Wild, Wounded Hearts

By Beth Kery

Wild Hearts, Book 2

When wild and sweet meet . . .

Z Beckett had always curbed the savage streak inside him when it came to his younger, fragile next-door neighbor, Ursa Esterbrook. Ursa was all that was good and right in the world. When Ursa unexpectedly walks in on an explosive situation involving Z and some vicious members of a biker crime syndicate, Z’s protective instincts blaze to the forefront. The only problem is, so does something else . . . something dark, forbidden, and intoxicatingly sweet. From the first taste of Ursa, he’s lost. He’s a despoiler of a girl that everyone calls a saint. What’s worse? He longs to do it all over again.

Passions flare.

Ursa Esterbrook had always had a crush on Z Beckett: the older bad-boy who may have been rough with others, but always reserved a sweet spot for her. When the opportunity finally arises for her to fulfill her fantasies, she doesn’t hesitate. She’s thrilled by Z’s forceful possession in bed. Unfortunately, he’s horrified by what he has done. It’s going to take some convincing to prove to him that she has every bit the strength, faith, and fire inside her to meet his dark and demanding nature.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beth Kery
• Release date: Jul 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463010075

Beth Kery

Beth Kery loves romance, and the more emotionally laden, smart and sexy the romance, the better. She has always been fascinated by human beings, their motivations and emotions, so she earned an advanced degree in the behavioral sciences. Her hope is that her stories linger in the reader's mind long after the last page is finished.

Book preview

Wild, Wounded Hearts

Wild Hearts, Book 2

By Beth Kery

Copyright ©Beth Kery 2019

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

Cover Design by Croco Designs

Book Formatting by The Deliberate Page

Permissions: [e-mail]

www.bethkery.com

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Epilogue

A Note from the Author

Wild, Desperate Hearts

Prologue

Twenty-two years ago

Z Beckett stealthily climbed the carved wooden staircase. It was the first time he had ever dared to set foot on what had always been considered forbidden territory in the Esterbrook house.

The sounds of agonized pants and muted screams coming from above made him want to shout as well, to fill his head with anything but that cruel noise. The boy stayed silent though, strangling his anxiety with the strength learned from his own suffering.

He heard the bear roaring outside—another mother in pain—and then a siren in the distance. Esme Esterbrook was going to be in so much trouble for luring that baby cub into the garage. Now the cub’s pissed-off mom was holding them all hostages inside the Esterbrook house. Five minutes into the standoff, Mrs. Esterbrook had gone into labor. Because the huge black bear was stalking angrily just outside the garage, they couldn’t open a door to release the cub. Meanwhile, the bear was blocking the driveway exit and intermittently wandering to other exits around the house. Mrs. Esterbrook couldn’t safely get to the hospital to have her baby.

And suddenly, it was too late. Baby Esterbrook was coming, whether they were ready or not.

Most of the time, Z couldn’t help but admire how brave Esme was, especially for such a little kid. But this time, she’d gone way too far. How was Esme going to feel if her dumb-ass prank had something to do with killing her own mom?

He pushed down the horrible thought. Silently, he crossed the sunny landing and eased down the shadowed corridor, all of his attention focused on the bedroom door at the end of the hall. It was cracked open an inch. His lungs burned painfully as he tried to restrain his panting. This was foreign territory to the orphan, next-door-neighbor kid: an adult world, a strange, compelling world.

The screams stopped, only to be replaced by the sound of panting…

And then, a tiny, kitten-like cry.

The boy knew those screams had been coming from Mrs. Esterbrook. He’d never met a prettier, nicer lady in his whole life. Every scream had sliced through him like a knife cut on skin. Still, he drew closer to the room, pulled by something his ten-year-old brain couldn’t quite comprehend.

