Chapter One
Milwaukee, Wisconsin
"Okay, move over. You're gonna hit bone, you keep digging
at him like that." Jess Owen shoved the rookie aside and
spun the chair around, straddling it as she sat. With
gloved fingers, she lifted the tattoo gun outfitted with a
three-needle shader. "There are seven layers of skin. You
don't want to go deeper than the fifth. Just a touch
lighter."
J.D., burly with long side-burns and longer hair, sighed
with relief and relaxed in the padded chair as she added
red to the inked flames climbing his shoulder. "After that
butcher, this feels like heaven."
"Sorry, man." Trash, the rookie, didn't sound sorry though.
He sounded proud he'd made the big biker squirm. "But you
volunteered."
"Not to be tortured." J.D. scowled. "Your hand's heavier
than your foot."
Jess leaned to her right to give Trash a better view. She'd
earned her rep as the best tattooist in the parlor.
Trash, his gaze fixed on her progress, said, "You should be
grateful I bombed out. Jess don't do freebies."
"You didn't bomb out," Jess muttered, breathing carefully
and moving her entire hand, not just her wrist, as she
followed what remained of the transfer. J.D. was a bleeder
and there wasn't much left of the pattern. "In fact, you
can finish this."
"Really?" Trash asked, surprised.
She blotted the tattoo with a paper towel and handed the
gun back to him. "Yep. You saw how deep, right?" She stood,
waiting for his nod as she stripped the latex gloves off
and threw them in the garbage. "You got a steady hand. Go
for it."
"Cool."
J.D. groaned.
Jess headed for the door to the eight-stall garage, the
second half of Tattoos and Tails. "I'll be back to see how
it's going later. Holler if you need anything."
"Yeah," J.D. said. "How about a tourniquet?"
"Sorry, fresh out." Jess chuckled. "Don't worry, if you
lose too much blood, we can always squeeze some out of
Trash."
"Hey, I heard that." Trash didn't turn. He was bent to his
task, dark hair stuck to a narrow forehead beaded with
sweat.
"Ouch, damn it, Trash." J.D. gave Jess a pleading
look. "How about some whiskey then?"
"No way. The city would pull my license if they caught you
with booze on my property. Besides, it'll only make you
puke and I know you don't want to spend the afternoon
mopping my floors."
She escaped before they could trap her into another
discussion on the finer points of pain management and
stepped into the shadowy garage where they rebuilt and
serviced Harley-Davidson motorcycles. No rice grinders
allowed, as her father, Dirty Dan Owen called the Japanese
made crotch-rockets.
All morning she'd been dying to get into the only vehicle
parked out back that wasn't a motorcycle. The fully
restored, midnight blue, balls to the wall '67 Mustang was
her most prized possession. The day couldn't be more
tempting. Clear sky, balmy breeze, no humidity-perfect for
a drive by the lake and a quick dip before business picked
up that night.
Men's voices carried from the far end where a bay door
stood open to the day. Her dad, the gray in his beard a
brilliant white in the sunshine, talked with a stranger.
Her father scrubbed a rag repeatedly over his rings,
something he did only when the city tried to dig up dirt on
them or a routine investigation brought cops to their door.
Couldn't run a tattoo parlor and bike shop without the law
thinking you were into everything from drugs to fencing
stolen goods. Which had been true before her father turned
legit. Now, however, no thing or body could drag him back
to that life.
After a closer look, she saw this stranger was far from a
cop, or a city inspector. Her father hit six feet and this
guy had to be at least four inches taller. Large across the
shoulders, narrow at the hips, he looked like one of those
guys that pumped iron in the gym across from Rudy's Auto
Parts. His close-cropped hair covered a well-tanned scalp.
Okay, so not a drifter-too clean-cut, too athletic.
She heard the deep vibrato of his voice, but not the words.
Running a hand along the curving flank of the Mustang, she
found a better angle. He must have muscles on top of
muscles under that leather coat. Who was he? A knee-breaker
for the mob?
Sunglasses hid his eyes, but not the strong jaw or the
mouth that looked as hard as the rest of him. His nose
wasn't quite as crooked as J.D.'s, but it appeared to have
been broken more than once. Maybe a bouncer for one of the
downtown clubs?
