All the Way

  Chapter 1

  Layla Farrell was desperate. No sane woman would come here alone.

  Flaunting stilettos, she marched up to the building that looked like a beast crouched in the night. It glared at her with its beady red eye—a neon sign that flickered in the window and threw hot pink sparks over the acreage of chrome. Rows of motorcycles packed the gravel parking lot.

  She stared down the dingy exterior as nerves made her stomach clench. One working spotlight announced The Handle Bar . “Charming,” Layla muttered.

  Here for one reason alone, she was in no mood to put up with bull from any motorcycle-riding, leather-wearing tough guy in this joint. Especially if that guy was Blake Desanto. Layla would hand over a year’s worth of her waitress tips if that was the price to avoid him tonight.

  If it hadn’t been for Blake, Robby would never have become obsessed with building motorcycles and then belonging to the crowd that rode them.

  Ignoring a flare of anxiety, she curled her hands around the hem of her leather jacket. No matter how much she tugged, it didn’t cover her backside in this short jean skirt. She never should have dragged the coat from the closet at all. It had belonged to her mother. Steeped into every worn crease in the leather was a memory of her mom Layla preferred to keep buried. She wondered why she and her younger brother, Robby, had kept it. Like they thought she might come back for it, or come back for them. She never had.

  And now Robby was missing, too.

  Layla yanked the door handle, strutted in and stopped short before a huge dude with a fuzzy beard and fuzzy arms crossed over his chest. “Five bucks,” he rasped, and stuck out a hand the size of a collection plate.

  It sounded dubious. “This is such a hot spot you guys charge a cover?”

  “For the band, sunshine.” The growl joined forces with his grimace and left no doubt why, beyond genetics, he’d been picked for the doorman.

  Layla wasn’t about to argue with him. She reached for her purse.

  “You came alone?” He eyed the door behind her like he expected a joiner.

  “Is that a problem?”

  Bushy eyebrows shrugged below his leather cap. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  The doorman tossed her five into a metal box, stamped her hand and slapped his palm against the second door. His hairy knuckles introduced her to the Handle Bar.

  The door swung open and Layla walked into a wall of sound. Guitars wailed, drums pounded, and squealing feedback made her ears ring like she’d ventured into some garage band practice.

  Was Robby’s band playing tonight? Would they know where he went or why he’d left? That band was the reason her little brother had disappeared a year ago. Also the reason he’d been put on probation. Which he was in violation of right now, unless she learned what he was up to and convinced him to come home.

  A quick scan of the room revealed no sign of Robby, but at five-three, she lost the battle trying to peer over the swarm of leather-clad shoulders and 80s-big hair. Hoping for a better view, she pushed toward the crowded bar.

  Glass crunched under her shoes. On her way through, the band played some riff the crowd went wild over. The singer belted out “Cleveland rocks!” Nothing like hometown pride .

  They brought their set to a guitar-bleating, bass drum-booming close. The singer was attractive in that rugged, big-muscled, longhaired way, and looked a little familiar. But he wasn’t in Robby’s band. Her shoulders sagged.

  “Shot or beer?”

  Layla turned and blinked in surprise. The husky voice belonged to a female bartender. One who should lose the perm and invest in a better dye job and a tank top to cover her belly roll. Not to mention she was in dire need of a bra. Layla couldn’t understand why anyone needed to be braless here. After all, there was no shortage of them draped alongside thongs and panties on clotheslines above the bar, like flags commemorating indecent exposures of the past.

  And she thought the cheap sign out front was tacky. This surpassed all expectations.

  “A Cosmo martini,” Layla replied. A sticky liquid on the bar drenched her sleeve and soaked through, no bar napkins in sight. Layla reeled back in disgust.

  The woman glared. “No fancy drinks in this joint, princess. Shot or beer.”

  “Not even a whisky sour?” Layla was abandoned for the next customer. If she didn’t have a drink in her hand, she believed she’d be pinpointed as an outsider. She needed to survive long enough to find out about Robby. Then she would disappear.

