Текст книги "Fire Me Up"

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Dedication

About the Author

Excerpt from Hold Me Down

The Editor’s Corner

Chapter 1

“Holy fuck!” Travis Sinclair stepped into the entrance alley of the building that had once been the den for a lot of shit and a lot of sin, dropped his pack on the cobbled floor, raised his sunglasses and wondered if he’d been transported into some kind of alternate reality. And not a good one at that. From what he could see, the Deacons’ former clubhouse had become a bohemian sanctuary, every available surface displaying some kind of hippie painting or sculpture. He should be happy it no longer resembled a fucked-up bikers’ lair—it’d be easier to sell without that kind of reputation—but, problem was, it now reminded him far too much of his mother.

The hair on the back of his neck lifted at that thought, and he screwed up his nose as the pungent smell of Eastern-scented incense wafted toward him. He took a tentative step farther inside only to be assaulted by the sounds of someone torturing an old piano in the courtyard ahead. He glared disdainfully at the back of the blond-haired asshole. Even far off, and without seeing his face, the shit looked high on weed. No real musician would be thumping the keys with such intensity while swaying so much he was almost dancing on the stool. He guessed the noise from The Priory—the bar Sophie, Priest’s daughter, now ran next door—was the reason he hadn’t heard any of this crap before.

He’d been in town for a week—some of it spent with Ajax, Leon and Micah at the bar—long enough to pay his respects to the man who’d been a pseudo–father figure half his life, a man who’d eventually abandoned him exactly like his mom had. The last thing he’d expected, or wanted, was to inherit three properties on Bourbon Street in New Orleans, a city he’d turned his back on ten years ago. A city tourists loved because of its dirty, gothic opulence, its ghosts and zombie history, but which he now hated for those, and other, reasons.

Turning away from the guy he guessed to be their tenant, Travis took his time to look more closely at some of the so-called art that hung on the walls of the alley and courtyard. Mostly bright-colored paintings, abstract he guessed—things like humans with rabbit’s heads and bright red balloons—and metal sculptures made from crap like old forks. Why anyone would want either stuck on their wall he had no fucking clue. But then again, judging by the lack of any actual customers in the gallery and the paltry amount Billie, the tenant, had been paying Priest to lease the joint, maybe he wasn’t the only one with some taste around here.

Having walked the length of the short lead-in alley, he came to the entrance of the courtyard and surveyed the scene before him. Where once a pool table—more often than not used as a makeshift mattress for sexual debauchery—had been front and center, now there was a fountain. An honest-to-God motherfucking fountain, with tiers and the frigging fleur-de-lis at the top. Talk about a turnaround. It was hard to reconcile that this was the same place where the Deacons had once held church. Despite the fact that it looked nothing like it had in the club’s heyday, memories Travis had spent the last ten years trying to forget, to put behind him, came at him like gunshots.

Not all of them were bad, but that didn’t necessarily make them good, either. The Deacons had embraced him and welcomed him into their elite club, but all that had meant nothing in the end. If he’d learned one lesson early in life, it was that the only person you could count on was yourself. He was a lone player now, and that’s the way he intended to stay.

“G’day, can I help you?”

At the sound of the soft, chirpy, feminine voice, Travis blinked and shook his head, trying to shake the memories and bring himself back to the now. He’d been so lost in the past he hadn’t even noticed the piano playing had stopped. He turned his head to focus on the figure standing beside him and almost swallowed his tongue. Heat flooded his body as he looked his fill at the sexy little specimen in front of him.

Turned out the piano player he’d written off as an asshole looked nothing like one after all. And he was a she. A very curvaceous she, with a short, mussed-up blond bob that made him want to slide his fingers up into her hair and yank her mouth to his. And Australian, if her accent was anything to go by. Although she looked curiously at him, her glossy-lipped smile was brighter and more real than any he could ever recall. It stretched across her whole face, lighting up her deep blue eyes. Travis took a moment to lower his gaze, raking it over her body—magic tits that made the palms of his hands itch without even touching them, a slim waist and hips to die for. Even though she wore a flowery skirt so long it brushed the floor, he couldn’t help but imagine her legs wrapped around him. His dick tightened and he thought about how hot it would be to expel some of his anger and frustration inside her.

She cleared her throat and repeated herself. The smile was still as wide as ever, but the friendliness in her tone had gone down a notch. “Can I help you?” she asked again, pointing to a painting on the wall he hadn’t realized he’d been staring at. One of those weird rabbit/balloon ones. “Do you like that? The artist is a local and so incredibly talented. There’s a story behind each of his canvases.”