He spotted her and she felt the intensity of his gaze
behind those sunglasses. Startled to be caught watching
him, she lifted her chin and tried on a smile that felt as
phony as Trash's old I.D. She joined them and gave her
father a probing smile. "Hey Dad, thought I'd come give you
a hand."
He looked at the array of parts on the work bench, then
raised a brow at her. "With spark plugs?"
She held back a groan. Like her father needed help with
spark plugs. "Well, y'know, whatever."
Each second in the stranger's shadow drained her brain like
oil from a severely abused Harley. The weight of his
invisible stare felt . . . dangerous.
"Jess," her father said. "This is Mitch, a friend from back
in the day. Just passing through."
"Really." It came out flat, disbelieving. As far as she
knew, her dad didn't have any bodybuilding, Mafia knee-
breakers for friends. And anyone from his past was either
in prison-or should be. This guy didn't look old enough to
have ridden with her dad either. He was closer to her age.
Mitch stuck out a hand. "Been a good ten years since I saw
your old man. You must have been twelve or so, right?"
"Must have." The jolt from touching his hand, completely
unexpected, left her less curious about how he knew her age
or who he was, and more interested in the color of his
eyes.
She couldn't let her father see her reaction. No easy task
under her dad's miss-nothing scrutiny. She could feel him
scolding her. A lazy smile worked across Mitch's face
before he let go of a hand she no longer knew what to do
with.
Oh for Pete's sake, Jess. What are you gonna do, never wash
it again?
She shoved it deep in the back pocket of her jeans. For all
she knew, he might be up from Chicago or over from New
York, setting up a drug connection or asking her father to
fence stolen jewelry. If that was the case, good looking or
not, he could go back to wherever he called home. Dirty Dan
Owen was retired.
"What brings you here?" she asked.
"Just passin' through, like your old man said. Sold off
what I owned back in L.A. and headed for greener pastures."
Mitch waved at the garage. His jacket spread, revealing the
tail end of a black-work tattoo across one
collarbone. "Looks like you're doin' okay for yourself."
"Yep." Her dad's blue eyes were sharp beneath a bandana
tied pirate-style over his black and grey mane. "Can't
complain."
Something's wrong. Her father backslapped his pals, took
them across the alley and into the yard behind their house.
He'd give them a cold beer, maybe fire up the grill. But he
hadn't even invited Mitch inside the garage.
An uncomfortable silence fell between them. Air brakes from
a city bus hissed on the busy main street and those dark
sunglasses turned to watch it rumble away. She cleared her
throat, risking a foot in her mouth. "So, which way you
headed?"
Okay, not too bad, casual, unless he thinks you're trying
to get rid of him. She hadn't been exactly welcoming so far.
"Am I intruding?" That rich voice rumbled up from his chest
with amusement.
"No, not at all." Now she sounded like she wanted him to
stay. She turned to her father. C'mon, Dad, don't leave me
hangin' here. What do you want to do with this guy?
"Mitch's gonna stay with us a few days." He sounded
disgruntled and no smile lifted his beard as he turned to
Mitch. "You can toss your stuff upstairs, clean up if you
want, and join us for chow tonight."
"Sounds good." Mitch glanced past the fence, the "Beware of
Dog" sign, and at the two-story house shrouded by hundred-
year-old oaks. He didn't move, and Jess didn't offer to
take him. She knew better. Her dad would never allow her
inside, alone, with a strange man. It was Dirty Dan's
golden rule-if you want to live, don't even think of
touching his daughter.
Made for a great dating life.
Then, aliens took him over. "Give him a hand, Jess.
Give 'im the drunk tank."
Jess snapped her jaw shut on his don't-dare-argue-with-me
look. She sent one back of her own. Wait until we're alone-
I'll make your head spin with questions.
Mitch adjusted the pack on his shoulder. "Drunk tank?"
"You'll see." Her father went into the garage, ending the
conversation.
Jess hurried to get this chore completed. At times like
these, she really wished she'd known her mother, learned a
little about playing polite hostess, no matter what you
thought of the guest. As it stood now, she didn't want to
be alone with Mr. Hunkorama and risk morphing into a
drooling moron.
