Page 21 of Tracking Luxe

Luxe was a sucker for a man who brooded, better if he pouted all big and gruff.

So, if he regretted taking her, then all the better for her to ask for a favor, he owed her, owed her fucking big time.

He had such a walk on him, he moved like a cat—all sureness and no hurry. It stuttered air in her lungs, she moved across on the bucket seat, not to get a better look, no… placing her backpack on the floor under her feet, she stared at his strong gait, the way his hips seemed to move independently to his top half, poetry in sexy motion, he looked like a fighter striding through the battlefield.

He’d placed his hand on the base of her spine as he’d led her inside a few minutes earlier, assessed the place as men do, he probably clocked every man and woman in there before he deemed the place A-okay, then he stationed her at a table in the far corner before asking what she wanted to drink. Luxe was too stunned at the situating of herself to give it any thought, instead she’d mumbled for her usual lemon drop martini. Why hadn’t she ripped his head off for that? Acting like he needed to make sure was in a safe place first before getting their drinks? Anyone else would be walking around dickless now if they daredsituateLuxe as if she was a damsel in distress.

Dios. He’d been cute.

That annoyingbastardo.

Attraction to her captor. Fucking ridiculous. Who did that? Seriously. She was out of her mind.

Wearing dark jeans, she counted no less than four zips on his tree trunk thick legs, added with a few designer tears, her gaze streaked as he approached, down to the worn leather boots and back up to the thin leather jacket with more zips.

It was no designer stubble on his face either, but a perfectly groomed beard, he was a mountain man meets rugged GQ. With his wool hat and silver rings on each hand he was the quintessential too-handsome biker. He could be on every month of his own blue-collar calendar, it would sell out in minutes. Women masturbating over the pages all night long.

“How many pockets does one man need?” she asked when he was within hearing distance. His brow hiked. “What are you carrying that you need five billion zips?”

Lips quirked, he slid his massive bulk in, not opposite her as she assumed, but right up next to her, thighs touching. She instantly heated underneath her bra.

“You can open them to find out if you want to.”

Big flirt. She’d take a hard pass.

Picking up her drink she took a tentative sip. She felt every year of her twenty-seven under his watchful scrutiny, a smirk on his lips. That tingly feeling a woman gets when she was being really looked at by someone attractive.

Angling her body sideways, it placed her further into his space, close enough to count the number of hairs on his chin and see amusement light up the gray of his irises. He had seriously gorgeous eyes and long eyelashes. “So, kidnapper.”

“Grinder.”

“I know your road name. It’s ludicrous, by the way. Give me your wallet.”

His brow climbed up into his hat. “Stealing in plain sight now, dirty rotten thief?”

“Quit calling me that,” she scowled. “I’m quite clean and I’m not rotten.”

“Notice you didn’t deny the thief.”

“My spirit animal Gloria Gaynor said it; I am what I am. Wallet, kidnapper.”

“Grinder.”

They were going in circles.

She was close to rolling her eyes, this was aridiculousconversation, why was she participating in it again? She never suffered fools easily or ever. Ah, yes, because she wanted something from this man.

All in good time.

She kept her eye on the door across the bar, if the mafia guy had caught sight of her inside their building he might have followed her, whatever her ruse of kissing Grinder. Five minutes, ten, she saw nothing, but kept a steady watch out, if she were to make a hasty exit she’d need to do it fast.

When Grinder didn’t make a move to hand over his wallet, she did indeed roll her dark eyes, she drank half of her lemon drop, the tartness suited her. “I promise not to steal from youtonight. There, is that better? Now hand it over, you can have it right back. What? Do you have nudie pictures in there of your woman?”

A twist of sudden jealousy, she schooled her face into not reacting. Did he have a woman? Would he kiss her as he did if he were in a relationship? Of course, he would, bikers and their like didn’t have qualms about fidelity. A hole was a hole, they’d stick it in and not care who was at home waiting for them. Dirty dogs.

“Tonight.” he laughed. “Nice adage, love.” Lifting his hip beneath the table, he reached into his back pocket, detached his wallet from the chain hanging around his jeans and handed it over. It was nothing fancy, the padded row of green notes didn’t interest her as she opened it, lifting her eyes she saw him watching her. She pulled out his driver's licence. “Nathan Frazier. Male, Thirty-four, six-two, gray eyes, two hundred forty pounds, Colorado.”

His real name on her tongue made something unexpected sink in her belly.

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