Travis raised an eyebrow. “How much?” he asked, out of curiosity. It’d be a cold day in hell before he’d spend even a couple of bucks on a piece of garbage like that. He’d worked his ass off to get where he was today and wasn’t about to throw his hard-earned cash away on crap. The sexy piece of skirt standing in front of him was much more in line with his taste.

“The artist likes to speak with potential buyers first.” The woman bit her lower lip and his cock tightened as he imagined biting it himself. “Get an idea of your situation and your passion.”

In other words, thought Travis, trying to focus on her words rather than her body, the artist was a money-hungry prick who liked to meet his buyers to work out how he could rip them off.

“Do you want me to call him for you?” she asked, her tone enthusiastic.

“That won’t be necessary.” He took another glance around. “I could go down to the local elementary school and get something more to my style.”

Shock flashed across her sweet face, and then she opened her mouth as if to say something, but bored with talking shit, he cut in. “Where’s Billie?”

She blinked and then crossed her arms over her impressive rack. “Who wants to know?”

So the little flower child had a backbone. He liked a smart mouth on a woman. He liked a good body and a pretty face too. All these things made for a more interesting lay. What he didn’t like was all this new age crap and this girl was the fucking embodiment of that, from her long skirt and bare feet to the T-shirt with a painted mermaid on the front and the actual flower in her hair. She was probably one of the artists. No doubt she also read tarot cards. Real fucking shame.

“Travis Sinclair.”

“And who exactly is Travis Sinclair?” She perched her hands on her hips, which inadvertently thrust her tits upward. Nice. His mouth watered.

“The new landlord of this place.”

Her eyes widened and it looked like she might be choking. “Oh.”

“And you are?”

She took only a moment to recover, then sighed and rubbed her lips together before finally replying. “I’m Billie Taylor. The tenant.”

“You’re Billie?” It was his turn for shock. And he hated to be shocked.

Was this Sophie’s idea of a fucking joke? He’d told her his intention to stay in a room at the old clubhouse, and she’d let him believe Billie was a man. No way he was staying at The Priory with Ajax calling the shots. It was bad enough that Travis couldn’t walk away from all this shit, but that wasn’t an option.

He wished he had it in him just to give Sophie his share of the inheritance, ride out of this fucking city and never come back. None of them actually needed the real estate—he and Micah had enough money now to never want for anything, and Leon had lived in a fucking bayou for the last decade. By choice. He wasn’t right in the head. And neither was Ajax, which was why giving Sophie his share wasn’t an option. Looked like she and Ajax were together now, which meant he’d be essentially giving his share to Ajax.

Not in this fucking lifetime.

“Yep. That’s me.” The blonde lifted her chin high and hit him with another smile, but this one wasn’t friendly at all.

Shit. When he’d checked out of his hotel on Canal Street a few hours ago he’d assumed their tenant was some burned-out, old artist dude. Having lived here most of his life, he knew there was plenty of that to go around. The idea of moving in with a hippie hadn’t filled him with butterflies and flowers, but he didn’t want to waste any more money on a hotel, and it looked like he wasn’t going to be able to cut and run as fast as he’d hoped.

Fucking Ajax wanted to keep the joint, revive the damn club, embrace the old brotherhood, and Leon was all for it. They’d spent all night after the funeral downing bourbon, reliving “fond” memories and making plans, and had gotten progressively more obsessed. Only Travis and Micah could see that the best thing for all of them would be to sell off the buildings Priest had left them and get the fuck back out of town. Tallahassee might seem boring in comparison to New Orleans, but it was safe. This place still set him on edge; it made him feel things he didn’t want to feel. Travis knew the longer he stayed, the more likely he was to lose his shit with someone and end up in jail. Again.

Realizing she was still staring at him, he straightened and then gestured beyond them to the door that led inside. Despite her coolness, her paltry attempts at hostility did nothing to calm the fire rising within him. “Then you can show me to my room,” he told her, indecent suggestion dripping from his tone.

“Excuse me?”

Her outraged expression only wound the coil of heat inside him tighter. He turned and headed over to where he’d dumped his bag on the floor. Billie wasn’t wearing any shoes so he didn’t hear her stalking after him, but he felt her. She was following him and if he played his cards right, he could turn what had been a shitty day into one that would blow both their minds. Leaning over, he hitched his pack over his shoulder and then turned, expecting to come face-to-face with her alluring anger, but almost tripping over a little gray dog instead.