Sure, he was pulling this crazy stunt because Grandpa Joe had ordered him to stay put downstairs in the Esterbrook family room with the littler kids—his brother Jude, their friend Mat, and Mrs. Esterbrook’s daughters, Sadie and Esme. Z didn’t like being told what to do. Before he’d been killed in a car crash, Z’s dad used to say that there had never been a line drawn that Z didn’t feel compelled to cross.

But even Z himself was surprised at his daring in sneaking upstairs in the Esterbrook house during such a critical time.

He felt sick to his stomach about Mrs. Esterbrook. Had his mother screamed like that just before she’d died in the car crash, surrounded by hot, twisted metal, smoke, and fire? The thought was unbearable to Z. He knew Mrs. Esterbrook cried out for a complete different reason.

But all pain sounded similar to a ten-year-old orphan’s ears.

He risked another step down the hallway in the direction of the door. The wood floor creaked under his foot. He abruptly halted at the sound, wincing in dread at being discovered. He plastered his back against the wall, holding his breath. Stephen would be as furious at him for this stunt.

Through a tiny crack in the door, he heard a man’s voice.

It’s a girl, Ilsa.

She’s a beauty, another man said, sounding awed.

Z recognized the first voice as belonging to Grandpa Joe’s physical therapist and caregiver, Stephen Jackson. Stephen had also looked out for Z and his little brother, Jude, soon after they’d been dumped on Grandpa Joe’s doorstep half a year ago. He knew that in addition to being a physical therapist, Stephen had been a medic in the army. In Z’s experience, Stephen knew just about everything. Surely he could help Mrs. Esterbrook safely have a baby.

At least she’s not screaming anymore.

Let me see her, Clive.

Let Stephen finish cleaning her up, Mr. Esterbrook said gently.

Z crept further down the hallway, closer to the door. He had a lot of experience stalking silently, thanks to hours of playing X-Men, Star Wars or Z’s personal favorite, Ghost Rider, with Jude and Mat. Now that they’d moved to Tahoe Shores, Sadie and Esme insisted on playing things like Xena Warrior Princess or Buffy the Vampire Slayer, a fact that disgusted Z. It had at first, anyway, until he’d learned it was just as fun to play the bad guy as it was the hero.

Hello beautiful girl. Welcome to the world, he heard Mrs. Esterbrook croon. She sounded very tired, but happy somehow. Z wasn’t sure how that could be right. Even the baby stopped her crying, as if she, too, wanted to hear the mystery in her mother’s voice.

He had to see Mrs. Esterbrook’s face in order to be sure she was okay, though. Holding his breath, he peered into the narrow opening of the door.

He recognized Stephen’s tall body and wide shoulders as he stood at the foot of the bed, wiping his hands off with a towel. Mrs. Esterbrook lay in the bed, a sheet pulled over her chest, while Mr. Esterbrook leaned over her, stroking his wife’s shoulder.

But what transfixed Z the most about the scene was the way Mrs. Esterbrook’s face shone as she looked down at her third daughter.

This is one for the family history book, Mr. Esterbrook chuckled. Z could see that his face was lit up just like his wife’s was as he stared down at the little bundle she held in her arms. Esme luring that cub into the garage, and her mother keeping us hostage here in the house would have taken up at least two chapters alone. But then, this little girl decided that was the precise moment she wanted to come into the world, and the plot thickened. If I had to make a guess, I’d say innocent face or not, she’s not going to be afraid of complicated situations, not to mention a little drama. What are we going to call her, Ilsa?

Mrs. Esterbrook glanced up. She looked directly at Z through the crack in the door with huge, greenish-brown eyes. He started.

Z? she called.

He flinched like he’d been slapped. Stephen’s head snapped around before he had time to move out of the narrow opening in the doorway.

Shit. I’m in for it now.

Stephen stalked toward the door, blue eyes flashing. What are you doing? How dare you spy on the Esterbrooks at such a private moment—

I didn’t see anything! I just looked a second ago.

Stephen blocked his view and put his hand on the opposite side of the door, as if to close it in Z’s face.

