Dangerous (9 page)

Drago was just going inside the attached business: Hog Heaven Saloon.

A biker bar?

So that's why he'd exchanged the Trans Am for a motorcycle. To have street cred here. He must be a regular, must know some guy who frequented the bar.

What more was there to the man that she didn't know? He had a PI license. What was he doing hanging around with bikers, some of whom were notorious troublemakers? And lawbreakers.

One way to find out.

She drove around the block and then into the parking lot. Wouldn't Drago be surprised when she waltzed in the door.

But once inside the crowded bar, she couldn't immediately spot him. It was a giant room, L-shaped, with a big alcove on the other side, a sign designating it as a pool hall. Patrons dressed in jeans and leather and chains and headgear from baseball caps to scarves milled about, their voices adding to the cacophony. The sound of sports blared from giant televisions in more than one direction, and from yet another, the ding and blast of video games. The bar itself was a giant old-fashioned mahogany deal with an equally big mirror in back, maybe a century old or older. Impressive, but she was sure it wasn't original to this building, which was more like a renovated strip mall from the sixties. The bartenders and waitresses all wore black leather pants and skintight sleeveless T-shirts claiming patrons should Drink Your Way to Hog Heaven.

Try as she would, she couldn't spot Drago. But she couldn't miss the fact that all eyes were turning to her as she forced her way through the crowd. Because she was a woman alone or simply because she was a stranger?

“Hey, sweetheart, what are you drinking?” asked a bartender who looked as tough as some of the customers. One side of his head was shaved, revealing a number of ear piercings, as well as a tattoo that started on his scalp and continued along his neck.

“Information. I'm looking for Drago Nance.”

He shrugged.

“He told me to meet him here and his bike is outside.”

“Sorry.”

Of course he didn't look sorry at all. A little smug maybe.

Camille kept her voice laid back, even a little chirpy, like she was hot to find Drago. “Look, he just came in here maybe two minutes ago. He's tall, has dark hair, blue eyes. He was wearing a tan T-shirt.”

“What are you—a cop?”

Camille started. Was it that obvious? The cop in her wanted to press the bartender the way she would a suspect. “Not today,” she said with a fake smile as if she was sharing a joke. Today she
wasn't
a cop. Not officially.

“Feel free to look around for him,” the bartender said. “Can't help you unless you're looking for a drink.”

“I'll pass on that for the moment.”

“Suit yourself.” He turned away to take care of a girl wearing a belly shirt and shorts.

Camille pushed her way through the crowd toward the back so she could get a better look at the pool hall. Nope, not there. Then she went in the other direction where several men were playing darts and another few video games. None of whom were Drago. She stood flummoxed for a moment. Where the heck was he?

Some bearded guy got all up in her personal space. “Hey, baby, buy you a drink?”

She said, “Sorry, not interested,” as she turned in a full circle, her back to him, her gaze piercing the crowd without finding Drago.

Then another biker wearing a jean jacket and thick gold chain around his neck asked, “Don't I know you?” His was so close he was practically whispering and she could hear him.

Stilling the urge to elbow him to give her some distance, she said, “Nope, don't think so,” then started to walk away.

“Yeah, I do. You're a
cop
.” He said it like an accusation.

Her stomach lurched and she whipped back around to face him. He must recognize her even if she didn't know him. No sense in denying it. “What if I am?” Would that get him or one of his friends talking?

Appearing decidedly
un
friendly, he moved in on her, and a couple of his buddies stopped their conversations to watch.

“You arrested my brother Bobby a coupla years ago. You put him in stir for somethin' he didn't do.”

Aware that his comrades were now flanking him, she said, “I wouldn't know.”

“That's right. You
wouldn't
know. So why didn't you keep your nose out of his business?”

“When I make an arrest, it's because I'm doing my job.” Not that she had a clue as to who his brother Bobby might be, but she was pretty sure the arrest must have been related to a drug charge since she'd had a stint working undercover for Vice back then. “The state's attorney's office apparently had enough evidence to make the charge stick.”

This time when she tried to turn her back on him, he caught her upper arm in a viselike grip. Hard.

She gave him an intense glare. “Let go of me.”

“Maybe I don't wanna.”

Her stomach knotted. Great time to be weaponless. She could force him to let go of her—she'd aced her physical training—but the guy had a huge weight advantage on her. Chances were, he could take her if he pushed it. Worse, more of his cronies were gathering closer, as if they wanted a piece of her, too.

“Look, I didn't come here to give anyone trouble. I'm just looking for a man—”

“Here I am, baby!” the bearded wonder offered.

“So just let go and we'll call it a night. Deal?”

“I don't think so.” Still holding on to her, he shoved her against the wall. “Payback is a bitch. Oh, no,
you're
the bitch!”

