"Cute mouth," the club president remarked with a wry smile. "And it sounds like she's got a thing for you, too. You didn't f.u.c.k her on the way here, did you?"

"No," Lucas lied.

"That's what I like about you Lucas," the president replied as he stuffed the wad of cash into Lucas's hand. "You do what you're told, and you do it well."

With the exchange done, the rest of the Iron Sons went inside.

Lila struggled and writhed all the way into the clubhouse until she was finally deposited in a spare room. Once she was inside, her captors quickly shut and locked the door, eager to be rid of their troublesome guest.

Lila immediately got up and started banging furiously against the door, screaming curses and b.l.o.o.d.y threats at the hard wooden surface. It was useless. She was trapped in this tiny room until someone came back for her. With her hands and muscles aching from pounding the door and struggling against her captors, Lila fell backwards onto the mattress. Gazing around, she saw that the room had originally been some kind of dorm room for the bikers. But the furniture had been removed-except for the mattress on the floor-and the only window had been fitted with iron bars. This was a converted prison cell. If the dried blood stain in the corner was anything to go by, the Iron Sons could be as brutal as the Red Angels to the people who crossed them.

Lila's mind was in complete turmoil. She had hated her controlling father and his equally controlling lapdogs in the Red Angels. She hated the Iron Sons for making her their prisoner as well. She hated that backstabbing son of a b.i.t.c.h Lucas who'd stood by without uttering a sound or lifting a finger to keep his word to her. But most of all, she hated herself for selling out to him and for being stupid enough to believe his lies in the first place. To compound the self-hatred, her body still longed for him. She could still feel his s.e.m.e.n trickling into her panties ever so slightly and the memory of his c.o.c.k inside her still summoned involuntary shivers to her body. But he'd lied to her. He'd used her and then betrayed her to his fellow Iron Sons. As soon as she got out of here, the first thing she would do was put a bullet in his head.

Lila looked around again at the drab, concrete walls and the iron bars on the windows. One step at a time, she thought. If she wanted revenge, she'd need to get out of here first.

Lucas Grant had never felt so conflicted in his life. Every job he'd ever done for the Iron Sons he'd done quickly and efficiently, and always with no regrets afterwards. But now, for the first time ever, not only had he screwed the girl he'd been told to bring back, but he'd disobeyed his instructions by doing so. Then he'd promised her something he knew he didn't have the power to deliver on and stood by as she was dragged away, screaming his name.

Lucas downed a second bottle of beer and reached for a third, but he stopped himself. Drowning his guilt and self-pity in booze wouldn't make it go away. The bottom line was he was attracted to Lila. In fact, it was more than mere attraction. It was l.u.s.t. When he'd pinned her down on the bed in the motel, he'd barely been able to contain his raging urges. He had almost taken her right then and there. When the same thing happened in the van, it had been too much. He wanted Lila Black. He wanted her more than he'd ever wanted a woman before, and it was messing with his head. That, and the fact that she was now a prisoner of the club, about to be sold back to the Red Angels like some runaway dog.

Lucas had known no other life besides the one he'd been given as an Iron Son. He had no other family besides the Iron Sons. Yet for the first time in his life, he was seriously questioning his commitment to the club. But why? Because he'd banged some s.l.u.t in the back of a van and felt guilty about it afterwards? What a bulls.h.i.t thing to be hung up on. Of course he knew that was simplistic. She was a p.a.w.n in the endless turf wars that raged between the various gangs, and ultimately, so was he. Maybe that was why the club president had told him not to tap her. If he'd managed to control himself, he wouldn't be feeling so conflicted about it afterwards.

That still left the question of his place in the club. He been loyal to the Iron Sons since his early teens, and had made his life the club's life ever since. Unlike Lila, who had constantly had to live up to her father's demands, he'd had a choice in the matter. Now, for the first time ever, he was questioning that choice. Was that why she'd run away? To escape the shackles of duty put on her by the Red Angels?

Lucas slapped himself. He hardly knew the girl. It was stupid speculating about her life and why she'd run away. It was even more stupid thinking about her with his d.i.c.k. She was an a.s.set to the Iron Sons, nothing more. But try as he did to slap the treacherous thoughts away, Lucas knew that to him, Lila was more than an a.s.set to be traded. Just thinking about her was difficult. The memory of her naked, delicious body trapped beneath his and the wet grip of her p.u.s.s.y on his manhood was making him hard again.

On the spur of the moment, whether with his heart or his d.i.c.k, Lucas made a decision.

