Two Hitmen: A Double Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Lawless Book 1) (62 page)

“Well, I’m sure that’s all bollocks,
 
Cara, but it’s sweet of you to say so all the same. But that isn’t what I wanted to tell you.”

“No?”

“No,
 
Cara, that’s just by way of an introduction to the topic. It’s a kind of a preamble, if you get my meaning.”

“Ah.”
 
Cara looked in Brendan’s eye, although it did present a moving target, and she told him, “You have come into my store, where I sell a range of fine whiskeys, and you have, I think, partaken of whiskeys of a quite different standard. And you came here to tell me something, you said?”

Brendan’s nose wrinkled. “ Cara, would you take a walk with me? I could show you the flowers by the brook. Do you ever get down by the brook?”

Her lips thinned, “Brendan, you are a charming man, and it is quite flattering for a girl to be asked out walking, but my time is all taken up with running and taking care of my little business here.” She held his eye. She thought about whether to add,
and a girl likes to be asked by a man who knows what he’s saying and not only what the spirit from a bottle might provoke him to say
, but she didn’t.

His eyes darkened, “It’s always the same with you people. My kind are just never good enough for you.” He turned on his heel and marched noisily out of the door.

 
Cara didn’t want to make an enemy of Brendan, nor of the gypsies, but she knew that if she encouraged his attention by the tiniest amount that he would simply make it harder and harder to deflect. And there were parts of her that didn’t want to deflect him. Some quite distinct parts.

One morning, without thinking about it or knowing why,
 
Cara picked out a light, soft, flowing red dress. The fabric hugged and draped off her curves. Wearing it felt like the first day of spring. Finally her accounts looked to be showing a steady improvement and when she awoke she had heard birds singing.

 
Cara could not have said what it was that had really prompted her to smooth the lush red cotton over her womanly form that morning. Neither could she have explained why she turned in the mirror for a little longer than usual, rather than simply putting on the black skirt and blouse that she had pressed the night before.

That afternoon in the store, the bubbles of conversation among the ladies faltered when a big motorcycle engine roared in the distance. In the distance, but growing unmistakably louder.
 

 
Cara could see all of the women thinking,
Oh, but it can’t be coming here
. Some touched their necks. Some touched their chests. Mrs Barstow swished her skirt.
 
Cara remained professionally impassive.

Lines crossed the ladies faces but sparkles awoke their eyes as they plainly struggled between hoping that it wasn’t coming here, and
really
hoping that it was.

The roar grew louder. It crackled through and around the streets of the small town. The rumble made windows and crockery shake. Rasped as it grew louder still. And then it stopped.

There was a silence.

The air in the room jumped as the door sprang open. The bell tinkled and a matching jingle came from the heavy boots of the visitor. In the doorway stood a man in dark sunglasses, wearing a heavy black motorcycle jacket and blue denim jeans.
 

He started into the store, but he stopped as soon as he saw
 
Cara. He stood tall, his feet apart. An unruly shock of thick silver hair crowned his chiseled features.

His eyes, deep lapis blue, shone over his shades and across the room.
 
Cara smiled. “What can I show you?”

“Nothing at all.” His voice was deep and strong and
 
Cara’s stomach fell. She had to fight the urge to reach for her hair or chew her lip. The performance of shop-keeping, the studied formality usually came effortlessly to her, she never gave it a thought.

He pulled off the sunglasses. Now she bristled with urges to fidget, to tip her head coquettishly. She didn’t. She kept her poise, held herself tall and straight, and held his eye. As he held hers.

The man said, “I can see what I want.”

The chains on his boots jingled like spurs and the floor shook as he strode to the counter and stopped in front of
 
Cara. She tingled in unexpected places, and her juices welled up.

The intake of breath from the bustling ladies almost masked the noise of Brendan and the two gypsy girls slipping in through the door.
 
Cara’s emporium hadn’t been this crowded since – well, since ever.