I heard screaming, Z said, growing desperate.

Stephen paused.

It’s all right, Stephen. Let him in for a moment, Mrs. Esterbrook said softly.

Stephen looked around. Then he was backing away and opening the door wider.

Mr. and Mrs. Esterbrook both stared directly at him. Suddenly the last place Z wanted to be was in that room.

Come in, Mrs. Esterbrook encouraged with a little, tired smile. Everything’s okay in here. It’s natural to have a lot of yelling when a baby is born, unfortunately. It’s all worth it. Come and have a look at the newest Esterbrook girl.

Z hesitated on the threshold.

Just for a few seconds. Things aren’t entirely finished here, yet, Stephen said firmly, but Z heard warmth in his voice. Stephen wasn’t as mad at him as Z had worried he’d be. Z glanced down warily at the little bundle in the crook of Mrs. Esterbrook’s arm.

Come on in. She won’t bite, Mr. Esterbrook said.

Of course an itty-bitty thing like that isn’t going to bite me.

Despite his brave thought, Z entered the room reluctantly. When he stepped up to the foot of the giant bed, he came to a halt. But Clive put out his arm and waved Z in his direction.

Z looked down at the little bundle in Mrs. Esterbrook’s arms. The baby’s tiny mouth was puckered up like it was about to blow out a candle. She made a funny gurgling noise and pulled a face. Then she opened her mouth and let out a squall that made Z jump.

Mrs. Esterbrook suppressed a chuckle and started to croon to her new daughter, soothing her.

She’s awful little to have such a big yell, Z said after the baby had quieted some.

She’s small, but she’s perfect. I’ll bet she’s over six pounds, Stephen said from where he stood at the foot of the bed.

At that moment, a loud growl resounded from the yard outside. Ilsa glanced around, startled. Poor Mama bear is still out there?

Yeah, Z replied. But three forest rangers, two police cars and an ambulance got here a few minutes ago. Grandpa Joe is on the phone with them, trying to figure out what to do.

"Esme," Mr. Esterbrook muttered darkly under his breath.

She feels real bad about it, Z said, compelled to defend his friend; even if Esme had been a dumbass for thinking she could make a secret pet of a wild cub in the Esterbrook garage. "But It was so cute," Esme had kept wailing when she’d confessed to her agitated father what she’d done. Z resisted rolling his eyes at the memory.

Girls.

She’s only six years old, Z reasoned when he noticed Mr. Esterbrook’s stern face.

Mr. Esterbrook’s expression softened a little. Z inhaled in relief. He was still trying to understand the Esterbrook family. He knew from experience that Mr. and Mrs. Esterbrook adored Esme and Sadie. To his amazement, their love didn’t appear to have conditions. Esme might be in trouble for trapping that cub in the garage, but her punishment would be fair.

More importantly, her parents would continue loving her as much as they ever had.

Z guessed he was glad for Esme. But he was also a little suspicious of this complete, unquestioned love he’d discovered in the Esterbrook household. In his experience, love was more like the scoreboard at a football game. The one with the most points won. Surely Esme had lost a shitload of points with this latest screw-up. Parents—100, Kid—0.

At least.

So how could it be that Esme wouldn’t end up a total loser?

So what do you think about her name? Mr. Esterbrook asked, bending down to brush his finger gently against his daughter’s smooth pink cheek.

Mrs. Esterbrook examined her daughter with a searching expression.

I don’t know, she murmured. It’s not quite coming to me.

Another roar vibrated the windows.

Maybe you should call her Baby Bear, Z volunteered impulsively.

Mrs. Esterbrook’s big eyes fastened on him. A smile flickered across her lips.

You’re right, Z. I knew we needed you. We’ll name her Ursula. It means little bear, she said softly when she noticed Z’s confusion.

He mouthed the name experimentally.

Mrs. Esterbrook’s smile widened. Thank you for the name, Z.