The door opened and one of the Iron Sons entered the cell. Lila lunged at him like a tigress, only to be shoved backwards onto the mattress. Sitting up on her elbows, she contented herself with a murderous scowl. She recognized the biker as the Iron Sons' club president. Besides, he was a wearing a presidential patch on his jacket. With white stubble and a grizzly looking scar running down his throat, he looked almost like a human wolf.

"Sorry about the accommodation, princess," the president said, "but you won't be here much longer. I promise."

"So you're just gonna ransom me back to my father?" Lila asked.

"Exactly," the president replied with a lupine smile. "The money for your return, on top of that generous donation you gave us, should set us up for years."

"Lucas said that-" Lila started to protest.

"Lucas is a loyal Iron Son who does whatever the f.u.c.k I tell him to, when I tell him to do it." The president interrupted. "He's an a.s.set to this club because he's obedient and reliable. You're only an a.s.set because you're a piece of leverage over your daddy. And if he tries to screw us over, you'll be a lot more valuable dead than alive."

Lila opened her mouth to retort, but thought better of it.

"Good girl," the president said with a smile. "Keep quiet and do as you're told, and you'll be back in daddy's loving arms in no time. Although, from the way he sounded on the phone, you're probably gonna wish I'd killed you first."

The door opened again and another Iron Sons biker walked in. As the club president turned to see who it was, the second biker swung a bottle around and smashed it over the back of the president's head. The president fell forward onto the mattress, unconscious.

"If you want to live free, come with me now." It was Lucas He had a gun strapped to his thigh and the same bag of cash slung over his shoulder.

"Why the f.u.c.k should I trust you?" Lila demanded.

"Because without me you're a dead woman," Lucas shot back impatiently. "In fact, if you don't make a decision now, we're both dead."

Lila didn't take long to decide. She got up and followed Lucas quickly out to the parking lot.

Dawn was already lighting up the sky, and morning wasn't far behind it. Lucas led Lila straight to the van and unlocked it. He threw the bag into the van, along with some tanks of spare gas, and then hopped into the driver's seat. As soon as Lila had strapped herself next to him, Lucas floored the gas pedal and sped out onto the road, leaving the Iron Sons far behind.

Silence reigned for the longest time before Lila finally sought answers.

"Why are you doing this?" Lila demanded.

"I don't know what it is about you," Lucas tried to explain, "but I don't want to see you traded back to the Red Angels or kept locked in that dungeon."

"You suddenly grew a conscience and turned on your MC?" Lila asked incredulously.

"I know what it's like to be a p.a.w.n of the club, giving up an ordinary life for the sake of the club even when it keeps you from the things you want. The difference is I chose to be a p.a.w.n, but you obviously didn't. And that's probably why you ran away."

Lila didn't respond. Lucas, the man she'd slept with once, even though she hardly knew him, had hit the nail on the head.

"I just want a normal life," Lila said softly. She could hardly believe it was possible.

"And now you have the chance to live one," Lucas replied.

"So we just stay on the road, on the run like Bonnie and Clyde?" Lila asked.

"It's better than being a prisoner for the rest of your life, isn't it?"

Lila still felt overwhelmed by the events of the last twelve hours. But Lucas had just given her a chance, a real chance, to be free. As she thought about everything that had led up to this point, she felt herself drawn to him more strongly than before-and not just s.e.xually. Slowly, Lila leaned over until her head was resting on Lucas's shoulder and closed her eyes.

"Much better," she whispered.

Below are some of Kay Perry's other works to enjoy! Tap the covers for a sample

No Man's Daughter.

Kay Perry.

Lydia's hand pushed the dingy dish towel in small, purposeless circles. It was more or less a metaphor of her life. And that bothered her more than her actual life did. Ollie's was still. Dead, actually. Roundup ended for the time being in little old Quimby, Montana, last week. All the local hands around were whipped. Otherwise the place would be humming. Lydia had nothing to do but catch up.

Only she didn't want to do it. It was gonna pa.s.s, she told herself. It was gonna pa.s.s. The place would fill up and someone would tell her a joke. Dean the cook would buy her a beer when all was said and done and she would fall asleep once her head hit the pillow. Lydia was a sheepish woman who lived in her head, so it was often exhausted come bed time.

It was Friday. The third Friday and that meant that Lydia would go home for the weekend. Home for her was a generous, empty ranch house on a thousand acres about twenty-five minutes away. Lydia went home every few weekends just to knock the dust off the place. It was ironic that when she was growing up, Lydia rarely strayed from the ranch where she lived as an only child to aged parents. As was the case with any teen, when she hit "that age" she wanted to leave. See the world. And she did. Leave, anyway.