Duh . . . wanna be my boyfwend?
At the chain-linked gate, she threw the latch. Mitch
followed close and she wondered if he could see the pulse
throbbing on the side of her throat. She should have worn a
turtleneck.
The beware sign slapped metal as the gate closed and he
asked, "You have a dog?"
"No. We've got an alarm on the shop that sounds like a
rabid Doberman, but the sign's mostly to warn people about
my dad."
She wound between the picnic tables, the folding lawn
chairs, the huge hand-welded grill, and up the back deck.
The quiet house made his boots sound heavy, clumping in
behind her. She sensed him looking at everything-every nook
and cranny, every branch off the kitchen and the living
room, as if casing the place.
Thief didn't feel quite right, though. What was his game?
The hairs on the nape of her neck stirred as the weight of
his gaze locked there. By the time she reached the
staircase, her heart beat a rock-n-roll drum solo.
No part of this was normal. Aside from J.D., Trash, and a
few others, her dad didn't trust any guy with his daughter.
This was the first time she'd taken a man to the drunk tank
by herself.
Trash's brother, Kooch, had designed the room as a
punishment for anyone with guts enough to pass out at an
Owen cookout. She only hoped Mitch would take the decor as
a hint to get lost-like he wasn't taking the hint right now.
He crowded her intentionally. No one remained so close
without meaning to. His heat burned into the bare skin
above the back of her tank top. And damn it all, she liked
his heat, even if his kind thought they were God's gift.
She whirled at the foot of the staircase, nearly burying
her nose in the white of his t-shirt. She stepped back and
up a riser, then another until they were eye level. Hands
on hips, she glared at her reflection in his shades.
Angry that he supposedly remembered her, angry that she
still hadn't gotten a good look at him, and angry that her
father had been taken over by aliens, she huffed the bangs
out of her eyes and asked, "What are you doing?"
He gave another crooked, lazy smile. "Following you."
"I know that." If he didn't take those sunglasses off, she
would yank them off herself. "But why are you here at all?"
Then he removed the sunglasses and she wished he hadn't.
Chocolate brown eyes stared into her. She swore that stare
found her bellybutton and zapped it with a form of sexual
telepathy. Knowledge of her reaction registered in his gaze
and his grin widened.
Dangerous. Was she breathing yet?
"I came to see Dan."
That might be the truth, but it wasn't all of it. As much
as she'd known he'd sensed her attraction, she sensed him
holding back. Secretive made him dishonest by omission.
Bottom line, he couldn't be trusted.
But her traitorous body practically glowed. It had to be
something like that sensory deprivation thing she'd seen on
cable. She rarely dated and when a healthy male showed up
at her door, lust erupted with volcanic force and turned
her brain to idiotic lava.
Forget the meltdown. He wasn't being honest and made her
father nervous. That was all she needed. He could take
God's gift straight back to customer service and get a
refund. She wasn't buying. "You can stay for a day or two,
then I want you out, understand?"
Surprise hardened his grin. "Whatever you say, princess."
Jess wanted to kick him in the shin. "Don't call me
princess."
They'd never met before. At twelve, dolls were a thing of
the past and boys had become more than fellow playground
monkeys. No way would she have forgotten him-especially
since most of the men in her life looked like Hell's
version of Grizzly Adams. Testing, she asked, "Where do I
know you from again?"
"We met once, at a rally in Sturgis."
Liar. He would have stuck out like The Flying Nun.
He ran a hand over his head. "I was hairier back then."
Faltering, she wanted to believe him. But she knew better
than to ignore her gut instincts. He didn't frighten her,
but he damned well made her suspicious.
"Is this where I'm camping, or is there a bed up there?" He
jerked his chin at the second floor. "No problem either
way. Whatever keeps the rain off."
Did he really think he would convince her to step aside and
let him . . . What? What could he possibly want here, with
her father? To blackmail him? What else could it be? Her
dad would never, ever have let him stay in the house
otherwise.
Knots sprang in her belly and twisted tighter. Normally,
she kept the door open, gave people a chance, most times
two. She didn't like being forced to lay down the law and
hated confrontations even more.