Better thank Esme for that, he muttered, his cheeks burning in embarrassed pleasure.

Mrs. Esterbrook winced.

Okay, time for you to go, Z Stephen said, moving to the side of the bed. Go and tell everyone that Ursula has arrived, and there are no complications so far. Grandpa Joe can let the EMT’s and forest rangers know. There’s no need to harm the bear, but Ilsa and Ursula need to get to the hospital in the near future, so they’re going to need to get creative.

Mrs. Esterbrook looked like she was in pain. Was she going to start screaming again? Z hesitated.

It’s okay, Z. I’m all right. This is all part of the process, she assured him through pants. He felt Stephen’s hand on his shoulder, urging him to leave the room.

When Z reached the hallway, he paused to listen at the closed door, hearing their muffled voices.

Sorry about that, Ilsa, Stephen apologized.

He was worried about you, Mr. Esterbrook told his wife.

Of course he was worried. He was thinking of his mother, Mrs. Esterbrook said before she gasped and moaned softly.

Chapter One

May 2019

Z Beckett had no patience for a fool; especially one whom he’d met in jail.

Who’s the fool, this douche bag, or me, for agreeing to meet him? At a damn bar, no less.

This is what I get for doing business with the devil and his minions.

So just like that, huh? Your boss says he doesn’t want the bike, and he wants the money back? Z demanded angrily.

Joey Slavitch, or Joey the Slant, as he was commonly called due to being born with one shoulder lower than the other, shrugged unevenly.

Frankie’s got no excess cash at the moment. He’s feeling the need to tighten the belt. You know he’s a businessman, above all else.

He’s the head of the Reno chapter of the Dark Psychles, a vicious crime syndicate. Not fucking Steve Jobs, Z muttered bitterly.

Joey took his cigar out of his mouth and threw up his hands in a bad facsimile of innocence. Crime Syndicate? The Psychles are a motorcycle club. A social group of likeminded men with a common hobby.

Yeah, making money in any way you can, including murder, theft, extortion, illegal gambling, drugs, prostitution—

Hey, I take offense to that!

When I met you at County Jail, you’d just pled guilty to possession and distribution of methamphetamine.

"I meant about the prostitution. I’m not involved with any whores."

Your boss is, which you know very well, Z said darkly, glancing toward the bar. His gaze fixed on the vision of the bartender pouring a beer. He swallowed with difficulty. His mouth felt dry.

God, I could use a drink.

No one in their right mind entered into business dealings with the likes of Joey the Slant or Frankie Saccardi, and did it sober.

Tell Frankie there’s no money to return, Z said. I did what he asked me to do with the down payment. I’ve worked my ass off on that Mescalero. I combed every boneyard between Hells Canyon and Tucson. I’ve put my own money into it, beyond Frankie’s. That bike’s a fucking piece of art.

Come on, Z. Be reasonable, Joey said, resorting to whining. You can’t expect Frankie to let this pass. How is that fair, if he loses all his money, plus he never gets his bike?

He gave a down payment for a customized bike. I kept my end of the bargain and built it for him. He’s the one who’s welching on the deal, not me. He was so mad he could spit acid. He should have known better. It was bad enough that he’d made a deal with a Psychle, but the head of the local branch of the motorcycle gang?

God, I’m a first rate loser. How am I going to make the down payment for the business in Columbia now?

There goes a dream down the crapper.

He tossed a five-dollar bill on the table to cover his Diet Pepsi and started to stand. He halted when Joey grabbed his wrist aggressively. Anger building like a volcano in him, Z slowly looked up and met Joey’s stare.

Let go of my hand, you bloated little weasel.

Joey’s hand skittered across the table like a frightened crab.

No offense, Z. Honest, Joey wailed. His thin face brightened. Hey, it’s not all bad news! Frankie told me to tell you that if you ain’t got his money anymore—

I spent his money, and a good chunk of my own, to build the bike that roadkill commissioned me to build!

