Sylvie Kurtz - Mask Of A Hunter

“I saw pictures of Felicia in an album in her apartment.” Rory toyed with the leather handle of her tapestry tote. “She’s on a motorcycle.”

“Yeah, she rides a Vulcan. Metallic red with flames painted on the gas tank.” And a damn fine job he’d done keeping the thing in tune, considering the girl rode the hell out of the machine.

“She didn’t take Hannah on it, did she?”

Ah, propriety. “No, Mike gave her a big old Chrysler to cart Hannah around.”

Rory’s frown deepened until it formed waves on her forehead. “Where is it?”

Where was she going with this? “Haven’t seen it since she left.”

“What about her motorcycle?”

She handed him a napkin, and he wiped a run of tomato and mayonnaise that was dripping down his wrist. “Her bike’s been up on blocks all winter.”

“Where?”

“In the warehouse.” With his chin he pointed at the beige metal building behind the shop.

“Are you sure?”

“I can check.” He popped the last of the sandwich into his mouth.

“Please.”

He scrunched the wax paper and napkin and lobbed them into the trash can by the ice-cream parlor’s back door. “Rory?”

Looking away, she shrugged. “She loves Hannah. If she was running, she’d take the motorcycle and leave the car for Hannah. Penny doesn’t have a car.”

“Listen.” He angled her toward him and wished to hell he could shake off the odd feeling that was crawling through him like a ghost. “It doesn’t mean anything. I hadn’t gotten around to doing the spring service on her bike yet. With Hannah around, there wasn’t any hurry.”

Rory nodded, but her eyes reflected a gut-wrenching stew of fear and sorrow. A silent oath scraped the back of his throat. He didn’t need this. Reality was that finding Felicia alive wasn’t too likely. Reality was that finding Felicia dead would seal his case—especially if he could tie Mike to her death. But Rory wasn’t ready to hear the possibility of her sister’s demise. Not yet. Not that he blamed her. If it was his sister, he’d hold on to hope. So he gave her a lifeline. “Mike’s hanging by a thread right now. And Felicia’s holding the scissors. If she’s smart, she’s just lying low until they can arrest Mike.”

“What if he hurt her?”

The amber of her eyes swirled with the stress she was working so hard to cap.

“There’s no evidence of foul play.” He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans and let his fingers juggle the loose change. “She didn’t strike me as stupid, just confused.”

Rory nodded again and rolled the stroller back and forth. “I’d better get going. I need to do a few more things today.”

“Don’t get yourself into any trouble.”

She barked a dry laugh. “Kind of hard when no one is cooperating.”

Her uppitiness dug into his skin like a swarm of black flies. “Maybe if you stopped looking down your nose at everyone.”

Her chin jacked up. “I’m not looking down on anyone. I’m just asking questions.”

“People usually need a little softening before you crack the whip on them.”

“Ha, now look who’s passing judgment.”

“It’s all a game of appearances, sweetheart.”

She shook her head. The noon sun flamed through her hair, rippling through the question mark curls. “It’s not a game at all.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. The stakes are high, but it’s still a game.”

“What kind of sick game uses people as pawns?”

“Life, sweetheart, life.” He stabbed a hand to the brick wall, effectively caging her between it and his body. His arm hid her outrage at his breach of her personal bubble, but anyone watching would think he’d scored a point. He lowered his head to inches from hers. Her cinnamon scent swirled in eddies toward him, tightening his gut. “Can you act at all?”

“With my transparent face?” she scoffed. But his gaze fixed on the mad beating of pulse at her neck. “Not likely.”

“Well, start practicing, sweetheart.” He kissed her then, hard and fast. Not because he wanted her, but because he was making a point to anyone who cared to watch. Except he’d miscalculated. Touching her was like striking a lit match against a gas-soaked rag. Unexpected heat ripped through him like wildfire, fast and frantic.

Her hands clamped against his wrists and the ridges of her fingertips connected with each beat of his pulse. When was the last time he’d been so aware of anyone? This was all Falconer’s fault for making him responsible for her well-being.

“Don’t do that again.” She speared him with a frosty gaze that contrasted with the heated flush of her cheeks and the molten gold of her eyes. Bedroom eyes. A shiver of anticipation torqued through him. He throttled back a curse. He was used to having women look at him with that kind of heat. This should not rattle him. “Ever.”

She wasn’t his type. He went for tall, uncomplicated women who didn’t care for strings. And Rory came with a whole snarled ball of knotted strings. Way too complicated. But this wasn’t a relationship; it was a necessity if she was to navigate through gang territory without getting lost. Taking responsibility was a character flaw, and Falconer had gone and made him responsible for her hide.

Keeping his hand solidly planted by her head, he down-shifted the rev of his pulse. “What do you know about the way gangs work?”

Her eyes pinched, wary once more. “Not much.”

“It’s a tough world you’re walking into, Rory.” Damn if he didn’t want to taste those lips again, feel that sweet fire stoke him. “It doesn’t work by the rules you were brought up to believe in. The gang’s a man’s world.”

“Then maybe what it needs is a woman to shake things up. Muscle isn’t the only way to get to the heart of something.”

Her tongue darted out, wetting her lips. He swallowed hard.

“Not muscle, sweetheart. Male bonding. That’s something you can’t do. No one’s going to talk to you. Not when they have to answer to Mike.”

She snubbed the truth with a gooselike honk. “But they’ll talk to you. Because you have a penis.”

“You got it.”

She rescued a strand of her hair from beneath his palm, sparking a flash in her golden eyes when finger struck finger. “So you’re saying that to get anywhere, I’m going to have to go through you.”

He jacked one shoulder, slanting closer, though everything in her sent out emergency flares ordering clearance. “Me or another guy. Thing is, you know where I stand. This is a job, nothing else. With them, it’s their life. And like I said, you’re not going to like the way their rules work. A biker chick knows her place. You don’t. Someone’s going to want to teach you a lesson.”

“This is grossly primitive.” A hand fluttered at her neck.

“No, sweetheart. It’s survival. And if you want to get something out of them, you’re going to have to color in the lines they draw.”

Rory was right. She couldn’t act. But maybe that was to both their advantages. “As my old lady, you’re more likely to be tolerated.”

She shrank against the wall as if he’d suggested they get down and dirty right here, right now. “That won’t work. No one would believe I’d choose someone like you.”

“Ouch.” He grinned crookedly and twisted a corkscrew of hair around a finger. “They would if you stopped looking like you’d sucked a lemon when you’re around me. I’m told I’m quite charming.”

“And modest, too.” Her eyes squared in annoyance. “Besides, I’m only here for a week.”

He pushed away from her, giving her breathing space. “They don’t have to know that. Make them think you’re thinking more long-term. Ask about a job at the library.”