  “ Okay , I get it, shot or beer. How about tequila?”

  Finally, she earned some service. The irony was not lost on her, being in the business herself. If Layla had to earn service, the bartender wasn’t earning her tip.

  When the band finished, people swarmed the bar, jostling her from all sides. Someone flipped on the jukebox and Lynyrd Skynyrd blared from the speakers, singing about his “Saturday Night Special.”

  I should’ve guessed . Layla almost grinned. Almost.

  She didn’t want to be familiar with this scene. It brought back too many memories of her mom. Of Mom’s boyfriend and Rob’s father, Kenny, the free-spirited motorcycle rider she’d adored like a daddy, who’d brought laughter into their lives. Of the horrible accident that took his life, along with the only stability she and Robby had ever known.

  Worse still, she didn’t want to think about the past with Robby, all the mistakes she’d made raising him after Kenny’s death, then after Mom left. He’d been a skinny kid who turned into a gawky teenager looking for approval, desperate to find his niche. He found it in his band, playing with a bunch of cooler, older guys who believed musicianship was more important than school. Or age—when they threw a huge bash and Robby got in trouble for being underage.

  But since then Robby had gotten himself together, had pulled straight B’s his junior and senior years, filled out, and started developing interests beyond the guitar. He was growing up into his own person, with impressive drive and energy that he expended running track and cross-country his senior year. For a teenager just shy of his eighteenth birthday, he maintained a surprising code of honor, a fierce stance on right and wrong, which made Layla’s chest swell with pride over the integrity of the boy she’d raised.

  Her gaze dropped to the pocks and slashes in the bar counter. With a fingertip she traced one of the deep grooves, reluctantly admitting that Robby’s turnaround was also attributable to Blake Desanto.

  He’d been Rob’s mentor for the past two years, the two hooked up by community outreach services. Robby thought Blake’s long hair looked “tough,” and his unconventional attitude struck a familiar chord in her brother. Layla wanted attachments for the boy beyond herself, and Blake arrived as the answer to a thousand prayers for Rob.

  And for two months, he came disguised as the answer to hers.

  It shocked her speechless the first time she walked up his drive to retrieve Robby. She hadn’t expected Blake to be gorgeous. He spent the first few months of their acquaintance flirting with her, the mutual attraction undeniable. After another few months of getting to know each other, they started dating, each successive date drawing them closer toward that intimate encounter. They both had known it was just a matter of time. He’d been so courteous, so patient with her, easing into the relationship over the two months they were together. Letting her emotionally adjust to the idea of counting on someone besides herself.

  It pierced her deeply to know she hadn’t been worth the wait.

  Because the night Robby disappeared a year ago, instead of going out to find him together, as Layla had hoped, they’d fought over it. He felt certain he knew where Robby was, but he wouldn’t let her come with him, making her stay behind.

  The worry and fear overcame her. Instead of
waiting for Blake, she turned to the cop who always hung out at the diner, pestering her daily to go out with him. She’d always brushed him off. Until that night. She called him, learned he was on duty, and begged him to come by—off the record, so Robby wouldn’t get in trouble. When he arrived, he went out of his way to make sure she was all right.

  By the end of the night, Robby was back home safe, but the one who remained to soothe her after the traumatic night was Jack. After months of not reaching an emotional resolution with Blake, she let Officer Jack Johnson take the place Blake had primed.

  The worst mistake of her life. Jack had proved to be a neurotic control freak, but by the time she’d thrown him out of her life, he’d caused more problems between her and her brother. Now a vast chasm stretched between them, and she felt helpless to bridge it. Having worked so hard to raise him by herself, it broke her heart. She feared he would never let her in again.

  Today, he’d disappeared for the second time. Her worst fears had become reality.

  Maybe I could use this drink , Layla thought—liquid consolation—as a shot glass arrived. The bartender said, “Four bucks.”