The bar went silent at his roaring shout. Joey beadily glanced around at the frozen bartender and ten or so other patrons and. The Crucifixion Café’s patrons were very accustomed to brawls and violence, but not usually on a sunny spring Wednesday morning.

The good news is, Joey continued in a muted, conciliatory tone, Frankie told me I’m authorized to offer you a job. He wants you to work security for him. A big guy like you… Frankie knows your skills, Z. He sees your value.

"I see his value, and it’s worse than shit. Frankie’s offered me jobs a dozen times before, including racing on the circuit for him. I’ve always refused," Z stated flatly, suddenly too weary to continue this pointless conversation.

He stood and stared down at a sweaty-looking Joey the Slant. "You can tell Frankie the same thing I always have in the past. I’m a lone wolf. I don’t work for anyone but myself. Tell him I’ll try and sell the bike. I kept a strict account of my expenses for building it, just like I always do. I’ve sent Frankie an updated copy. If it sells, I’ll give him back what he paid, minus the price of all the cash and labor I put into it. But if I come up short on the quick sale, he’s going to be the one that owes. Tell him he can come and work for me, if he wants to make up for the difference."

Beneath his tan and a layer of sweat, Joey went pale. You can’t say something like that to Frankie.

I’ll say it to his face if he has the balls to show it to me after screwing me over like this. I had plans for that money… plans Frankie just fucked all to hell.

He paused as he walked past Joey. A large shadow had just darkened the sunny entrance to the bar. Another one followed.

Jesus, Z bit out in frustrated exhaustion. He gave Joey an accusatory stare. You brought Dim and Dum along with you? he asked, nodding in the direction of the two enormous thugs that had just entered he bar. He recognized the pair. Apparently, so did some of the other customers in the dive, because four of them suddenly made a dash for the door. Dim and Dum had been working security for Frankie Saccardi for a few years now. They held the same position Frankie was so generously offering Z.

It was Frankie’s idea to bring them, Joey said, sounding smugger now that Frankie’s gorillas were behind him.

I’ll bet it was. At least he wasn’t stupid enough to send Emory Martin.

Martin wasn’t working for us the night you rearranged his face, Z! We had nothing to do with him testifying against you. He wasn’t working for Frankie back then, and that’s the truth.

"Fuck me," Z seethed, his gaze stuck on Dim and Dum. Feeling irritated and defeated, he headed over to the bar. His Alcoholics Anonymous sponsor had told him dozens of times that he was most vulnerable to relapse when he was under stress.

And this was a pretty damn stressful moment.

Jim Beam, neat, he told the bartender. Adrenaline poured into his veins, making them sting. He didn’t look around, but he sensed Dim and Dum flank his shoulders. He assessed what was in front of him, looking for options to defend himself, all the while pretending to be a man lazily awaiting his drink. His gaze landed on a pool cue behind the bar. Its tip had been broken, and the bartender had been fixing it while business was slow.

One of the trolls tapped him on the shoulder at the same time that the bartender set Z’s drink in front of him.

Have pity, would you? Z asked, picking up the glass. If you’re going to pulverize a guy, the least you can do is allow him a little anesthesia, right? He glanced over his shoulder into Dum’s rock-like face. He held up the whiskey in a sarcastic toast and lifted the glass toward his mouth.

Z?

His hand frozen in midair, Z looked over his shoulder upon hearing the woman’s voice call his name. A heat wave struck him.

Am I hallucinating?

"Ursa?"

He spun around, gaping at the highly innocuous vision of his childhood next-door neighbor, Ursula Esterbrook. He hadn’t seen her since… had it been New Years? It had to have been. He’d spent last Thanksgiving in County Jail for assault against Emory Martin, public drunkenness, and disturbing the peace. Christmas had been spent in rehab.

