Chapter 1

B ad-boy biker coming through. Sure hope I look the part.

Wind in his long hair, sunshine overhead and nothing but road stretching ahead of him.

FBI agent Jason "Jace" Beckett smiled behind the windshield of his helmet as he roared on his Harley toward the Tiki Bar. Along with reputable motorcycle riders, the Devil's Patrol lunched there every Sunday. Jace stood on a knife's edge of acceptance into the outlaw motorcycle club. Infiltrating was key to his undercover assignment. Almost there. Today could be when Lance, the leader of the DP's powerful Florida chapter, tested his loyalty and then Jace was no longer a prospect, but a member.

But as he headed to the bar through a less than desirable area of town, past crumbling buildings and gang graffiti that decorated walls, he spotted an older couple standing by an expensive sedan on the side of the road. Didn't take eagle eyes to spot the problem—flat tire.

Or the potential problem. Their shiny, polished presence and their expensive vehicle made them stand out like diamonds in a trash heap.

Inwardly cursing, he pulled to a stop in front of them. Pulled off his helmet and placed it on the seat. Jace hurried over to them. If any Devil's Patrol riding to the Tiki Bar saw them, the couple would be robbed. Or worse.

If any DP saw Jace aiding them, they'd be suspicious. To stay in character, he had to act like a total prick. But no way in hell was he leaving Ma and Pa America stranded here in this part of town, ripe for violence.

As he neared them, the couple backed off. The white-haired woman put a hand to her throat. Jace stopped, realizing their fears. He wasn't a member of the Devil's Patrol yet, but the Prospect patch on his jacket indicated he'd embraced the outlaw lifestyle.

"Got a spare and a jack in that trunk?" he asked.

The man's shoulders relaxed, but the woman still shrank back. Jace gestured to the trunk. "Pop it."

The man obliged. Jace pulled out the spare and the jack, relieved they at least had the equipment, if they lacked the knowledge.

"We called the auto club, but they said it would be at least an hour." The woman, who had followed her husband to the trunk, had a quavering note in her voice.

"One hour in this place is not a good idea." Jace set about changing the tire as they stood by, wringing their hands.

In minutes he had the tire changed and the flat and jack tucked back into the trunk, which he closed with a firm hand. He glanced at the relief on their faces.

"Thank you, young man. May we give you something for your trouble?" The man pulled out his wallet and Jace glimpsed several bills.

He groaned. Why did people carry that much cash?

"No, thanks. Glad to help."

The woman gave a real smile. "You remind me of our grandson. He's a police officer. Always helping others."

Terrific. If the DP saw this display of kindness, their impression of Jace as a potential member would turn to suspicion. Mistrust. They wouldn't allow him into the club. Or worse, admit him and then when he happened to turn his back, slice him up and dump his body into the Everglades. Make him gator food so no one in his family could ID his body.

He almost laughed. What family? His father was serving twenty-five years in prison and his mother had moved on to her third husband, who'd made it clear Jace was not welcome at family reunions.

Jace offered a brief smile. "No problem."

The woman had finally uncovered her throat, only to display a diamond pendant.

He stared at it and her smile dropped. She put a hand to her throat again. He glanced up and down the road and heard the distant, but distinct, roar of motorcycles. Dammit. Had to leave. So did they.

Now.

"Ma'am, I highly advise you to put your jewelry away where no one can see it. And when you leave here, take the long route. This is not a good area." He gestured east to the growling engines approaching. "There are people who use this shortcut who wouldn't hesitate to rob and beat you."

Blood drained from their faces, but they hurried back inside the car. He scurried to his bike. The motorcycles drew closer, but the couple sped off, the man turning down a side street Jace knew led to the main road.

Too late for him, though, because the bikes were closer. He recognized the unmistakable cough of an engine. Lance, the leader of the Devil's Patrol.

Excuses. He needed one fast. Jace sighed, went to the side of a nearby building and unzipped his jeans.

He was just zipping up when they arrived, stopped and regarded him. He eyed them with the same interest they showed. Shrugged.

"Couldn't wait, prospect?" Lance lowered his sunglasses. "You raised in a barn?"

No, I was raised in a motorcycle clubhouse . "Had too many beers already. Building's a hell of a lot cleaner than the damn gas station men's room."

Lance smiled without warmth. Shorter than Jace, with bulky muscles and a beer belly that advertised his favorite beverage, Lance had a craggy face and slit brown eyes. Reptilian eyes. He was always squinting against the ever-present Florida sun. Ink covered his bare arms. Most prominent was a Devil's Patrol tat on his left forearm.

"Why you here ahead of us? You too good to ride with the pack?"

