woman
who had instigated that battle.
A cold, hard knot of rage formed in Nik's stomach at the thought of the harm that
could come to her. Something dark and protective welled inside him despite his battle against it.
Hell, he'd lost enough in his life. Did he really need to allow himself to become
attached to a woman he knew he could never allow himself to have fully?
He could fuck her. He could take that shining innocence she had saved for so long
and mar it with the darkness that lived within his soul, but he couldn't keep her. For a brief moment in time he could let the warmth and light that flowed through him when he touched her fill his soul, but he would have to walk away soon.
His life wasn't his own for two more long years, and even then he couldn't call it his own. There was no chance that once that time was past he could ever live a life even resembling happy.
He'd made enemies. He'd walked a line that no man could walk and expect to find
peace later.
He was known in many dark corners of the world as a killer, a purveyor of war
and destruction. And he wanted to bring that into the life of a woman who seemed to vibrate with warmth?
And yet how could he walk away?
His jaw ached at the force of his teeth grinding together. His hands flexed
deliberately around the handgrips of the motorcycle handlebars as he turned toward town and the shop he knew Mikayla would still be working in.
Creating dreams. That was what she did there.
She created dreams in the form of dresses for both the innocent as well as the
jaded. In each stitch of each design that she created herself, she lived her own dreams.
Dreams of romance and adventure, dreams of candlelit nights and passion.
57
And he knew, in a back room of her own home, she was creating her own dream.
The first fragile form of a white gown that she would one day wear as she walked down the aisle herself.
He'd seen it when he had slipped into her home. His fingers had touched the
fragile lace of the underskirt she had begun as his eyes had memorized the sketch on the table.
Mikayla was making her wedding gown. A creation of satin and lace, of beads
and ivory. A gown she would wear for the man who would claim her heart forever.
Nik couldn't allow himself to be that man.
There was a part of himself that clenched in fury at the thought of any other man
claiming that place in her life, though Nik knew it was a place he could never claim himself.
Damned if he did, damned if he didn't.
His job here was to find out why Mikayla Martin was lying about what she had
seen.
His opinion was, if she was lying, then she was the best damned liar he had ever
laid his eyes on. Or simply a woman he wanted more than he had ever wanted any other woman.
The potential for destruction was only growing.
Mikayla stared at the plate-glass window of her shop, feeling the tears that
threatened to flood her eyes.
"LIAR." The word was brilliant crimson. The defacer wouldn't be caught.
Mikayla had been through this too many times now to even bother calling her lawyer to once again demand the security tapes from the bank across the street. They always
showed the same thing. Whoever used the paint wore a now-familiar black face covering.
They had run across the street, painted, and run back while Deirdre and Mikayla were closer to the back of the store.
"LIAR." The letters were like a brand on her soul as the door opened and Deirdre stepped out with a bucket of hot sudsy water, a scraper, and sponges.
"I'm sorry, Mikayla," Deirdre said softly as pedestrians walked by slowly, whispering.
Everyone whispered.
"It's not your fault, Deirdre." It was her own fault, she thought. She must not have been careful enough when she stopped by the new foreman's house, a friend of her
father's, and tried to discuss Eddie Foreman with him.
That or he had called Maddix Nelson after she had left.
"Luke Nelson told some of the guys at the bar that his father had hired a private
who had instigated that battle.
A cold, hard knot of rage formed in Nik's stomach at the thought of the harm that
could come to her. Something dark and protective welled inside him despite his battle against it.
Hell, he'd lost enough in his life. Did he really need to allow himself to become
attached to a woman he knew he could never allow himself to have fully?
He could fuck her. He could take that shining innocence she had saved for so long
and mar it with the darkness that lived within his soul, but he couldn't keep her. For a brief moment in time he could let the warmth and light that flowed through him when he touched her fill his soul, but he would have to walk away soon.
His life wasn't his own for two more long years, and even then he couldn't call it his own. There was no chance that once that time was past he could ever live a life even resembling happy.
He'd made enemies. He'd walked a line that no man could walk and expect to find
peace later.
He was known in many dark corners of the world as a killer, a purveyor of war
and destruction. And he wanted to bring that into the life of a woman who seemed to vibrate with warmth?
And yet how could he walk away?
His jaw ached at the force of his teeth grinding together. His hands flexed
deliberately around the handgrips of the motorcycle handlebars as he turned toward town and the shop he knew Mikayla would still be working in.
Creating dreams. That was what she did there.
She created dreams in the form of dresses for both the innocent as well as the
jaded. In each stitch of each design that she created herself, she lived her own dreams.
Dreams of romance and adventure, dreams of candlelit nights and passion.
57
And he knew, in a back room of her own home, she was creating her own dream.
The first fragile form of a white gown that she would one day wear as she walked down the aisle herself.
He'd seen it when he had slipped into her home. His fingers had touched the
fragile lace of the underskirt she had begun as his eyes had memorized the sketch on the table.
Mikayla was making her wedding gown. A creation of satin and lace, of beads
and ivory. A gown she would wear for the man who would claim her heart forever.
Nik couldn't allow himself to be that man.
There was a part of himself that clenched in fury at the thought of any other man
claiming that place in her life, though Nik knew it was a place he could never claim himself.
Damned if he did, damned if he didn't.
His job here was to find out why Mikayla Martin was lying about what she had
seen.
His opinion was, if she was lying, then she was the best damned liar he had ever
laid his eyes on. Or simply a woman he wanted more than he had ever wanted any other woman.
The potential for destruction was only growing.
Mikayla stared at the plate-glass window of her shop, feeling the tears that
threatened to flood her eyes.
"LIAR." The word was brilliant crimson. The defacer wouldn't be caught.
Mikayla had been through this too many times now to even bother calling her lawyer to once again demand the security tapes from the bank across the street. They always
showed the same thing. Whoever used the paint wore a now-familiar black face covering.
They had run across the street, painted, and run back while Deirdre and Mikayla were closer to the back of the store.
"LIAR." The letters were like a brand on her soul as the door opened and Deirdre stepped out with a bucket of hot sudsy water, a scraper, and sponges.
"I'm sorry, Mikayla," Deirdre said softly as pedestrians walked by slowly, whispering.
Everyone whispered.
"It's not your fault, Deirdre." It was her own fault, she thought. She must not have been careful enough when she stopped by the new foreman's house, a friend of her
father's, and tried to discuss Eddie Foreman with him.
That or he had called Maddix Nelson after she had left.
"Luke Nelson told some of the guys at the bar that his father had hired a private
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