But no, it hadn’t been New Years, he realized. He’d been home for the New Years holiday, but Ursa had gone skiing with a college friend. He hadn’t seen Ursa since last Labor Day… that holiday he recalled most because of the highly unsettling thing he’d glimpsed going on between Ursa’s mom, Ilsa Esterbrook, and Stephen, Grandpa Joe’s caregiver.

Ursa couldn’t have looked more out of place in the rough biker bar. She was all golden, crisp, and fresh: A perfect, new flower blooming in a pile of mildew, sweat and dirt. She wore black pants and some kind of satiny, silky button down peach blouse. There was a tie on it, which Z supposed was supposed to make it look business-like. But seeing as how the blouse hugged a narrow waist and generous, firm breasts, the blouse hardly would make a guy think of business. She carried a brief case on her shoulder, and her dark blonde hair was piled up on her head, a few soft tendrils brushing her smooth cheeks. He’d have been sure he was seeing things, if it weren’t for her wide, clear eyes.

No one could accurately hallucinate Ursa’s eyes. They were like pools of calm, pure water tinted fresh green.

No, it was Ursa all right, standing in this hellhole right before his very eyes.

What the fuck are you doing here? he demanded, an alarm blaring in his head.

She appeared unaffected by his harsh question, and equally immune to the two rough goons frowning at her.

You’re not planning on drinking that, are you? she asked him severely, pointing at the glass of whiskey in his hand.

Chapter Two

For several seconds, Z just stared as one horrible image after another paraded across his brain. Little, delicate, sweet Ursa Esterbrook stood there three feet away from him, and she didn’t have a clue she’d just walked into a room that was about to explode. Granted, she didn’t look little or sickly at the moment. In fact, she practically glowed with righteous indignation at the idea of him ordering a whiskey.

But that wasn’t the point.

All of his previous plans for defending himself evaporated into impossibility. Panic boiled up in him as he imagined Ursa bloodied and broken, all because of his idiotic choices.

He had to get her out of that bar. Now, while things had been tipped off balance by her unexpected entrance.

An idea struck.

Caught red-handed, he muttered sheepishly, turning to set the whiskey on the bar. Dim and Dum stared at Ursa, mouths hanging open like they’d just been sideswiped. Z knew exactly how they felt. A guy didn’t witness a righteous angel strolling into hell on a daily basis.

Gentleman, I’d like you to meet my probation officer, he waved at Ursa. Jennifer Rand, meet… You know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard your guys’ real names before, Z mused, feigning puzzlement.

Dim and Dum glanced over at Joey the Slant uneasily and shuffled on their boat-sized feet.

Z, what do you think you’re—

I know, I know, you caught me all right, Z interrupted Ursa hastily. He held up his hands resignedly and walked toward her, putting his body between her and Dim and Dum. I heard probation officers spied on and followed their offenders sometimes, but I didn’t think you’d take my falling off the wagon so seriously. He grabbed her elbow, seeing the bemusement on her face segue to dawning understanding.

Out of the corner of his vision, he saw Dum start toward them. Z pushed Ursa ahead of him. She planted her high heels and turned back. Damn it, Ursa. Dum took another step toward her, and Z’s fist instinctively curled up into a hard ball.

What are you? An idiot? She’s a cop, he heard Joey the Slant hiss at Dum. Joey shuffled toward them, a tense expression on his face.

She don’t look like a cop, Dum said in a surly fashion.

Feel free to join the dozens of convicted criminals who were stupid enough to think the same thing, Ursa said.

Z blinked, immediately veiling his surprised glance at Ursa. She was leveling a stare at Dum that could have cowed a charging bull in its tracks.

Your fly is open, Ursa added deadpan, nodding at Dum’s crotch.

Dum glanced down quickly, only to flinch in embarrassment when he saw his zipper was intact. Z didn’t think he’d ever seen a man turn that particular shade of purple. He resisted a wild urge to laugh.

What do you know about what anyone looks like, you box of rocks? Joey the Slant said bitterly, slapping at Dum’s shoulder. Come on. We’re getting out of here.