Brendan called from the doorway, with the two flame-haired beauties in front of him, “Is that man giving you trouble,
 
Cara?” There was more brogue in his voice than usual, and the rhythm of his speech seemed uncertain.

The biker’s eyes stayed on
 
Cara as she said, “No, not at all Brendan. Now, what is it that you want?”

“Oh, that’s a nice way to greet your customers,” Brendan said,

“Well, Brendan, you aren’t really a customer, are you. You’re a visitor who comes into the Emporium, but that isn’t quite the same thing.”

The ladies shuffled, bustled and cooed, their heads twitching from side to side.

Brendan told his girls, “Why don’t you go and pick yourselves out a few chocolates, while I have a word with
 
Cara here.”

The girls hesitated and
 
Cara said, “Brendan, will you be paying for those chocolates?” and at that, the girls became still. Brendan said,

“Well, I shall be in time, no doubt.” Smiling,
 
Cara said,

“So that will be the time to choose them. The chocolates are so much better when they’re fresh. The temper goes off if they’re left too long. They blush.”

The biker was still looking into
 
Cara’s eyes, watching her. Studying her. Brendan came over to the counter. He wasn’t as tall as the biker, and his breath seemed as though it could be flammable, but he was broad, heavy and strong. Brendan said, “Ah, well you could just front me up a couple of panatelas, then, and we’ll be on our way.”

 
Cara said, “Brendan, you know that I’m not going to front you anything. Now I think maybe that it’s best if you leave.” It was then that she noticed, as well as the spirit of bravery on Brendan’s breath, the small knot of gypsies gathered outside the Emporium, their breath misting on the glass and mischievous glimmers lighting in their eyes.

“Okay, Brendan,”
 
Cara said, stepping around from behind the counter, “I think it really is time for you to leave.”

“Ah, don’t get all stuffy on me,
 
Cara,” Brendan took hold of
 
Cara’s hand in both of his.

Immediately the big hand of the biker was on Brendan’s throat, and he said quietly, “You heard the lady’s polite invitation to you to leave.” Brendan’s neck reddened as his face drained pale.

There was a burr in the biker’s voice as he went on evenly, “I won’t use such nice manners. If I have to tell you, I’ll give you an injury to help you to remember.” The gypsies outside on the street were starting to slip through the door and inside.

The biker’s hand stretched under Brendan’s jaw. His thumb and forefinger pinched up under Brendan’s ears. Brendan’s eyes widened when the biker squeezed. Brendan choked.

Holding him that way, the biker pulled Brendan towards the door and the gypsies all scattered back out into the street. It looked as though Brendan was going to be thrown. By the jaw. But the biker simply held the door open for him, and Brendan slunk out under the biker’s arm.

Brendan turned to make a parting remark, but licked his lips and changed his mind when he looked into the biker’s face. Then he and the other gypsies all melted away into the gathering dusk.

The ladies voices all broke immediately into a gaggling babble.
 
Cara looked at the biker as she said, “I’m closing now, ladies. I’m quite sure that you understand.” The biker remained by the door to hold it open for them as they all bustled out.

He looked at her, across the shining glass and mahogany and he said, “Closing. I hope you are you open for me.”

As the door drifted closed behind the last of the ladies and the little bell jingled he said, “You aren‘t afraid of the gypsies, are you. I wonder if you’re afraid of anything”

 
Cara said, “Do you?”

He said, “Lock up. Come with me.”

She said, “Where will we go?”

Again he said, “Come with me,” and when he held out his hand, she went with him.

He took her hand and led her to the huge bike that slouched insolently by the curb. She looked up to him, shielding her eyes against the low evening sun as he handed her a helmet.
 

His eyes went to the helmet’s chinstrap and she said, “It’s not my first time on a bike,” they both smiled and she told him, “I know how to do this.”

He said, “I’m sure you do.” So, she noted, they had already established some wordless communication. In just a few minutes they had the beginning of an unspoken language, and a way of saying something out loud, when they both knew that they were talking about something else underneath.