  “Drinkin’ ta-kill-ya?” A scruffy guy with a reddish ponytail chuckled at his lame joke from the next barstool. “You look like them Latino hotties on magazine covers. Is that why you can drink lighter fluid with a worm?”

  Used to the ethnic observation, Layla offered him a smile that told him she’d heard that one before. She hoisted her purse onto the counter, carefully avoiding wet spots. “Salt?” The woman behind the bar didn’t budge. “I don’t even get a lemon?”

  The bartender bounced her leg. Layla exhaled and dug through her purse. At least the drinks here were cheap, since the service stunk.

  “Crap.” She’d given her last five to the doorman. “Do you take credit?” She slapped down her card.

  “Does this look like a bank machine to you? Tabs start at fifteen bucks.”

  “Then what am I supposed to do?” Layla asked.

  “Find a guy into charity, show your tits, or hit the road.”

  “Nice. Look, I’ll leave, but I need to see if someone’s been here recently. Do you know Robby—er, Rob Farrell?”

  “You put up the cash, and I’ll talk the trash.”

  Layla leaned forward. “Does that mean you know him? Has he been here? You have to tell me.”

  The woman tightened her lips over her buckteeth. Layla wanted to burst.

  “I’m into charity,” said the guy with the bad joke. “I’m also into titties.”

  Laughter assaulted her from an audience drawn to the mention of female anatomy. She considered buying them all a round so she could rack up fifteen bucks and get out of here, but it might give them the wrong idea. She didn’t want to get chummy.

  “I’m not taking off my shirt. I just need to find my brother.” Layla turned to scour the room until a hulking form blocked her view.

  “Looks like you don’t have much choice now, darlin’.” The guy who stepped forward fingered the trail of buttons down her coat. “We’re ready to see a show.”

  Layla skewed him with an icy glare. But her inner ice queen melted when she saw the look on his face. He was serious. And she was blocked in. She gulped.

  Straining to peer beyond him, she estimated how long it would take to make a mad dash for the door. She had never attempted to run in high heels, but now looked like the perfect time to try.

  She didn’t have to be graceful. She just had to get out.

  *

  “Nice and easy, straight in the hole.”

  Blake Desanto stretched across the pool table in the Handle Bar. He splayed his fingers on the green felt and lined up for his winning shot.

  Overhearing his choice words, the brunette who’d been eyeing him all night flashed a come-hither smile. His sidelong glance and arched eyebrow acknowledged her silent offer. In a minute he’d saunter over. Right now he needed to focus on the game, even if he could make this shot in his sleep.

  His brother, Tanner, who’d finished his music gig, goaded him from the sidelines. “That’s a lot of green, bro. We’ve got a hundred riding on this one. Make it count.”

  Blake scraped a long lock of hair out of his view and grinned over the pool stick, perfecting his aim at the eight ball. “Better start praying, since I’m a little off my game tonight—my shoulders hurt from carrying this team.”

  The brothers were playing a set of contenders who had no chance of winning, but Tanner scowled at the dig. “Okay, hot shot, next game I’m taking you on solo. But score this one already, will you?”

  “I plan to.” Blake drew back to take the shot.

  Suddenly he did something he’d never done. His eyes left the cue ball, concentration severed by a commotion at the bar. He froze.

  Then he straightened to his full height of six-three in steel-toed boots. His sights locked on a pale, beautiful face that startled him with recognition. Dark hair spilled down her back in a long slow wave. Those arcing cheek bones and almond-shaped violet eyes made a stunning impact. The exotic combination could only belong to one woman.

  What is Layla Farrell doing in the Handle Bar?

  The sight of her tugged inside his chest as it always did. The first time she walked up his drive, he’d tripped heart first into those huge violet-blue eyes. That wasn’t like him. Blake Desanto didn’t fall all over himself for any woman. Apparently with one exception.

  It took him six months to decide he was okay with that, one of those things that came along about once a lifetime. It took four months to realize she was unlike any woman he had ever known. The two months they dated told him she might even be the one. But it took only one night for the whole thing to get shot to hell, his emotions still shredded from losing her.