Joey met Z’s stare as he passed. This ain’t over, Z. Not by a long shot. Be ready to hand over either the bike, or the money.

Z just shrugged negligently, all of his attention focused on the woman who stood next to him, all of his will concentrated on erasing threat from anywhere near her.

Come on, Z told Ursa tersely when they exited the bar onto a sunny spring morning. He pulled her alongside him toward his bike.

But I have my car, Ursa protested. It’s parked down the street.

We’ll come back for it once things quiet down. I wouldn’t put it past Joey to have us followed.

But they can follow us on your bike too, can’t they? Ursa asked, accepting his helmet without hesitation when he gave it to her. She shrugged off her briefcase and passed it to him while she fastened the helmet. He had to hand it to her. Despite her initial confusion at his slight of hand in the bar, she’d handled the situation like a pro. At the moment, she was all brisk business.

He handed her back her briefcase.

Are you forgetting how I drive? He mounted his sleek, aggressively styled custom Bonnie.

Her eyebrows arched. She nodded once in understanding, a small smile pulling at her lips.

Had her mouth always been so pink and edible looking?

Z pushed aside the inappropriate thought and gave her a hand while she straddled the seat behind him.

What do I do with my briefcase?

You’re going to have to put it between us and squeeze up tight to me. Tighter, Ursa, he said when she followed his instructions.

She tightened her hold around his waist. Her arms felt slender, but surprisingly strong. He felt her cheek press against the back of his shoulder.

Is that tight enough?

Not nearly, baby girl.

Shocked at his own intrusive thought, he busied himself with starting his bike.

He didn’t think of Ursula Esterbrook like he would most attractive women. He tried not to, anyway.

For Christ’s sake, get a grip. You were there when she was born.

Where are we going? she called out to him as they left the Crucifixion Café’s gravel parking lot.

Were you on your way to work? Do you want me to drop you off at the hospital? I’ll have to do a little maneuvering first, to make sure we aren’t being followed, he said as they sped along the mangy Reno backstreet where the café was located. What the hell had Ursa been doing in this scummy neighborhood to begin with?

No, don’t worry about that. I was out doing some home visits, so they won’t expect me at the office until this afternoon, she yelled over the roar of the engine. Why don’t we go to my place? We can talk.

He paused, considering. He didn’t like the idea of exposing her to his seedy life anymore than he already unintentionally had. But then again, he had complete faith in his ability to lose anyone who attempted to follow them. No one would know he’d indulged in a nostalgic moment with a neighborhood girl from his childhood.

No one but Ursa and him.

He’d never been to Ursa’s Reno apartment, where she’d moved to work as a social worker in a local hospital. But the idea of being with her in her undoubtedly clean, bright, wholesome environment—a miniature slice of the Esterbrook house in Tahoe Shores—held a strangely compelling appeal.

Maybe it was because he’d just had a close call with something so foul.

She gave him her address, and he rapidly calculated a route to get there, one that was guaranteed to expose and avoid any potential tail. He had a history of losing tails in Reno.

He was surprised, and a little irritated, at himself for not making some excuse, and getting her to a safe distance from his presence, as soon as possible. He told himself it had nothing to do with how nice her cheek felt pressed against his leather jacket, or how good it felt having her hug him so tightly… or how much he resented her damn briefcase for creating a barrier between him and her breasts pressing against his back.

No. It couldn’t have anything to do with that.

Ursa lived in a luxury apartment complex southwest of the city. She probably didn’t think of it as luxury, but he did. It was a private end unit, with two bedrooms, a pool and exercise facility on the complex, lots of windows, hardwood floors and granite countertops. Z approved of the fact that the windows were high up in the building, and the entry possessed not one, but two security doors. He had a feeling Ursa’s father would have approved of his youngest daughter’s residence just before he’d passed away, as well.

Sunshine flooded around him when she led him through the front door.

He knew Ursa’s salary at the