Black Listed (22 page)

SHELLY BELL
writes sensual romance and erotic thrillers with high emotional stakes for her alpha heroes and kick-ass heroines. She began writing upon the insistence of her husband, who dragged her to the store and bought her a laptop. When she's not practicing corporate law, taking care of her family, or writing, you'll find her reading the latest smutty romance.

Shelly is a member of Romance Writers of America and International Thriller Writers.

Visit her website at
ShellyBellBooks.com
.

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BENEDICTION NOVELS

Black Listed

Blue Blooded

Red Handed

White Collared

Part One: Mercy

Part Two: Greed

Part Three: Revenge

Part Four: Passion

After a long battle to discover the truth, the men and women of Hard Ink have a lot to celebrate, especially the wedding of two of their own—Nick Rixey and Becca Merritt—whose hard-fought love deserves a happy ending. As Nick and the team shift from crisis mode to building their new security consulting firm, Becca heads back to work at the ER. But amid the everyday chaos of their demanding jobs and upcoming nuptials, an old menace they thought was long gone reemerges, threatening the peace they've only just found.

 

W
earing only her bra and jeans, Becca sat in a chair in the middle of Nick's tattoo room. Since the shop was closed while Jeremy focused on getting the construction on the other half of the building started, they were the only ones down there. The driving beat of a rock song played from the radio as Nick moved around the room getting everything ready.

Cabinets and a long counter filled one wall, which was otherwise decorated with drawings, tattoo designs, posters, and photographs of clients.

Becca had seen Nick work before and loved the dichotomy of this hard-edged, lethal soldier having a soft, artistic side. He was really freaking talented, too.

He handed her three sheets of paper. “I worked up a couple different fonts. What do you think?”

She shifted between the pages. “This one,” she said, settling on the cursive design that best interweaved the letters in the words
Only, Always, Forever.

“That was my favorite, too,” he said, giving her a wink. “How is this for size? Bigger? Smaller?”

The total design as he had it on the sheet was about four inches square, the words stacked atop one another. “This looks good to me. What do you think?”

Nick nodded and came behind her. He folded the sheet to focus on the design, then held it against the back of her right shoulder. “Yeah. This is a good size for the space. Gonna be fucking beautiful.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her skin. “Let me go make the stencil, and we're ready to go.”

A few minutes later, he cleaned her skin, affixed the stencil, and let her look at its placement before getting her settled into the chair again.

He pulled her bra strap off to the side. “Ready?”

“Very,” she said, butterflies doing a small loop in her belly.

The tattoo machine came to life on a low buzz. “Just relax and let me know if you need a break, okay?” he said, dipping the tip into a little plastic cup of black ink.

“Okay.” His gloved hands fell against her skin, and then the needles. Almost a scratching feeling, it didn't hurt nearly as bad as she thought it would. And just like when he'd drawn on her with skin markers, she was already dying to see what it looked like.

“How you doing?” he asked in a voice full of concentration she found utterly sexy. Just the thought that he was permanently altering her skin—just like he'd permanently altered her heart, her life, her very soul—sent a hot thrill through her blood.

“I'm good,” she said, relaxing into the sensation of the bite moving across her skin. “Is it weird that I kinda like how it feels?”

He didn't answer right away as the needle moved in a long line. He pulled the machine away and wiped at her shoulder. “Not weird at all,” he said, his voice a little gravelly. “Some people like the sensation and even find getting tattoos addictive.”

“I can see that,” she said. He worked without talking for a stretch, and the combination of the quiet intensity radiating off of him, the driving rock beat, and the buzz of the machine was heady and intoxicating. She found herself breathing a little faster and wanting so much more of him to be touching so much more of her. If she thought he was sexy putting ink on someone else, it was nothing compared to how she felt when he was doing it to her.

“What are you thinking about so hard?” Nick asked, his breath caressing her bare shoulder.

“Really want to know?” she asked, already smiling at what his reaction might be.

“Always,” he said, wiping at her skin. He dipped the machine in the ink and leaned in again.

“How turned on this is making me.” She really wanted to turn to see his expression but knew she wasn't supposed to move.

He pulled the machine away again. “Jesus, Becca. You're killing me here.”

She grinned. “I asked if you really wanted to know.”

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Bailey Hart has never felt at home in her small town. So when her band gets their big break in Los Angeles, “Wild Hart” can't run fast enough . . . If only there weren't so many reasons to stay. After a harrowing stint in the Oakland Police Department, Chase McKee has returned home a hero, and yet he feels anything but. And when he finds out Bailey might be leaving for good, the feelings he's always harbored for his best friend's cousin just won't stay hidden.

 

C
hase picked up on the roar of the engine long before the motorcycle actually came into view. Reaching for the radar gun, he aimed it in the direction of the sound.

Ninety-two miles per hour. Did this guy have a death wish?

He'd no more tapped the gas on the cruiser when the motorcycle blazed past him in a midnight-blue streak. He flipped on his lights and siren and the bike immediately slowed as the rider glanced backward before pulling onto the shoulder.

At least he has
some
respect for the law
, he thought acerbically as he stopped behind the motorcycle and ran the plates.

The registered owner's name came up on his computer screen and his eyes shot back to the rider.

“Damn it,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders back and preparing for the battle he had no doubt was coming. Chase rolled his eyes and climbed out of the vehicle with a sigh of resignation. Crossing his arms, he greeted the most beautiful woman—and the biggest troublemaker—he'd ever met as she slid her helmet off her head and brushed stray hairs back into her low honey-colored ponytail.

“Funny seeing you here, Bailey. When did you get this thing, and are you trying to kill yourself with it?”