Oh, crap! She was going to have to fight her way out of this anyway—if she could, considering the guy's backup. No one was trying to talk down the bastard. They were egging him on, looking like they were ready to share in the fun. Mentally gathering her defenses, she was trying to decide how to get away. She could do some damage to his thumb on her arm—that would make him loosen his grip and maybe she could run—when she heard a door behind her open.

And then Drago's voice. “What the hell?”

He was standing in front of the door with another man, whose tattooed arms were as rough as the leather he was wearing. His head was completely shaved, and a braided beard hung from his chin.

“Let go of her!” Drago yelled. “Now!”

“Keep outta this, asshole!” her attacker spat. “Ain't none of your business.”

“The woman is mine.” Drago made that sound convincing even to her.

“Then come get her.”

“Fight!”

“Fight! Fight! Fight!”

“Fight!”

The myriad voices ran together in a chant as Camille stiffened her neck and whipped her forehead into her attacker's nose. It crunched and he shouted in pain and let go. Blood spurted all over her. And then Drago grabbed him. The biker fought back, but Drago easily overpowered the bigger man, throwing him against the bar and pinning him there, hand locked around the guy's throat. He pummeled Drago's back, but she could see Drago tightening his grip until the guy's arms went limp and he gasped for air. Jesus, was he going to kill the bastard?

“Next time someone tells you to leave his woman alone, do it! Bother Camille again, and I will make sure you'll wish you were dead.”

He said this in a perfectly even, matter-of-fact tone that shot a chill up Camille's spine. She could hear every word clearly because the people in the bar had gone eerily silent, the only sound mechanical, emanating from game machines and televisions.

All eyes in the room were focused on them.

Her attacker was fighting to breathe…

“Okay, everyone back to whatever you were doing!” The guy with the braided beard was obviously in charge, because people turned away and voices buzzed and then rose until the room sounded exactly as it had a moment ago. “Drago…”

Drago let go and stepped back.

Braided Beard glared at the attacker, who was gasping for air. “Out, Buzzard. Now.”

The bastard choked out, “But, Titus—”

“One more word and I'll ban you permanently.”

Buzzard gave them a filthy look, smeared the back of his hand under his still-bleeding, now-crooked nose, then indicated he was going. Two of his buddies followed.

Camille moved to Drago's side.

He frowned at her. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. My head's a little sore.” She put her hand to her forehead and her fingers came away with traces of blood. Buzzard's. “Oh.”

“You're a mess.”

“Thanks. Really, I mean that. I wasn't sure what I was going to do to get out of that situation.”

“I would have done the same for anyone.” He turned his back to her to speak to Titus. “Sorry for the trouble.”

“Buzzard would have found it somewhere.” Titus looked past Drago to Camille. “Tough lady. I assume this is the one who has the problem.”

“She is.”

Camille remained silent for the moment. She didn't know what exactly Drago had told this Titus. Or why, for that matter. How was the owner of the biker bar going to help them save an innocent girl?

“I'll look into it.”

“Thanks, Titus.”

The men shook hands and totally ignored her as if she didn't exist. Okay, she was trying to play it cool after what had just happened. But now she was just getting pissed off.

So when Drago said, “We need to get going,” and tried to place a hand at her back to urge her forward, Camille ducked away from him and shoved her way through the crowd ahead of him.

When the customers realized who was coming through, they took a good, hard look at her. She must look terrific sprayed with blood. A ripple effect, the reaction went all the way to the entrance. She didn't stop until she got there. Leaving the bar alone didn't seem like a good idea, so she waited for Drago to catch up. People stepped out of his way and gave him wary looks as he passed. They were afraid of him.

As well they should be after the display with the guy Titus called Buzzard.

Dangerous…
Drago really was.

Crazy…that was her.

The moment Drago had said she was his woman—even while part of her mind had been protesting
—he'd gotten to her deep, buried, primal level.

Dangerous as he might be, she wanted him more than ever.

She just couldn't let herself have him.

Camille was outside and checking her cell when Drago caught up to her. It had been so noisy inside she might have missed a call or text.

“Jackson?”

Nope. Nothing. She shook her head and slipped the cell back into her pocket. “What in the world are we doing at a biker bar, Drago?”

He actually had the nerve to scowl at her. “You mean what are
you
doing here? You're supposed to be home, getting some sleep.”

“Is there some reason you didn't want me to come with you?”

“I didn't have a second helmet with me.”

Right. She was certain that was it.

Not.

“So you're a biker? What else? What else do you not want me to know about you?” His scowl deepened and she could feel waves of something dark and uncomfortable emanate from him. Anger? Or something else altogether? Obviously, he wasn't going to answer, so she said, “This is my case, and—”

“
Jackson's
case!” he snapped.

“And
you're
the hired help.” She clenched her jaw to keep herself from reacting to his flinch. He was more than hired help to her, but she couldn't let him know that. She wasn't about to give him the upper hand. “I won't be kept in the dark.”