  He’d spent the past year forcing her out of his head—and, if he stopped to examine how deeply she affected him, he might have said his heart, too. But he didn’t. He couldn’t, and still maintain the cool detachment he’d perfected around her.

  Quickly, he absorbed the scene at the bar, the panic in her eyes, the crowd of males converging, Dan “The Man” Greene putting his filthy fingers on her. Blake felt his self-control snap.

  An emotion spilled through his veins, chilled his blood. It crawled up his spine and prickled across his scalp. Jealousy. The raw, possessive, consuming kind. Something he’d struggled against most of his thirty-four years, and dealt with by never letting women get too close, never letting himself care too much.

  But telling himself not to care about Layla Farrell was like telling him to chop his hair, put on a suit and work nine to five. It would never happen.

  The corners of his eyes tightened along with his jaw. He thrust the pool cue at Tanner. “You make the shot.”

  “What? I can’t. Out of order means the game’s forfeit.”

  “Then don’t.”

  Blake had better things to worry about than losing a pool game. He’d pay Tanner back the hundred tomorrow morning before they headed for the bike rally in Sturgis, South Dakota. The two of them had to go over his designs for the latest landscaping job up for bid in Barrington Estates, the gated community that boasted multimillion-dollar homes, golf course views, and a few Cleveland Indians baseball players in residence.

  A few more contracts like this one, and Desanto Landscaping and Design would earn the most solid reputation in greater Cleveland. Hand his brother those figures to crunch in his head and Tanner would forget tonight’s wash. It wasn’t about the money, anyway. It was all about the thrill and skill of competition. That competitive streak sent him shoving through the crowd toward the bar.

  Nobody messed with a Desanto, or what a Desanto put his claim to. Right now Blake would do something he’d been aching to do since the day he lost her.

  Claim Layla Farrell one last time.

  He hoped the prick cop she called a boyfriend would hear about it. The animosity that thrived between him and Jack now resembled scathing hatred. If Johnson stepped up,
Blake had a can of whoop-ass waiting for him, for the heartbreak he’d caused the Desanto family, the blackmail last year, and the stunt Johnson pulled six months ago, slapping him with false charges and putting him through hell.

  Blake couldn’t wait to return the favor. Starting now.

  *

  Layla whipped around, clutching her jacket up to her chin. Who did this guy think he was? Maybe if she ignored the groper he’d get bored and go away.

  Wrong . She cringed as his hand lifted her hair and sifted through it. She stared hard at the WMMS radio station poster plastered to the bar mirror. Its buzzard mascot leered at her with a taunting smirk.

  Coming here was a lousy idea, but she’d been desperate to find Robby before he left town, as the letter she found on the kitchen counter that morning foretold. She had to change his mind about selling his soul to a biker gang. Of all places, this would be the one to cater to the band of devils who had stolen her little brother.

  But no one looked familiar or friendly enough to ask. That meant one thing. Time to leave.

  Layla devised a quick plan, on the verge of enacting it when she heard rustling and what sounded like a shove behind her. Two hands with long tanned fingers slapped down on the counter, trapping her against the bar.

  A sexy voice spilled down her neck. “Baby, I’ve been waiting for you all night.”

  That was it. Layla couldn’t stand the humiliation burning through her. She picked up her full shot glass in a death grip, spun around and aimed up. She prepared to bolt. Instead, her feet fused to the floor.

  Her eyes flew wide. “Blake?” The shot of tequila splashed him full in the face. “Oh, no… I didn’t know it was you!”

  Scraping a hand down his face, he shucked the droplets. His eyes opened and narrowed, the antique bottle-green depths staring down the slope of his straight nose. Then he lifted a tequila-soaked finger to the seam of his lips, sucking off the flavor.

  He shook his head. Brushing his finger across her lips next, he stepped forward. “I think it would taste better on you.”

  “What—?”

  His mouth clamped over hers. He stole her breath away, branding her with his lips in an aggressive stamp of ownership.