She turned her dazzling pearly whites on him, her blue eyes flashing with mischief as she set the helmet on the seat behind her. Chase had been dying to ask her out ever since his return to town almost two years ago but she had no idea and, unfortunately, he needed to keep it that way. Her cousin Justin was one of his best friends, and if he knew Chase thought of Bailey as anything other than Justin's “little sister,” Chase would probably have to arrest his friend for assaulting a police officer. Not to mention that he'd need to check himself into the hospital.

“Just picked it up last week.” Her fingers ran lovingly over the blue gas tank between her thighs, and he felt his body immediately react. He stifled the response. “I guess I'm still getting used to how much power it has.”

“Ya think?” He couldn't help but chuckle at her understatement as he clicked the top of his pen and started writing out a speeding ticket. “I need your license and registration.”

“Aw, come on, Chase. Really?” She bit her lower lip, looking up at him from under her thick, dark lashes, and he felt the heat of desire trickle down his chest and center low in his belly. “I'll slow down. I swear.”

“And you'll never do it again, right?” He didn't believe her for a second. Everyone knew Bailey's reputation as the wild child of the Hart family. She didn't just march to the beat of her own drum, she conducted the entire orchestra to a tune of her design.

“You know, you should come by for dinner tonight. I'm fixing enchiladas for them. We're hoping the spicy food will put Jules into labor. There'll be plenty if you want to stop by.”

A flirtatious smile spread over her full lips and her eyes sparkled like sapphires. Chase felt the sizzle of heat come to life again. If he didn't know her better, he'd think she was flirting. That was the last thing he needed right now. He turned the pad toward her and handed her the pen, indicating she should sign the line. She stared up at him expectantly, practically batting her eyelashes.

Chase cocked his head to the side and gave her a lopsided grin. “Plying me with dinner isn't going to get you out of a ticket, Bailey.”

Her eyes narrowed as he tapped the pad again. Bailey jerked it from his hand and scribbled her name, slapping the pen against it irritably when she finished. He ripped her copy of the citation from the pad and handed it back to her with the other documents. “You
do
realize trying to bribe an officer is a felony, right?”

She cocked a brow at him as she slid her helmet back over her head and slipped her sunglasses on, starting the engine. “Who said anything about bribing you? Maybe I was trying to poison you.”

Chase couldn't help but laugh as she eased the bike back onto the road. “Murder One is a felony, too,” he yelled after her.

Damn, that woman could turn him on faster than she did that bike.

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Once comfortable on stage in front of thousands, Joely Crockett is now mortified at the thought of walking—or rolling—down the aisle at her sisters' wedding. Scarred and wheelchair-bound, the former beauty queen has lost more than the ability to walk—she's lost her fire. But when one handsome, arrogant guest accuses her of milking her injuries and ignites her ire, Joely finally starts to feel truly alive again, and soon it's impossible for her to resist her heart's desire.

 

“Y
ou look lost.”

She started at an unexpected, masculine voice and swung her gaze to the dining room doorway. Her mouth went dry as a summer drought, and her pulse hiccupped before it began to race. The man who stood there with a hot smile and a confident demeanor owned a pair of the sharpest hazel eyes she'd ever seen, sandy-gold hair the color of a palomino stallion, and a jaw and cheekbones strong enough to have been chiseled out of Wyoming granite. Most unsettling of all was a smile that likely could have charmed Sunday school teachers out of their knickers—in any era past or present.

After she'd stared for an impolite number of seconds, Joely lowered her eyes and cupped her chin so her thumb rode up the left side of her in order to hide the scar. She'd convinced herself it made her look thoughtful and masked the self-consciousness she'd never suffered before the accident.

“I might be lost,” she said. “But I'm probably not.”

“You're Joellen.”

“Not unless you're angry at me.”

He raised one amused brow. “I'm not.”

“Then it's Joely.”

“I admit it; I knew that. What I don't know is how a pretty little thing like you could possibly be sitting all alone like this in a house full of women.”

She stared, not sure whether she was annoyed at the “pretty little thing” epithet or surprised at his mind-reading ability, since she'd been wondering the same thing.

“My whole family is in the kitchen through that door. I could ask you the same thing. What's a patronizing cowboy like you doing in my mother's dining room knowing my name when I don't know yours?”

The grin widened, and he strode into the room, dark denim jeans fitted nicely on his hips, a subtle plaid shirt tucked at the waist, and a casual brown sport coat giving him a touch of western class. He reached her in three strides, his cowboy boot heels beating a soft, pleasant cadence on the oak floor. “Alec Morrissey,” he said, holding out his hand. “Alexander if you're mad at me.”

The name left her stunned again. She knew it. Anyone who followed rodeo knew it. But he couldn't be
the
Alec Morrissey—the one who'd won three PRCA titles and then dropped out of sight half a dozen years ago . . . She shook her head to clear it before she could blurt a question that would sound stupid. She kept her hand over her scar by pretending to scratch her temple and took his hand to shake it. His firm, dry masculine grip sent a small warning shiver through her stomach.

“I'm not,” she said.

“Not what?”

“Not mad at you.”

“Ah. Even if I'm patronizing? Or if I admit I'm not a real cowboy? Which I'm not, by the way. I wear the boots because they're comfortable.”

She wanted to tell him she'd only forgive him if he promised never to call her a pretty little thing again. Her father had called her that, but not in a proud papa kind of way. It had been more a “you're my delicate little flower, don't worry your pretty little head over such things” kind of way. But based on the confidence this man exuded, Joely doubted she could tell him to do or not do anything.

“Well, I can't lie. I'm disappointed about the cowboy part. But if you swear to quit being patronizing, I won't be mad.”

He pulled out a chair beside her and sat backward on it, comfortable and easy, looking as if he'd lied about not being a cowboy and straddled seats and saddles every day.

“Ma'am, if calling you pretty is patronizing, I can't swear because any promise I made I would break every time I saw you.”

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