Jace pointed to his bike. "Damn, you know my bike needed a new tire. Wasn't going to slow you down, so I got it fixed and waited here."

The excuse might fly. Might.

Big Mike, hands on the ape handlebars of his Harley, shook his head. "Prospect, ride ahead of us and get me a damn beer."

As a club prospect, Jace was often disrespected and treated like an old lady. He put up with it, doing whatever they wanted. Sometimes they slapped him around. It was all to test his loyalty and see how he reacted. See if he wanted it bad enough to take a beating or two.

Jace endured everything and moved on.

"No problem," he said easily.

Lance laughed. "You'd better have a lot of cash, prospect. I'm mighty thirsty."

After tugging at his gloves, he climbed on his bike and roared ahead to the bar, hoping like hell no other people might blow his cover today.

Instruments of death crowded the parking lot.

Cold sweat trickled down Kara Wilmington's back, despite the heat. Her breathing hitched. Motorcycles. Two rows of them at least, gleaming in the bright sunshine like metallic beasts. Killer beasts, the same kind that killed her little brother. Nearly paralyzed with dread, she squeezed her damp palms and tried to force a smile at her client.

"Reggie, are you certain you want to eat lunch here? There are other places..."

"Not like this. Best catfish around. Bikers love it. Look at all of them!" He grinned, making him look younger than his 77 years. "If I weren't with you, Kara, I'd be here, anyway, jawing away with them. Every Sunday I come here for lunch."

You can do this. It's only lunch. Then you can leave.

If she balked, she could lose this deal, and Reggie was a client who could lead to bigger deals through word of mouth. I need this. They're only bikers and not on their motorcycles. It will be okay.

Kara took a deep breath, steadied her voice. "Shall we?"

The hostess escorted them through the Tiki Bar to a table. She tried to ignore the bikers as Reggie pulled out a chair for her. Why couldn't he have seated her facing away from them?

Kara felt as conspicuous as if she'd worn a bikini and flip-flops instead of a Chanel sheath dress and pumps. Much as she'd learned to ignore men staring at her—God, why did they always stare?—she hated this.

Hated being the center of attention, hated the motorcycles that reminded her of Conner's death...

She thanked the waiter as he handed her a menu, ordered iced tea with lemon and silently steeled her spine.

"Don't knock bikers, Kara. They're fun people. You should have fun, live a little instead of working all the time." Reggie shook his head. "No offense, but you're young and you drive slower than ladies half my age."

There's a reason for that.

Reggie was selling his entire estate and moving to California to be closer to his daughter and her family. Years of valuables sat in the luxurious house and he needed Kara's firm to liquidate everything, fast. Anything of personal or sentimental value had already been shipped out west. Kara had already appraised all the items and came up with a whopping two-million-dollar total.

The jewelry, passed down through two generations, would sell easily. Kara planned to keep the most expensive pieces in her store and sell them to private bidders.

The interior of the Tiki Bar was sticky, but ceiling fans stirred a sluggish breeze coming from the east. Kara's gaze flicked to the gathering of twenty or more men in jeans or leather, some with long beards and a few with gray hair. An eclectic collection, for certain. At another cluster of tables were bikers who looked rough and had leather jackets, despite the heat. She saw patches on their jackets and a chill rushed down her spine.

"What's a one-percenter?" she asked Reggie.

His gaze flicked in the direction of her gesture and he immediately looked away. "Ignore them, Kara. That's the Devil's Patrol. Motorcycle club. One-percenter describes outlaw MC clubs. The other ninety-nine percent of bike riders are law-abiding. These guys are not. They're criminals and dangerous."

A shiver raced down her spine. "Aren't most bikers skirting the edge of the law?"

Reggie bristled. "Most motorcycle enthusiasts are good guys. Stop clumping them all together."

Kara hid her surprise. "Sorry. I did not know."

Reggie nodded. "Let's order."

As the waiter brought their drinks and they ordered, Kara turned away and focused her attention on Reggie. He began talking about everything from fishing to motorcycles.

When he finally came up for air, she dove in and removed a sheaf of papers from her briefcase. "Reggie, the contract to hire my firm is all ready for you to review."

He took the papers, frowned as he scanned them while sipping his beer. "This part about the commission you collect..."

"My commission is thirty-five percent."

Reggie lowered his beer. Frowned. "Your website said twenty-five percent."

Offering a serene smile, she locked her gaze to him, ready to play hardball. "Willow Wind Estate Sales charges between twenty-five and forty-five percent to liquidate an estate. I have to charge you toward the upper end of the scale because you requested expediency. That means I must scramble to hire extra help the day of the estate sale, not only to handle sales but keep an eye on your valuables so people do not walk off with them."

