’re probably wondering why I’m here.” She waited for Nikki to say something, and when she didn’t, continued. “I just bumped into Doc outside . . . and I mean that literally,” she chuckled. “He looked . . . distracted. You okay?”

Nikki had trouble keeping up with the one-sided conversation. This woman looked perfectly normal, not a biker chick, as she was used to hearing the term or from reading books. She didn’t look tough, wasn’t tatted up, and in fact looked freshly scrubbed, cheerful, and helpful. Her next words spurted out of her mouth before she could stop them. “Your boyfriend is in this motorcycle gang?”

Callie laughed softly. “Actually, they’re a biker club. There’s a big difference. They’re not a bad bunch of guys, really. Oh, I know they can be intimidating. No doubt about that.” She offered a soft laugh. “I can’t tell you how many of them were, and still are, very leery of Grady . . . his nickname is Merc.” Callie reached for the bottle of hydrogen peroxide and absently picked at the label before looking up at Nikki. “What happened to you? What’s your name?”

Nikki said nothing as Callie continued to chat away. “The Jokers are bad news,” she said. She glanced over her shoulder as if to make sure no one was listening. “The guys here, they’ve had a long-running feud with the Jokers for years.” She put the bottle of peroxide back onto the table and eyed Nikki with curiosity. “I can tell you a few things that might put your mind at ease—”

“At ease?” Nikki scoffed. “They kidnapped me!”

Callie offered a half shrug and a glance of commiseration. “They’ll take care of you,” she said softly.

“I don’t need anybody to take care of me! I want to go home! Are they going to let me go?”

Callie didn’t answer that question directly, but offered a tiny bit of information. “Levi is the president of the club. You’ll usually find him upstairs over the saloon. That’s where he keeps his offices. And his sleeping quarters.”

“Offices? The leader of the motorcycle gang . . . club . . . keeps an office?”

Callie shrugged. “Sure. Someone’s got to keep track of it all, don’t they?”

Tracking things? Offices? “I’m not sure I understand,” she finally admitted. “This cabin is his now? The tall dude who kidnapped me?”

Callie frowned slightly, leaning back in her chair to eye her. “You mean rescued, don’t you?”

“No actually, Callie, I don’t,” Nikki said. “The door’s locked and the windows are stuck. Am I allowed to just walk out of here?”

Callie picked up a cotton ball and fingered it, eyeing her. “And where would you go?”

“Back home, of course. Where do you think I would go?” She wasn’t trying to be sarcastic. She wasn’t even trying to sound sarcastic. She felt confused. She didn’t understand any of this.

“The Jokers are bad news.”

“You said that already, and I knew that. They’re all over Albuquerque—” She clamped her mouth shut. Stupid! She blabbed so easily. But the lady, Callie, made it so easy. She had just divulged where she lived. Next thing you know, she—

“Would you mind telling me your name?”Callie asked softly. “I want to help you. And if we can, I know the club would help you as well.”

“Why would they?” Nikki asked, wary and cautious. “If they were so interested in helping me, why am I here now? Will the tall guy let me go?”

“Sticks? That’s his club name. Kind of apropos though, isn’t it?”

“What’s his real name?” Nikki wasn’t sure why she cared, but she couldn’t tamp down a surge of curiosity about the gritty, handsome man who rescued her and had made her his own captive—if only perhaps temporarily.

“How about we trade?” Callie smiled, leaning back in the chair and tossing the cotton ball onto the table. “I’ve already told you that my name is Callie. Come on, tell me your name. What’s that going to hurt? And I’ll tell you who Sticks is.”

Nikki wasn’t at all sure she could trust this woman. She seemed friendly enough, didn’t seem to be acting with guile, but what did she know about motorcycle gangs—motorcycle club members? She wasn’t naïve, but she wasn’t exactly street-smart either, not at this level. Maybe just her first name. That wouldn’t be such a big deal, would it? And maybe she was right. Maybe she was telling the truth. “My name is Nikki.”

Callie smiled, teeth flashing. “Nice to meet you, Nikki from Albuquerque.” She extended her hand, and Nikki glanced at it for a moment and then shook it. Strong hands, short fingernails. Capable hands. “You really the fiancée of one of the gang—club—members?”

A slight flush crept into Callie’s cheeks as her smile broadened. “I am.”

Nikki couldn’t help but see the happiness shining in the woman’s eyes, the way her lips curved up in a smile and most noticeably, the softness that took over her face. So far, it seemed that everything she had assumed about this motorcycle club was different than that of the Jokers. She had a hundred questions, but right now, her main priority was getting the hell away from here, somehow finding a way back to Albuquerque, and then finding out where her sister was.

“And the tall dude?”

Callie laughed softly. “That’s Seth. He’s the vice president of the club. The Steel Kings.” She paused as she eyed Nikki. “Do you know why you were kidnapped, Nikki? Do you know where they were taking you?”

“No.” How could she tell anyone that she allowed herself to be kidnapped? They’d think she wasn’t only stupid, but crazy. She certainly couldn’t tell Callie or anyone else that she was considering trying to get kidnapped again so she could find her sister. That sounded stupid just thinking it, but it was the only plan she had. Nevertheless, she wasn’t naïve enough to think that the Jokers gang wasn’t splintered into many smaller groups. They didn’t all ride together. But she knew one thing. Gossip traveled. In any environment—hospitals, schools, any business, any group of people was riddled with gossip. That meant that most of the Jokers would at the very least have heard a rumor about a kidnapping. Then again, maybe kidnappings were so routine for the Jokers that one more didn’t make much of an impression. She just didn’t know.

“No, I don’t know why I was kidnapped. I don’t know where they were taking me.” She wanted to say more, she really did, but she couldn’t trust anyone, no matter how polite and nonthreatening they seemed to be.

Nikki had no idea how the hierarchy in a motorcycle club worked, but if Levi was the president and Seth was vice president, that made him pretty big person in the all-around scheme of things. He must have some clout. Maybe enough clout to let her go. She just had to play her cards right.