She got as far as Billings where she went to university, living on campus. She was called out of cla.s.s one day to be notified that her mother and father were killed in a flash flood, drowned by a sudden creek rise on the back hundred of their spread. Lydia was so numb for such a long time after that she was pretty sure she floated all the way home, drifting in and out of consciousness as though the flood was drowning her too. Without much consideration, Lydia handed it all over to the foreman to let him run the show and she grabbed a simple job at her favorite eatery in downtown Quimby: Ollie's. The only place her parents took her when they wanted to eat in town. Dean the cook let Lydia have the room above the diner. He thought she was nuts to live in the squalid apartment instead of the rolling mansion back home.

"A knockout girl like you with everything going for you. You don't belong here," the cook counseled her.

But it was painful for Lydia to be at the ranch. Not able to stand it, she actually arranged for the sale-all done with the wave of her pen. The ranch wouldn't be hers in 30 days. But even despite not wanting to go there on this, her designated weekend, she was having some second thoughts.

Little did she know that just as she was wrapping her head around leaving at the end of her shift and heading that way, those deliberations would be put to rest. Life for Lydia Finch was finally about to get interesting. Very.

Lydia's T-shirt was faded but it was clean beneath the crisp white bib of her ap.r.o.n. The ap.r.o.n and the nametag were the only parts of her attire that were the eatery's official uniform. Ollie didn't mind that she was partial to little jean skirts. She hadn't done much to speak of to wreck it that morning and it was mid-day. Shame to ruin it now. Its soft texture, and the sweet way it made her body look-taut, firm, hot. Lydia really loved her body. She walked it, jogged it, yoga'ed it, not to mention to ran it off at work. She was a blessed human being in that department, she had determined. Dean the cook often confirmed. The sight of her exquisite frame was one of the few things that gave her joy. Fortunately, living a life of virtual solitude even amongst a dinner crowd, she didn't have to admit that. She checked herself out a lot-someone had to-in the long mirror in the lady's room where she ducked a little too often to steal a minute alone.

Lydia delegated herself to take apart the counter and give it a thorough once-over but she stopped as soon as she started. A whir. A buzz. Faint but... what? Dean wasn't running anything. It wasn't a fan of any kind. It wasn't a sound she had noticed before and the place had been quiet before.

It was getting louder. And it was coming towards them.

Like a herd of Montana whitetail led by a magnificent stag, a troop of motorcycles filed in front of Ollie's and systematically filled the vacant slots of the parking lot. Neat and square, a row of bikes, sparkling, with chrome-clad curves, pipes, and wheels like silvered wasps, formed in the prime places at the eatery. Lydia's heart, if it could waft, did. The sight of these warrior-like men, whose mail was form-fitting tees, denim, and leathers that showcased heart-stoppingly beautiful musculature, nearly made her lose her footing. Lydia viewed men with muscles all of the time. Many with the smell of leather on them. Quimby was cowboy country. Almost no one around was a pencil pusher or a keyboard jockey. But these men on bikes, none of whom Lydia had ever seen before, were positively stunning. The spectacle, especially that of their hold-the-door leader, made Lydia lonely and l.u.s.tful all at the same time.

Ten men politely milled into the eatery. They hesitated, obviously wanting to take command of the floor plan. Dean the cook had come out from around the counter to greet them. He gave them the go-ahead to push the tables together. "Please by all means," he said. Lydia lightheadedly handed out menus as she was steeped in the smell of leather and grease and the electric force of masculinity. One fellow had a bag on the floor. Lydia was not paying attention and she felt herself almost airborne as she stumbled over. A very powerful grip took hold of her lean hips and steadied her.

"Easy, baby," came a low, easy, honeyed voice.

Never in her life did Lydia ever experience such a surge of warmth. The contact of this Viking-like man radiated a pooling erotic heat within her that created a struggle for consciousness within her. His enormous hand grazed the hard surface of her thigh as he braced her upright. He held his contact there until he was sure she was steady. "Okay?" he inquired. "Lydia?"

"Yes, sure," Lydia lied. She was not quite sure she would ever be okay again. "How did you know my name?"

He laughed. "It says so on your name tag. Unless you borrowed it."

She laughed at herself. "No."

"We can be a little overwhelming, poor darlin. You folks usually this busy on a Friday night?" He extended his giant paw to shake with Dean. "Mickey O'Halloran."

Lydia replied, "We're dead because of the round up the next ranch over. Usually the place is hopping. We have been swamped with the extra hands."