He walked away from her.

“Drago! Wait!” She quickly caught up to him. “Where are you going?”

“Home to get that bastard's blood off me.” Stopping at his motorcycle, he put on his helmet and skimmed her body with his gaze. A flush of heat washed through her until he added, “You could stand to do likewise.”

A glance down at the front of her shirt reminded her that Buzzard's blood had sprayed her when she'd whomped her forehead into his nose. At least the fact that it was blood wasn't obvious against the dark green material. But her blood-splattered face and neck were another matter.

He swung a leg over the motorcycle and settled into the seat.

“Where?” she asked.

“Where do you think?”

Without bothering to give her an address, Drago took off.

Running to her car, Camille cursed him roundly. Was he always this difficult or just with her? She shot out of the lot as fast as she could, but she'd already lost him. Good thing her memory had always served her well. She backtracked to where he'd left the Trans Am. He must live somewhere on that block. But where? She sped up and practically made a two-wheel turn. If he didn't wait for her…

But to her surprise, he did wait.

When she got to his street, Drago was leaning against the car, arms crossed over his chest. He must have just put the helmet back inside. A sigh of relief. She parked and joined him.

He led her past what looked like a multistory frame single-family home, and then down the gangway between it and the brick 2-flat next to it. Thinking he must have a garden-level apartment, she was surprised when he crossed the back patio and took the walkway to another building at the rear of the property—a coach house with a garage on the ground floor and stairs leading to the second floor. He led her up the stairs, apparently to his apartment.

“So you don't use the garage?” she asked.

“Don't own it.”

She should have realized the place was a rental. He might be a PI now, but four years ago, he'd spent half the year in jail. Undoubtedly the lawyer who brokered the deal for him was the recipient of any savings he might have had.

Even so, the apartment itself was impressive. It might be a rental, but it was definitely high end. Open concept, a kitchen filled with stainless steel appliances and granite counters at the far end overlooking the alley, then a large plank dining table in the middle of the space, and a living area with lots of windows on the patio side. It even had a gas fireplace.

She stopped in the middle of the room, keeping some distance between them. “Very nice.”

“I was lucky to score it. Bedroom's big enough for a king-sized bed.” His expression shifted to one more intense, and he narrowed that distance between them. “Want to see it? I can give you a personal tour.”

A frisson of temptation shot through her. Drago wasn't just suggesting she take a look at his bedroom and she knew it. Buried memories of the things he'd done to her that weekend, of the way he'd explored her so thoroughly, had tasted every inch of her skin, of every crevice, had played with her and plied her with experiences new and exciting, came rushing back. Her skin was alive now, attuned to his nearness, prickling with wanting. Her fingers wanted to curl in that dark hair and pull his head to her. Her breasts ached for his touch, and her center radiated heat.

Even so, she said, “I'll take a pass on that.”

He took another step closer. “You'll have to check out the bed if you want to use the bathroom. You have to go through the bedroom to get to the facilities.”

She didn't like the way this conversation was going, so she attacked to deflect the growing need to do something about it. “Titus—how do you know him?”

“Cook County.”

“You met him in jail?”

He shrugged and backed off. “I met a lot of men in those months.”

“What did he do?”

“Burned a truck.”

“He set it on fire? This is the guy you went to for help?” What the hell had he been thinking?

“Titus Dixon is all about taking care of his own. The truck belonged to his sister's boyfriend. The bastard not only cheated on her but beat her up and then stole from her, leaving her destitute. And of course got away with it. Charges were never even brought against him.”

The cop in her knew she should condemn the biker for his actions, but the part of her that was removed from her job was less rigid, though the sister's case was one that Justus Investigations could have handled. If it had existed at the time, of course. Drago's brother had still been a CPD detective back then.

She said, “Titus sounds like someone with a history.” Not just anyone would take that kind of revenge.

“Probably. He didn't detail his back story for me.”

“What makes you think he can help us?”

“He gets around. Knows a lot of people with underground info. People who owe him. Hopefully, he'll get us some kind of lead.”

“And why would he do this for you?”

“Because he owes me.”

“What did you do
for him
?”

“Stopped him from being on the receiving end of a shiv.”

Homemade knives were common in Cook County Jail. She'd seen enough reports to know how deadly they could be. Drago might have saved Titus's life.

Friends with
another
criminal. Hackers were criminals, too.

That acknowledgment made her face just how far apart her and Drago's lives were.

Focusing on the case, she said, “The question is, can Titus get something for us quick enough to get that bastard Angel.”

“You have a better idea, speak up.”

Now there was the rub. She'd worked the case for months and had never caught up to Angel until that fateful IM had come through on her computer. And she hadn't even been there to get it.

“I'm hoping that Jackson will get some helpful information from the realty company.”