“What the fuck is that?” And where the hell had it come from? He steadied himself against the wall, his fingers closing around the edge of some grotesque fairy painting, and peered down at the thing that had almost resulted in giving him a broken leg. It looked up at him, teeth bared, a low growl emanating from somewhere beneath rolls and rolls of wrinkles. Travis had never been big on small dogs, but he had to give it to this one—it had balls.

Billie smiled that saccharine smile again. “This is Baxter, and I think what he’s trying to say is you don’t have a room here.”

“Well, Baxter.” Travis glared down at the pathetic excuse for a dog. “That’s where you’re wrong. In case you misunderstood before, Billie,” he said, looking back to her, “I’m the new owner of this building. And, as it happens, I need a place to stay for a few weeks. Maybe longer.”

“That may be,” Billie said, standing her ground, although he noted a quiver in her voice, “but I already live here, so you’ll have to find somewhere else.”

“I don’t think so.” He shook his head and made to move past Billie and Baxter.

She sidestepped so that she was in his way and Baxter bared his teeth even more, his growl growing deeper. “If you are my new landlord,” Billie said, her tone filled with disgust, “then you’d know I have rights as the tenant. You need to give me notice for an inspection and you definitely can’t just move in.”

“Sweetheart.” He leaned forward so he was invading her personal space. She smelled sweet, of some kind of strawberry shampoo or something that made his muscles tighten, but he ignored it. “No one tells me what the fuck to do. And if you can afford a lawyer, then you’re not paying us enough rent.”

“I…I…” Billie blinked, and her tits heaved up and down as she searched for more words.

He made no apology for looking, waited a beat, and when it seemed she didn’t have anything to add he tossed her one final question. “Can you afford a lawyer?”

Her shoulders slumped and she shook her head.

He smirked his victory. “In that case, you, me and Baxter are roommates.”

–

Roommates? Billie gulped, watching as one of the hottest men she’d ever laid eyes on swaggered past her and headed through the alley of paintings into the courtyard, and then opened the door that led inside to her house as if he owned the place. And dammit, apparently he did. That thought made her feel sick to her stomach, just as the way he looked heated other parts of her body.

Sophie, the previous landlord’s daughter, had told Billie when her father died last month that she had nothing to worry about, that it wouldn’t affect her or her gallery at all. But today’s unwelcome visitor told her otherwise. Having Mr. Arrogant Sinclair getting under her skin 24/7 was very, very worrying indeed. And that was even before she considered what would happen to her and the gallery she’d worked so hard to set up if he decided to increase her rent or, worse, sell the building from under her feet. Just when she’d finally started to get her life on track something like this happened. Something like Travis bloody Sinclair.

And she’d been naïve enough to think she’d broken free from controlling men.

Trying to ignore her racing heart, Billie looked down at Baxter, who was looking up at her as if to ask What the hell happened? She bent to ruffle his fur, thankful that he’d at least tried to protect her from this arrogant jerk. Then she glanced around the gallery and gave thanks there were no potential customers lingering, before marching over to the steel entrance gates to close and lock them.

No matter that his dark gaze made her heart pound; the last thing she wanted was Travis getting the better of her. She hated that he was the reason for shutting up shop in the middle of the afternoon, but she wasn’t going to leave that wanker in her house alone just yet. She’d noticed the way he’d looked her over as if she were a piece of meat, and she didn’t trust him not to look through her underwear drawer. She didn’t trust him, period.

Whistling to Baxter to follow, she retraced Travis’s steps through the courtyard and into the building. Her dog might be small, but he had a lot of bite, and she felt more confident with him at her side. If Travis tried anything, she had no doubt that Baxter would sink his teeth into the guy’s leg, and the idea of him squealing in pain gave her a tiny bit of joy in what was turning out to be a very crappy day. Although more than likely he’d just kick Baxter in the teeth.

She stepped inside—he hadn’t bothered to shut the door—and although there was no immediate sign of him besides his backpack on the kitchen floor, her home already felt different. It felt…compromised.

The rooms at the back of the gallery were far too many for just Billie. In theory there was plenty of room for a housemate, but that wasn’t the point. She hadn’t advertised for one, and if she had, a guy like Travis would be the last person she’d get. She got the feeling that even if they were sharing one of the mammoth French Quarter mansions, she still wouldn’t be able to relax with him around. He’d stalked inside like a tiger, and the sensations he sparked inside her were not at all unpleasant, despite her head telling her to be on guard.