He drank more beer. "I don't know. What if you don't sell anything?"

Kara's confidence rose. She knew how to push the facts without shoving. "Reggie, my firm pays all the expenses of the estate sale, and the items that do not sell can be donated and you can collect the tax write-off. I assure you, you will get more than a fair price for your treasures. I have buyers I will connect with your valuables so they get a private showing. These are clients who will pay more than a fair price."

As he squinted at her, she went for the kill, lowering her voice so no one could overhear. "My costs will be considerable, and your net will be as well. Perhaps over one million."

Beer sloshed over the side of his mug as he set it down. "That much? Hot damn!"

Her smile widened. "It will be more than enough to fund your trip west, plus hire an attorney to set up a legacy for your grandchildren. I'm sure Miles and Macy cannot wait to see you."

Reggie nodded. "I thought it was a bunch of old junk. Well, you're the expert, Kara."

Expecting him to shake hands, she was shocked to see him grope for a pen in his pocket and begin to sign. Kara stopped him. "In your best interests, you may want to have your attorney review the contract."

"In my best interests, lawyers are a waste of time and I have no time to waste." The pen hovered in midair. "I can trust you. And the jewelry you plan to sell at your store will be guarded at all times?"

Thinking of the jewelry, which she'd appraised at more than one hundred thousand dollars if it went to the right collector, Kara nodded. "We have excellent security."

He signed.

Tucking the signed contract back into her briefcase, she allowed herself a moment of sheer relief. Their meals arrived—catfish for him, salad for her. She ate, enjoying the fresh greens and the homemade dressing, as Reggie talked with growing excitement about his plans for moving and ensuring his grandchildren received a generous college fund.

As he talked, her gaze drifted around the bar. The bikers were absorbed in their meals and drinks. Soon all but the Devil's Patrol left the bar and she heard the unmistakable roar of motorcycles. Kara fought the usual nausea she experienced when she heard a motorcycle, unable to forget the belch of smoke and the growl of the engine as the motorcyclist had headed straight for her new car...

The biker had been killed.

So had her little brother.

Throat tight, she forced herself to drink more tea and peeked at the Devil's Patrol gang. One man, who had his back to her, suddenly turned and laughed as he signaled to a nearby waitress. The salad turned to cardboard in her stomach.

Kara stared at the handsome face of her ex-fiancé. Jace Beckett. Clad in a tight black T-shirt that showed off the curves of hard biceps, and ragged jeans that hugged his amazing butt...

Swigging back a bottle of beer, he stretched out his long legs and plopped up biker boots on an empty chair. Jace laughed at something said by another at the table.

Jace. Here with a notorious motorcycle club. What on God's green earth was he doing here? He was a straight shooter, a white-collar pencil pusher who'd worked at an investment firm six years ago when they broke up.

Not a rowdy biker who shouted for another round for his pals, but that what he was doing right now. His dark brown hair had gold streaks and was curled at the edges. Hanging to the firm jawline of his once clean-cut face was a beard. A well-trimmed beard, but a beard just the same.

If not for his deep guffaw, she'd never have recognized him.

Confidence drained out of her like a deflated balloon. She fiddled with her iced tea, tracing a droplet of condensation on the glass. It felt like a teardrop. Like the damn tears she'd cried the day they broke up.

Motorcycles always meant more to Jace than she did. Not even the amazing sex they'd had, or the way they clicked on other things, like the theater, or their long conversations, had been enough to keep them glued together.

Filled with bitter memories and a sudden, sharp longing, she glanced up.

Only to see him pull a woman in denim short shorts and a sleeveless shirt onto his lap. The woman planted a big kiss on his mouth as Jace wrapped his arms around her. Stinging jealousy shot through Kara. She tried ignoring it, but there it was, like a cloud of gnats at sunset. She knew how Jace liked to do it—long, deep, intoxicating kisses, making her forget everything but him, and then they'd end up in bed together.

Kara bit her bottom lip, remembering his lazy smile, the way he'd cup the back of her head, holding her steady for those drugging kisses...exquisite, filling her with heat.

She dared to look at him again. The way he kissed this stranger on his lap wasn't the same. He kissed without the finesse he'd always displayed, kissed this woman as if she meant nothing.

Forget him. You've moved on.

Still, the ache for something she had and lost couldn't be fully ignored. Kara felt like a hungry diner staring inside an exclusive restaurant, knowing she could never dine there again.

Reggie finished his catfish. Time to go. She paid the check in a hurry and as she pushed back from the table, Jace glanced over.

He saw her.