He almost laughed. What family? His father was serving twenty-five years in prison and his mother had moved on to her third husband, who’d made it clear Jace was not welcome at family reunions.
Jace offered a brief smile. “No problem.”
The woman had finally uncovered her throat, only to display a diamond pendant.
He stared at it and her smile dropped. She put a hand to her throat again. He glanced up and down the road and heard the distant, but distinct, roar of motorcycles. Dammit. Had to leave. So did they.
Now.
“Ma’am, I highly advise you to put your jewelry away where no one can see it. And when you leave here, take the long route. This is not a good area.” He gestured east to the growling engines approaching. “There are people who use this shortcut who wouldn’t hesitate to rob and beat you.”
Blood drained from their faces, but they hurried back inside the car. He scurried to his bike. The motorcycles drew closer, but the couple sped off, the man turning down a side street Jace knew led to the main road.
Too late for him, though, because the bikes were closer. He recognized the unmistakable cough of an engine. Lance, the leader of the Devil’s Patrol.
Excuses. He needed one fast. Jace sighed, went to the side of a nearby building and unzipped his jeans.
He was just zipping up when they arrived, stopped and regarded him. He eyed them with the same interest they showed. Shrugged.
“Couldn’t wait, prospect?” Lance lowered his sunglasses. “You raised in a barn?”
No, I was raised in a motorcycle clubhouse. “Had too many beers already. Building’s a hell of a lot cleaner than the damn gas station men’s room.”
Lance smiled without warmth. Shorter than Jace, with bulky muscles and a beer belly that advertised his favorite beverage, Lance had a craggy face and slit brown eyes. Reptilian eyes. He was always squinting against the ever-present Florida sun. Ink covered his bare arms. Most prominent was a Devil’s Patrol tat on his left forearm.
“Why you here ahead of us? You too good to ride with the pack?”
Jace pointed to his bike. “Damn, you know my bike needed a new tire. Wasn’t going to slow you down, so I got it fixed and waited here.”
The excuse might fly. Might.
Big Mike, hands on the ape handlebars of his Harley, shook his head. “Prospect, ride ahead of us and get me a damn beer.”
As a club prospect, Jace was often disrespected and treated like an old lady. He put up with it, doing whatever they wanted. Sometimes they slapped him around. It was all to test his loyalty and see how he reacted. See if he wanted it bad enough to take a beating or two.
Jace endured everything and moved on.
“No problem,” he said easily.
Lance laughed. “You’d better have a lot of cash, prospect. I’m mighty thirsty.”
After tugging at his gloves, he climbed on his bike and roared ahead to the bar, hoping like hell no other people might blow his cover today.
Instruments of death crowded the parking lot.
Cold sweat trickled down Kara Wilmington’s back, despite the heat. Her breathing hitched. Motorcycles. Two rows of them at least, gleaming in the bright sunshine like metallic beasts. Killer beasts, the same kind that killed her little brother. Nearly paralyzed with dread, she squeezed her damp palms and tried to force a smile at her client.
“Reggie, are you certain you want to eat lunch here? There are other places...”
“Not like this. Best catfish around. Bikers love it. Look at all of them!” He grinned, making him look younger than his 77 years. “If I weren’t with you, Kara, I’d be here, anyway, jawing away with them. Every Sunday I come here for lunch.”
You can do this. It’s only lunch. Then you can leave.
If she balked, she could lose this deal, and Reggie was a client who could lead to bigger deals through word of mouth. I need this. They’re only bikers and not on their motorcycles. It will be okay.
Kara took a deep breath, steadied her voice. “Shall we?”
The hostess escorted them through the Tiki Bar to a table. She tried to ignore the bikers as Reggie pulled out a chair for her. Why couldn’t he have seated her facing away from them?
Kara felt as conspicuous as if she’d worn a bikini and flip-flops instead of a Chanel sheath dress and pumps. Much as she’d learned to ignore men staring at her—God, why did they always stare?—she hated this.
Hated being the center of attention, hated the motorcycles that reminded her of Conner’s death...
She thanked the waiter as he handed her a menu, ordered iced tea with lemon and silently steeled her spine.
“Don’t knock bikers, Kara. They’re fun people. You should have fun, live a little instead of working all the time.” Reggie shook his head. “No offense, but you’re young and you drive slower than ladies half my age.”
There’s a reason for that.
Reggie was selling his entire estate and moving to California to be closer to his daughter and her family. Years of valuables sat in the luxurious house and he needed Kara’s firm to liquidate everything, fast. Anything of personal or sentimental value had already been shipped out west. Kara had already appraised all the items and came up with a whopping two-million-dollar total.
The jewelry, passed down through two generations, would sell easily. Kara planned to keep the most expensive pieces in her store and sell them to private bidders.
The interior of the Tiki Bar was sticky, but ceiling fans stirred a sluggish breeze coming from the east. Kara’s gaze flicked to the gathering of twenty or more men in jeans or leather, some with long beards and a few with gray hair. An eclectic collection, for certain. At another cluster of tables were bikers who looked rough and had leather jackets, despite the heat. She saw patches on their jackets and a chill rushed down her spine.
“What’s a one-percenter?” she asked Reggie.
His gaze flicked in the direction of her gesture and he immediately looked away. “Ignore them, Kara. That’s the Devil’s Patrol. Motorcycle club. One-percenter describes outlaw MC clubs. The other ninety-nine percent of bike riders are law-abiding. These guys are not. They’re criminals and dangerous.”