The sound of doors opening and closing had her heading down the corridor in search of him. She found him, much to her annoyance, in her bedroom, staring into her wardrobe. And although she should have told him to get the hell out, she took her sweet time in announcing herself, choosing instead to take a moment just to look. Her earlier assessment of “hot” didn’t really do him justice. He had dark hair—not short, but by no means long, either—and dark stubble to match. Never before had she found a beard attractive, but his wasn’t long and bushy, and on him, it worked. So much so she had to swallow to stop from drooling. The dark leather jacket only enhanced his appeal, perhaps because it was so far from anything her ex-husband would ever have worn.

Pity he was such an ass. Not in the same way as her ex perhaps, but an ass just the same.

She cleared her throat and forced her itchy hormones back in their box. Now was not the time for them to awake from hibernation.

“This room is mine,” she said, folding her arms and glaring at him with more bravado than she felt as he turned to look at her with his dark, smoldering eyes. She shivered despite herself and almost forgot to add, “If you insist on staying, you’ll have to choose from one of the others.”

He took his time replying, his gaze sliding downward, scalding her body as if he’d actually touched her. For a moment she thought he was going to object—tell her that not only would he share her house but also her bed—but eventually he shut her wardrobe and nodded. “I always preferred the one next to this anyway.”

She swallowed. Of all the rooms in the house, he wanted to choose the one right next to hers? How would she sleep knowing he was mere yards away? Still, she was hardly in a position to argue, and if it would get him out of her personal space, well, that was a start.

“Fine.” She stepped back and gestured for him to leave. The only good thing about having Travis right next door was that she could keep an eye on him. Or was that a bad thing? Argh.

Surprisingly, he obeyed, stalking past her and smirking again as he did. She hated that she caught a waft of some raw, masculine cologne, which sent ripples of need through her body, rousing places she’d given little thought to over the last year. How ironic that the first sign of life down there had sparked because of a man who seemed intent on messing up her life. Why were the sexiest guys, the best-looking ones, always the biggest jerks?

He didn’t head straight for his room, instead going into the kitchen, and she found herself following. Her hackles rose as he opened the refrigerator and leaned inside, giving her a perfect view of his perfect butt. Oh help me, God! Had any guy she’d ever known looked so damn fine in faded jeans? Her thighs involuntarily clenched.

“No beer,” he said as he straightened.

Despite the traitorous hormones rushing through her body, she shook her head. It went against the grain of every single cell in her body not to be hospitable, but then again she hadn’t invited him to stay here with her. “Nope. Sorry. But there’s a bar next door.”

She wished he’d go back to it. He had to be one of the Deacons that had been hanging around The Priory the last few days. Sophie had given her a brief history of the motorcycle club—apparently it had disbanded around the time of Katrina—and informed her that it would be unlikely any of its members would hang around after her father’s funeral. But, dammit, it looked like she’d been wrong on that account. Billie needed to go see Sophie, make sure this guy was for real. For all she knew he could be anybody. He hadn’t shown her any proof that he owned the building, but something—maybe the way he’d leaned into her face when he told her no one tells him what the fuck to do—made her cautious. He was like a wild animal, and she didn’t want to make any sudden moves.

He smiled wickedly and leaned back against the counter, looking her over again, making her feel aroused and insulted all at once. “I know it. The bar and this place used to be my home.”

“Is that right?” She wondered about Travis Sinclair. He had the leather jacket, the swagger in his step and the don’t-mess-with-me attitude of a biker, but there was something about him that didn’t fit the image. He wore no patches like a couple of other guys she’d seen hanging around next door, but that wasn’t it. There was something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on. “And where is your home now?”

She waited for him to tell her it was none of her fucking business, but he shrugged off his jacket, hung it over one of the odd chairs that sat around her kitchen table and then pulled back the seat and straddled it. “Tallahassee,” he said as he leaned down and yanked a laptop out of his pack. It was a flashy MacBook Air—not at all the type of computer she’d expect of a biker. He didn’t even glance her way as he put it on the table in front of him, lifted the lid and tapped his boots against the tiled floor as he waited for the computer to spring to life.

No idea where Tallahassee was—geography had never been her thing—she vowed to google it later. Leaning back against the kitchen counter, she wiped her palm across her brow, feeling hot and more than a little bothered. Being warm in itself wasn’t unusual in New Orleans or in Western Australia where she came from, but the weather had nothing to do with the rise in her body temperature. And that disturbed her.

Her eyes zoned in on the bad-boy ink that traveled the length of his sculpted and tanned forearms, and the heat that had been simmering inside her boiled over.

Until this moment she’d have said she wasn’t a fan of body art—personally, she preferred her art on walls or in gardens—but Travis’s tattoos changed her opinion. And that was bad, because with her divorce only recently official, the last thing she wanted in her life was another man who thought he could walk all over her.