Despite the hot prickle of nerves, she found the courage to
sound stern. "I don't know why you're really here, or what
you have on my dad, but if you cause him trouble, you'll be
sorry."
Again, he seemed surprised, but his smile finally dissolved.
About damned time.
He stepped onto the first riser, sliding one massive hand
up the bannister, the other along the wall. Corralled in
the span of those big arms, she stood her ground. She
wouldn't give in to the invasion of her space.
"I'll be gone in a few days. Don't worry."
"Good." She jerked away from the heady scent of sun-hot
leather, soap, and salty warm flesh. Sprinting the rest of
the way up the stairs, she felt his eyes on her backside.
She rushed past walls painted black and filled with gel-pen
graffiti from the guests who'd stayed over the years. They
used to write in anything handy on the '50s sea green
paint. Tired of the grungy look, she'd repainted and hung
neon pens from electrician's cord at intervals. Now it
looked like Vegas at midnight.
Jess flung open the door of the last bedroom and turned to
watch him come down the hall. He ducked to avoid the
hanging chrome light and stopped once to read an especially
hearty thanks scribbled to her father.
"Cool idea," he said, then peered inside the bedroom. He
threw back his head and laughed, a wonderfully raucous
sound.
Jess retreated fast before her resolve could be damaged
more than it already had. Down the stairs, through the
house, and into the kitchen she ran. She banged out the
screen door, rushing for the bright afternoon sunshine.
He would leave in a few days, like they all did. If she
ever she ever saw him again, he'd be sporting a big-
breasted biker babe on his arm. Despite knowing this, there
was no way she would go for her swim now. Whatever Mitch
wanted with her father, he'd have to go through her first.
Fasten your seatbelts.
* * *
Mitch stepped into the room, still chuckling. The Owens had
a very different approach to home decor. A painted, black-
and-white checkerboard covered the floor, the walls, the
ceiling, and the sparse furniture. Each section melded
together at odd points. It played havoc on depth perception
and innate balance.
He walked to the window and his stomach flipped. No wonder
they called it the drunk tank. Even sober he felt like he'd
had a few too many. Outside, Jess paused at a picnic table
and yanked her thick caramel-colored ponytail tighter, as
if angry.
Maybe she had a right to be. She knew more was going on
than he'd told her. It was obvious in the way she'd
threatened him. Loyal and tough. Definitely Beth's
daughter. No need to compare the slightly darker green
eyes, high cheekbones, or the matching pointed chin. They
shared more than physical DNA.
The way Dirty Dan had gone on about his sensitive daughter
being spared the truth, Mitch had expected her to be
spoiled, a bit of a prima donna. Instead, he'd met a woman
ready to kick him out because she suspected he wanted to
harm her family.
To make it worse, he'd been forced to promise Dan he
wouldn't say a thing to Jess about why he was here.
Apparently, Dan had told Jess nothing about her mother's
side of the family
He could only pray for a little leniency. If luck could
keep her safe until Dan told her the truth, then everything
would be all right. As Jess disappeared into the garage, he
used the height afforded by the second-story window to
canvas the area. All appeared normal, at least for this
rough neighborhood.
She'd been raised by protective bikers, surrounded by
streetwise tough guys. Basically, his kind of people. It
looked like luck would have a little more help than he'd
first thought. Maybe, just maybe, the built-in security of
bikers in residence would be enough.
Luck was a lady he didn't normally bet on, however, and it
made him grind his teeth to do so now. For a decade he'd
never once failed. He'd known it was possible, but deep
down, he supposed it would never happen to him. Only the
careless, the reckless failed, not those who were as
methodical as him.
Why is this job so damned difficult, so different?
He gripped the windowsill, breathing in the summer-heavy
scent of exhaust, hot tar and the faint yeasty odor from
the brewery. Jess might be a secret back in L.A., but she'd
been too easy to trace.
Returning to the bed, he pulled his cell phone from inside
the leather coat he hadn't worn since things got ugly in
New York. It felt strange, but damn good, to wear the
battered jacket instead of the suits he'd worn since
settling on the West Coast.
The phone picked up in midring. "Hello?"
"It's me, Mitch," he said as he dug the spare Glock out of
his pack and flicked the safety off. "I've got her."