Page 17 of Kingpin's Baby
As his wife.
Then we step out of the church, and at the bottom of the steps is a familiar motorcycle.
6
JASPER
The statement, “I love my wife” ought not to surprise anyone, least of all said wife.
But I promised her a marriage of convenience. Six months. No love, no lust, no over-the-top displays of possessive rage. Just protection and a passport.
It’s not her problem that the past eighteen hours have been the happiest of my life.
The last five minutes, when the priest announced she was mywife? The very best.
So of course now I realise I’ve possibly spoiled everything.
“Mr Booth.” She licks her lips and stares. “Jasper…”
“If you’re looking for more names for me, you can try, husband.”
She turns, sliding her hand from mine. “How about, stalker?”
I briefly consider denial, but instead shove my hands in my pockets. “You noticed.”
It’s too late, I remind myself. We’re married. She can’t run away from me now.
“It was you.”
I incline my head in what could be a nod, or hanging in shame. I’m not sure which it is.
“I recognise your…” She gestures. “Bike.”
“There aren’t many Arch motorcycles around,” I concede. Particularly not since it’s a custom-made jasper-stone-green and matt black bike that cost more than most London houses. “Come on.” I grab her hand and she follows me down the church steps.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” she asks, a tremor in her voice as Harvey appears at my elbow with our leathers and helmets.
In answer, I take from Harvey the jacket I presumptuously bought for her the morning after we first met. Despite her protest, she allows me to slide her arms into it and shrug it on.
“Why do you want to do this? Why not the car?”
I zip the black leather jacket slowly up to her chin, then look into her uncertain eyes. Those soft blue eyes will be the death of me.
“Because the only time I’m free is when I’m riding this bike. Or I’m with you.”
Her mouth falls open.
I hold out my hand for her helmet, and when I pause with it above her head—at my eye level, damn but she’s tiny—she nods. And my heart expands as I lower the sleek, top-of-the-range protection down to cover her face. Because just as I hoped, she understands.
The only time I leave all the cares of being a kingpin behind is when I drive through London anonymously on this bike, and idle outside her apartment, keeping watch.
It’s the work of a moment to shrug on my leathers, nod to my second-in-command, and lift Ren onto the seat, tucking her skirt closely and safely under her legs. I don’t allow myself to linger, throwing my leg over the bike in front of her.
“Wrap your arms around my waist, hold on, and move with me,” I murmur, and she squeaks with surprise. “Radio link in the helmets,” I explain with a chuckle.
The roar of the engine doubles the peace I feel from her grip on my ribcage. She’s holding tight. For a long time this bike has been my one indulgence, a slice of normality—sort of—in a life of brutal privilege and responsibility. There are no complicated decisions to make, it’s all instinctive. A thrill to push myself and the machine.
And as I accelerate into the ink and gold London street, with Ren at my back, my head clears. This is where I’m supposed to be. With her.