If he ever got back to her. She checked her cell. He'd gone off more than an hour ago and still nothing.

She was slipping the cell back into her pocket when Drago pulled off his blood-streaked T-shirt. “Huh. Should I try washing this or just throw it away now?”

Camille stared at his bared chest decorated with the fire-breathing dragon head and suddenly realized her mouth was gaping just a little. When she met his gaze, she realized his rugged features had tightened, his blue eyes had narrowed on her. Her pulse rushed. She quickly licked her lips and pressed them together and realized her mouth had gone dry. If only she could shut off her mind.

“Um, cold water. Rinse it while it's fresh. Soak it for a while and use a little shampoo on anything that's left and rub the material. Hard.”

He
looked hard. Sculpted. More than she remembered. His abdomen was flat as a washboard, but that six-pack…

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“Take off your shirt. I can get them both at the same time.”

“You want me to take off my shirt?” The very idea made her tense.

He arched an eyebrow. “Nothing I haven't seen before.” His voice held
that
tone again.

Heat crawled up from her middle, encasing her breasts, even as she protested. “The material's dark green. No one will know what I got on it.”

“C'mon. You need to wash up anyway. Just take it off.” When she stood there unmoving in stubborn silence, he added, “I dare you.”

The way he said it got to her. Did he think she had no control over herself? That if she took off her shirt that meant she was ready for anything? That he could simply will her to do what he wanted?

She started to undo her buttons.

One. At. A. Time.

His gaze dropped to her fingers, then didn't shift again. He didn't even blink. He was staring straight at her chest. And her flesh was reacting to his focused interest. Camille gritted her teeth together, shed the shirt, and held it out to him. His eyes never leaving her breasts, encased in a thin, flesh-colored bra that didn't hide her hardened tips from him, he reached out as if to take the shirt from her.

Instead, he wrapped his hand around her wrist and tugged her so that her body slammed against his, so that her breasts flattened and her heart beat double-time against his chest.

“What do you think you're doing?” she choked out.

“What you want me to do.”

“You're so sure of—”

“
You
. I'm sure of you.”

Fighting the impulse to give in to him, she said, “Don't be.”

He murmured, “Then do something unexpected,” as he swooped his head closer and covered her mouth with his.

With a gasp, she kissed him back.

For a moment, the world stood still, leaving them the only living, breathing beings caught in a bubble of time. She felt as if he'd swallowed her whole, as if she was somehow inside him, or part of him or an extension of him. Not a separate being. Not Camille. Not herself at all.

This was more than sexual tension. This was sheer transforma
tion. Giving up oneself to another human being. To Drago. To the man who'd hovered at the edges of her emotional interior for four long years. She'd lied to herself. She'd never been able to put him behind her.

For a moment, she lost herself in the kiss. Dueled tongue to tongue. Reveled in Drago's arms around her again. Immersed herself in a way that she'd experienced with no other man. When his hands slipped beneath the lace of her bra to cup her breasts, her head grew light. She imagined the things he was going to do to her…the things she would do to him.

The things they had done that had been unexpected…

He presses her against the wall. Pins her there and enters her. She wraps her legs around his thighs. They kiss long and deep and with such vigor she thinks he'll come fast and hard.

Instead he stops moving. Stops kissing. Simply pins her in place, his hands pulling hers up over her head into the wall.

He looks so deep into her eyes that she can't turn away. Their eyes connect them in a way she can't explain. But deep inside, she needs. Wants. Must have.

As if compelled, she rotates her hips, trying to make him move with her. Her body is on fire. She needs relief. He's not cooperating. She shoves herself against his length, drawing back to shove again. Again. And again. Pumping against him with a fury born of desire. Finally, lit from within, she climbs to the heights of ecstasy with a war cry torn from her throat.

Only when she drifts down and regains sanity does she realize he's smiling at her. Still hard, he now begins to move and she comes again.

Again.

And again…

Moaning, she felt her head go light as he stroked her hardened nipples. Felt her inner flesh soften and grow moist with growing desire. She wanted him. Now. Again. And again.

Why not? Why was she hesitating?

Doubt crept in. Drago'd had four years to contact her. Four long years to make a simple call. Besides, he didn't feel like the same person with whom she'd spent that amazing weekend. How could he? He'd spent months afterward in jail, consorting with criminals. Might still be there if he hadn't taken a plea. He was simply taking advantage of her weakness.

With a gasp, she shoved him away from her. “Is that unexpected enough for you?”

He reached out as if to touch her face. She intercepted his hand with her shirt.

“Here. This is what you wanted. Isn't it?”

He arched an eyebrow. “You wanted that kiss. You wanted more.”

“Don't touch me again!”

His expression closed. Now he was the one gritting his teeth. She was, of course, lying. And she was certain that he of course knew it.