The sprung rear saddle on the Harley seemed impossibly low to
 
Cara, but it was higher than the front seat, so her knees were either side of the biker’s waist.
 
Cara was tempted to squeeze her legs together around him. She wanted to know how firm his body was, and how hot it was.

She wanted to feel his ribs, his stomach, his hips. With her legs. She realized it had been a long time since she rode on a motorcycle. But the passenger’s part, riding the back, that wasn’t so hard.
 

All you had to do was to put your complete trust in the rider. He didn’t wear a helmet. He must have given her the only one.

When he spun the engine into life, the machine growled and shook like a powerful beast awakening. The springs in the saddle softened and delayed the powerful vibration that rocked under
 
Cara.

As he put the bike into gear and pulled out onto the road, the insistent thrum beneath
 
Cara’s seat rose to a hard, steady pulse. The bike swayed and wove along the road as it curved upwards into the hills and through the pine forest.
 
Cara held his body, pulled herself close to him.

The sky turned a dark velvety blue as the stars lit up and the bike rose steadily above the tree line. Near the summit, the moon rose from behind the hill, and the shimmering pattern of roads and towns spread across the valley below like a blue silk carpet.

The huge motorcycle followed his direction, given with an easy certainty by the rolling sway of his shoulders and his back, and the swing of his snake-like hips. Her hands on his ribs felt his body command and control the bike, as though it were a part of him, as though they were one.

The motorcycle engine beat under her saddle with a firm, relentless insistence. Riding up the slope of the tall hill with the vibration under
 
Cara’s seat, the wind up her skirt and the man clasped between her thighs,
 
Cara became moist. And hot.

He stopped the cycle on the edge of a high, sweeping overlook.
 

The large rock made a perfect spot to sit and to enjoy the view. When he pulled a blanket from the bike’s pannier,
 
Cara looked at him sideways and said, “Don’t get ideas, biker.”

He told her, “Relax. The rock is cold, and pretty dirty. You can ruin that nice dress if you want, but I thought this would be more comfortable.”
 

She asked him, “Have you been here many times before?”

“I’ve seen this spot, passed by many times, and I’ve thought about it often.” As he spread the thick blanket over the rock, he looked up and she believed him when he said, “This is the first time that I’ve stopped.” The thick blanket turned the flat, wide rock into a comfortable bench.

The spot gave a perfect view over the lower hills, the town and the valley. They sat and they talked, easily. Thinking back later,
 
Cara could hardly remember what they had talked about, only that they were quiet, easy in each other’s company, and he was close and respectful.
 

His fingers touched her arm and her hand gently. His hand brushed easily on her shoulder and comforted her on her waist. When his hand rested on her thigh, they both realized that her hand was on his leg, too. That was the moment.

Their mouths were close. She tasted his breath and he felt her warmth. Felt her breath fill her chest and catch in her throat. When their necks craned gently together they smiled. They both knew from the start, they had known all along, and they knew how it would feel. They were close to the point of chuckling and their warm, wet lips were so close that she could taste him.

Still
 
Cara was shocked by the power and intensity of her own response, by how forcefully her feelings rumbled, and by how close to the surface they were. How ready, how eager they were to break through. This could not be right, could it?

She was so relaxed in his company, so easy with him and yet her short breaths and the tightness of her chest told her,
now!
Between her thighs Cara felt such a yearning, such an ache. Such need. Her fingers trembled as she touched his cheek, traced his strong jaw to his chin and ran down his neck.

Their mouths knew each other straight away. Their tongues carried the feelings to each other from deep down at their cores. Still, she knew, he held back, waited for her to set the pace.

Her breath quivered as she pulled him tight to her. Her body wanted him. All of her wanted all of him. He laid his hand gently on her breast. She didn’t know that she could want so very hard.
 

Had she not noticed her nipples hardening, chafing inside her bra? Had the heat risen so high at the tops of her thighs, had she become so wet without realizing it?