"Goodness," Mickey replied in perhaps the most sensual voice Lydia had ever heard. "What did you do with all of those hands?" After a moment's pause, in which both Dean and Lydia were stunned, he continued. "If we are the dinner crowd I suggest the two of you come join us." Lydia felt her eyes get involuntarily big. "In fact, Royce here is a fabulous cook. He can help you. What are there, ten of us? And two you of you ... dinner is on us, for everyone here and just about anyone else who comes in, within reason." Mickey handed Dean a fold of cash. "Will this buy the place for the evening?"

Lydia was certain Dean's eyes watered and it wasn't even his restaurant. "I think it will. You don't have to do that."

"I'm in a good mood and I am feeling generous," Mickey replied. "Second question. Those cabins out back. Are those active? Do you rent rooms?"

"Yes," Dean and Lydia said together.

"So do we have the place for the night?" Mickey asked.

Dean looked at Lydia, who could barely maintain her faculties. "Sure, why not," he conceded. "You only live once. Hey, are you men drinking men?" he asked. The only response Dean got was a burst of hearty laughter. "Lydia, why don't fix these fellas up with some beers and Barn Burners."

Mickey looked at Lydia directly. She had never seen anyone with violet colored eyes before. He could not be any more handsome if he tried. She was coming unglued. "Now what, pray tell," he began smoothly, "are Barn Burners?"

Lydia's voice warbled as she answered. "They're shooters. A secret recipe. Well, a recipe with a secret ingredient."

Mickey grinned. Of course he had perfectly white, even teeth. "Same thing, isn't it?"

"Not sure. I'd be happy to give you the recipe. Berna, the owner's wife-well she's the owner too technically 'cuz she's married to him-"

Mickey interrupted her. "Oh not so, I'm afraid. Montana is not a community property state. But any way, you were saying."

"Yes, anyway, Berna made up the shooters and she's put in a special blend of ingredient. We just have a bottle of it in the well "

"Berna's Barn Burners," Mickey recited.

"Yep."

"Well if you're serving them, I'll drink them. Line 'em up." He smiled. In all her limited experience and slightly broader imagination, Lydia had never met a person who had this kind of effect on her. It was sort of a cruel thing for any man she met next. There was no way she was going to feel this again.

"This might ruin your appet.i.te," Lydia cautioned. "We probably should wait until after supper. But I suppose one won't hurt."

"My appet.i.te is fine," Mickey a.s.sured her. He was most definitely flirting. Lydia's breath caught in her chest as she moved behind the counter and laid out shot gla.s.ses, enough for all.

She poured with finesse, deftly tipping the spouts and counting to measured precision as she replicated the eatery's signature drink. Mickey and the others sidled up behind the anch.o.r.ed bar stools and knocked back the gla.s.ses. They shook their heads and hissed with approval. Lydia poured two, one for Dean and one for Royce. Mickey flicked one of towards her. "Have one." Lydia hesitated. She wasn't much of a drinker, especially since the last time she had a Barn Burner, but she indulged. She threw the shooter back and contracted as the contents made its way down her to her stomach. She drew hard through her nose. Mickey grinned. "Good stuff, missy."

Lydia and the men were wobbly. "What is in this stuff?" Mickey asked as he tried to get his sea legs. "There is a definitely a hallucinogen afoot."

"Something," said another struggling rider.

"It only lasts a sec. It gets better," Lydia promised. She didn't move. Just pressed her finger tips to the counter to gain composure.

"This was most definitely an after dinner drink," Mickey remarked.

"Food will make it better," Lydia replied and already the peak of the buzz was receding. "There," she said. The riders shook their heads a second time.

"d.a.m.n," Mickey proclaimed as he leaned on a bar stool. "I am going to have to patent this if Berna doesn't beat me to it."

"You steal Berna's recipe, she'll beat you alright," Lydia quipped. Mickey's hands were slow and sure, but quick enough. He took hold of her hips and pulled her to him.

"She will, will she? Should I be afraid?" he murmured. All of it left her unable to answer the question.

"I I-" she stammered.

"I think we ought to take a pa.s.s on those beers and go sit down," Mickey had his arms now tangled around the small of her back. The chemistry that transpired all but knocked out the rest of the world. It truly felt like they were the only two at Ollie's Eatery.

"How about some iced tea?" Lydia suggested.

"I'll get the gla.s.ses and you get the pitcher," he answered. Still composing herself from the Barn Burner, Lydia reached in the cooler and pulled out the tea while Mickey pinched plastic tumblers off their pyramid tidily stacked on shelves behind the counter. In one trip, he carried enough gla.s.ses for everyone in their dinner party.