around the waist as he went and hauling her along.
Lara wanted to run, but Castillo kept their pace mellow. Through the hall, down the stairs, out of the building. He paused at the bottom of the stairs, scanning the street.
Lara followed his gaze, her body feeling like a rubber band stretched too tight. She knew she’d snap at any second and hoped like hell the goon didn’t have friends out here. She wasn’t sure she could take more.
The coast must have been clear, though, because Castillo headed for the Harley parked in front of the building.
He didn’t let go of her until they reached it, then after giving her a look that warned against trying to run, he unlocked the saddlebag and pulled out a helmet. Without a word, he handed it to her.
He grabbed another one off the handlebar. How it hadn’t been stolen was a mystery to Lara. Maybe he had some kind of badass force field around the motorcycle.
“I’m sorry,” Lara murmured, looking at the bruises on his face. She twined her fingers around the helmet strap to keep them from reaching up to touch, soothe the skin over his cheekbone. That was her fault. She wasn’t the one who’d broken the chair over his face, but it was still her fault.
From the chilly look in his blue eyes, Castillo would agree. Not wanting to hear that look put into words, Lara awkwardly tucked her duffel under her arm, then bent to pull the helmet on. It didn’t have a visor, so the view of Castillo’s stare was clear and bright.
Lovely.
“How am I supposed to hold on to my stuff?” She held out the duffel she’d clung to like a teddy bear, showing him the broken straps.
His eyes narrowed and for a second she thought he’d tell her where she could put her stuff. Then he lifted her duffel by the edge, both straps dangling loose. With one hand, he flipped open the leather saddlebag again. He glanced at the duffel, then at the size of his bag. It wasn’t going to fit.
She chewed on her thumbnail, waiting to see what he was going to do.
His sigh was a work of art. The kind of sound that said a million long-suffering things meant to inspire all sorts of guilt. It worked. She was ready to tell him she didn’t need all of it, just her laptop, when he snapped the duffel open with a tug of his hands.
She cringed.
He dumped the contents into the saddlebag, reaching over the bike to stuff her laptop into the one on the other side with his clothes. Then he tossed the ripped bag into a nearby trash can. Not once did he meet her eyes.
She was glad. She remembered the cold fury in his gaze when they’d left the apartment. She’d rather not see it aimed her way.
Still, furious or not, he’d saved her.
And he’d saved her stuff.
She wanted to ask if that guy was dead. She wanted to apologize for running. For putting herself in danger and him in the position of having to play hero.
“Thank you,” she whispered instead.
He gave a jerk of his shoulder, handed her a pair of sunglasses, then nodded to the Harley.
“Climb on.”
It was probably a bad time to joke that the last time he’d said that to her, they’d both been naked.
She had a feeling this round wasn’t going to feel nearly as good, nor have nearly as fun an ending.
* * *
D OMINIC RODE AUTOMATICALLY, his eyes on the road and his mind focused on their destination. A part of his brain acknowledged the woman whose arms were wrapped around his waist, whose thighs were pressed against the backs of his. But he told himself he was only aware enough to know she was still on the bike.
She’d walked out on him.
So it wasn’t hard to believe she’d leap off the back of a moving Harley. At least, his ego didn’t think so.
He gripped the handlebars tight to force himself not to speed up. To race the bike as fast as he could away from one simple, horrifying truth.
Lara had had sex with him.
Incredible, body-shaking, multiorgasmic sex.
Twice.
And she’d walked out.
No, given that she was still wearing the sleep
Lara wanted to run, but Castillo kept their pace mellow. Through the hall, down the stairs, out of the building. He paused at the bottom of the stairs, scanning the street.
Lara followed his gaze, her body feeling like a rubber band stretched too tight. She knew she’d snap at any second and hoped like hell the goon didn’t have friends out here. She wasn’t sure she could take more.
The coast must have been clear, though, because Castillo headed for the Harley parked in front of the building.
He didn’t let go of her until they reached it, then after giving her a look that warned against trying to run, he unlocked the saddlebag and pulled out a helmet. Without a word, he handed it to her.
He grabbed another one off the handlebar. How it hadn’t been stolen was a mystery to Lara. Maybe he had some kind of badass force field around the motorcycle.
“I’m sorry,” Lara murmured, looking at the bruises on his face. She twined her fingers around the helmet strap to keep them from reaching up to touch, soothe the skin over his cheekbone. That was her fault. She wasn’t the one who’d broken the chair over his face, but it was still her fault.
From the chilly look in his blue eyes, Castillo would agree. Not wanting to hear that look put into words, Lara awkwardly tucked her duffel under her arm, then bent to pull the helmet on. It didn’t have a visor, so the view of Castillo’s stare was clear and bright.
Lovely.
“How am I supposed to hold on to my stuff?” She held out the duffel she’d clung to like a teddy bear, showing him the broken straps.
His eyes narrowed and for a second she thought he’d tell her where she could put her stuff. Then he lifted her duffel by the edge, both straps dangling loose. With one hand, he flipped open the leather saddlebag again. He glanced at the duffel, then at the size of his bag. It wasn’t going to fit.
She chewed on her thumbnail, waiting to see what he was going to do.
His sigh was a work of art. The kind of sound that said a million long-suffering things meant to inspire all sorts of guilt. It worked. She was ready to tell him she didn’t need all of it, just her laptop, when he snapped the duffel open with a tug of his hands.
She cringed.
He dumped the contents into the saddlebag, reaching over the bike to stuff her laptop into the one on the other side with his clothes. Then he tossed the ripped bag into a nearby trash can. Not once did he meet her eyes.
She was glad. She remembered the cold fury in his gaze when they’d left the apartment. She’d rather not see it aimed her way.
Still, furious or not, he’d saved her.
And he’d saved her stuff.
She wanted to ask if that guy was dead. She wanted to apologize for running. For putting herself in danger and him in the position of having to play hero.
“Thank you,” she whispered instead.
He gave a jerk of his shoulder, handed her a pair of sunglasses, then nodded to the Harley.
“Climb on.”
It was probably a bad time to joke that the last time he’d said that to her, they’d both been naked.
She had a feeling this round wasn’t going to feel nearly as good, nor have nearly as fun an ending.
* * *
D OMINIC RODE AUTOMATICALLY, his eyes on the road and his mind focused on their destination. A part of his brain acknowledged the woman whose arms were wrapped around his waist, whose thighs were pressed against the backs of his. But he told himself he was only aware enough to know she was still on the bike.
She’d walked out on him.
So it wasn’t hard to believe she’d leap off the back of a moving Harley. At least, his ego didn’t think so.
He gripped the handlebars tight to force himself not to speed up. To race the bike as fast as he could away from one simple, horrifying truth.
Lara had had sex with him.
Incredible, body-shaking, multiorgasmic sex.
Twice.
And she’d walked out.
No, given that she was still wearing the sleep
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