Stella’s so-called dad shrugs again. “Beating me up won’t change the truth. I’m not asking for much. Ten grand should do it. If you change your mind, call me at this number.” He tosses a battered card at my feet. “You’ll thank me later.”

I stare at the card like it’s a bomb, the sick feeling in me growing.

“Fucking hell,” Rye mutters, glaring at the little weasel walking away. “That really Stella’s dad?”

“They have the same smile,” I say dully. Though Stella’s never looked that … soulless. But the shape and movements are the same—down to the small, oddly placed dimple that appears just below the left corner of their mouths. My heart kicks hard in my chest. “That asshole tried to shake me down.”

Bruce shakes his head. “I’ll keep an eye out for him.”

Rye lets out a hard breath. “What are you going to do?”

None of us have picked up the card. I don’t want to. But I feel I should at least hold onto it. I run a hand through my hair. “Fuck. I don’t know.” How do I tell Stella that the dad who abandoned her only showed up because he saw a meal ticket in me?

“Do you think he was telling the truth?” Rye asks quietly.

I glare at him. “He’s a fucking con man. I think he’d sell her out on a lie without breaking stride.” I squeeze the back of my neck. “He’s probably talking about her job as a professional friend and wants to twist it into something wrong.”

A small voice whispers that he might be talking about something else and shouldn’t I at least try to find out what it is? Gritting my teeth, I pick up the card. It’s a little bit of nothing, just a small rectangle of paper, yet somehow, it feels like poison against my skin.

It isn’t even a legit business card. The name and info of an attorney has been crossed out. In blue ink, the name Garret Grey and a local phone number has been scrawled. On the other side of the card is another number: $10,000. It’s underlined twice. Sleazy asshole. My fingers shake with rage as I shove the card in my jeans pocket.

I’ve got to tell Stella about this, but how and when is another matter.

“I’m going to see if Scottie can find out something about this snake first.”

A pall has fallen over the day. I ache for Stella; I want to hold her and tell her I’ll take care of her from now on. But I barely know how to take care of myself. I don’t know what I’ll say when I see her tomorrow, but I know it won’t be about this. I’m not going to let this deadbeat clown come between us before we’ve even had a chance to start.

Chapter Twenty

Stella

* * *

I’m nervous, which is rare and slightly ironic given what I have planned for John. But facts are facts, and my tummy flips and flutters as I exit our building and head into the sun. It’s probably a bit too warm for my leather jacket, but I’m not about to take it off. And then I stop thinking about anything really.

Because John stands, hands resting low on his lean hips, in front of a gleaming motorcycle, and all I can do is stare. He’s wearing a leather jacket too, battered and form-fitting. Paired with worn jeans and heavy biker boots, he’s something straight out of my fevered teen dreams. My youthful fantasies, however, were pure compared to the sheer potency of John Blackwood.

The way he stands, the tilt of his head, even the dark gleam in his green eyes— pure sex. He has an innate sensuality about him that urges you to touch, to linger. I don’t even think he’s aware of his appeal; it’s simply there, imbued in every inch of him.

He’s looking up at me, and I feel like candy. That’s what John does to me, turns plain and practical Stella Grey into something rich and decadent. I’m no longer wholly myself, but somehow entirely his. Our gazes connect and he smiles, that firm mouth pulling wide. It’s as if his smile is directly attached to a spot low in my belly. The tug is sharp and sweet. It goes straight to my head and makes my steps buoyant.

He straightens and meets me halfway. “Look at you, Ms. Stella Button.”

I glance down at myself. “Is this okay?”

“Okay?” He smiles softly, his eyes hot. “You’re gorgeous. Perfect.”

“Flatterer.” I’m probably beet red.

“Truth teller,” he counters, bending down and kissing me with a melting tenderness that makes my knees weak. Damn it, I’m going to dissolve like sugar into hot butter if he keeps this up. I clutch his forearm just to remain standing.

His expression is justifiably smug but also a little dazed when he lifts his head. “You ready?”

“I’d rather you kiss me some more,” I say truthfully, and his smile tilts.

“Would you, then?” His voice is husky in the morning air.

“Mmm.” I smooth a hand across his chest where the leather is warm and soft. “You’re pretty good at it.”

John peers at me through lowered lids. “Pretty good?”

“Very good?”

“Hmm …” He’s close enough to feel the heat of his body and catch the scent of his skin. Slowly he reaches out and touches a strand of my hair that’s dancing in the breeze. “Tell me, beautiful, are you trying to stall getting on my bike? Or are you feeling particularly saucy today?”

The damn man reads me too well. I let out a small laugh of resignation. “I might be stalling. But you really are tempting.”

His grin is quick and pleased.

Kiss me again. Kiss me forever.

I take a deep breath. Then another, because one isn’t enough to clear my head. “Lead on.”

He chuckles, seeing right through my bravado. “It’ll be fun. But if you hate it, tell me, and we’ll go right home.”

I follow him to the motorcycle. “I’m not going to hate it. I might scream a lot, though.”

Pure sweetness shines in his smile as he picks up a helmet and checks the straps. The helmet is midnight blue with stars painted over it, and when he turns it in his hands, I see my name painted in glittery silver across the side.

“You had a helmet made for me?” I ask, gaping at him. It’s cheesy and flashy and utterly perfect.

“Of course I did.” He ducks his head, peering at my face as he helps me put the helmet on. “You need the proper equipment.”

I stand still and let him adjust the straps. Little flutters of pleasure race over me every time his fingers brush my skin.

Satisfied, John straightens. “Now, there’s a mic in the helmet so we can talk to each other. But I’m going to concentrate on getting us out of the city first.”

“How very high tech,” I say, the flutters shifting to raw nerves. Given the fact that I love speed, I shouldn’t be nervous at all. And maybe it’s more that I want to enjoy this with John. I want him to love what I have planned for my part of the day too.

I let all of that go and follow John to the motorcycle. He gives me a wide grin and then puts on his helmet. And I burst out laughing. His helmet is sleek and black, and on the side of it, in glittering gold, are the words “Stella’s Ride.”

“Your chariot,” he says, still grinning and holding out his hand.

“Impressive.” The bike looks like a cross between vintage and new, almost steampunk. The paint is matte black with bronze accents. At this point, I’m more interested in the nicely padded seat.