Page 3 of Hawkeye

I tightened my grip on the shadow box and kept walking as the first round of fireworks burst over the canyon.

2

HAWKEYE

Afresh barrage opened above the canyon as a prospect called Ghost’s name from behind us. I turned, my gaze cutting past the prospect to the woman walking beside him. One clear look was enough to make the rest of the event disappear behind her.

She stood out among the black leather in wide-legged green trousers and a bright fitted top, both arms locked around what looked like an old shadow box. Thick chestnut waves brushed her shoulders, one side pulled away from her face by a small decorative clip, and the event lights drew amber from the center of her large brown eyes. She had full curves and a soft mouth with a tiny dark fleck near one corner that made me want to put my lips directly over it.

My body reacted with the same speed my instincts did in the field. Except I hadn’t felt anything like this in a long time. My cock hardened, thickening painfully behind my zipper.

The box hid most of her chest, but it did nothing to conceal the defined waist beneath it or the rounded hips swaying with each step. Her shoulders were tight with nerves, yet the grip she had on that antique warned that anyone trying to take it without permission would lose a limb.

Mine.

The certainty arrived whole, and I started moving while Ghost was still turning toward them.

“She came to the gate asking for the Black Crowns president,” the prospect explained. “Says this belongs to the club and won’t hand it over to anybody else.”

I reached Ghost’s side, taking in her expressive face first, then the scratched glass and tarnished brass corners of the shadow box. My gaze moved down the rest of her body before returning to her eyes. They widened beneath thick lashes when she realized exactly how thoroughly I had looked.

“Are you the Black Crowns president?” she asked, shifting her grip on the box.

“No.” I stepped into her space and took her gently but firmly by the elbow. “But I’m the man you need, baby doll.”

Color flooded her cheeks and spread down her throat. “I—You don’t even know why I’m here.”

“I’ll find out.” I glanced toward the prospect without releasing her. “Tell Stryker she’s with me.”

I guided her toward the small operations building on the event property, keeping my body between hers and the people moving around us. She came with me, but the set of her mouth made it clear that cooperation should not be confused with surrender. My hand remained around her elbow because I liked having her within reach, and every shift of warm skin beneath my palm fed the possessive need already taking root.

“I asked for the president,” she reminded me as we stepped onto the walkway.

“Stryker’s coming to us.” I looked at the box she held against her breasts. “I’m not gonna leave you standing in the middle of a crowd carrying something that is clearly expensive enough to make you bare your teeth at a prospect.”

“I was not baring my teeth.” Her brows drew together. “This is a valuable antique, so handing it to the first person who offers to take it would be professionally irresponsible. And I didn’t tell your prospect the box belonged to the club, either. I said it might contain property connected to one of your members, which is legally and ethically a very different thing.”

I opened the office door and gestured for her to go through. “Moving you, not taking the antique.”

That removed her next argument, although the glare she gave me suggested she intended to preserve it for later. I found the contrast between her soft face and quiet steel fucking adorable. She was surrounded by armed bikers who outweighed her by a hundred pounds, but her nerves wouldn’t stop her from correcting each of us until we understood precisely what she meant.

I could tell that the chemistry between us rattled her, and I liked knowing she felt it too.

The event office was plain and functional, with a desk, several chairs, storage cabinets, and the communication equipment used during public gatherings. I closed the door, checked the secondary exit, and placed myself between her and the entrance before pulling a chair away from the wall. She sat with the shadow box across her lap, still holding it as though I might change my mind and grab it.

“Start at the beginning,” I instructed. “Give me the long version.”

Her expression brightened despite her nerves, and the change hit almost as hard as my first look at her. She began with the San Diego craftsman who had built the mahogany box early in the last century, then moved through the original medal group and the later family additions. Then she pointed at another item through the glass. A worn Black Crowns challenge coin—the kind of heavy commemorative token made to mark membership and belonging—rested among the newer additions.

“This was what created the gap in the history,” she explained.

Her bangles clicked whenever one hand left the box to illustrate a point, and her voice quickened as she explained why Wynnock Auctioneers could not legally assume that the consigning estate owned every item inside.

I enjoyed watching the animation moving across her face. Her eyes turned almost gold when she talked about the joinery and maker’s mark, while her full mouth softened whenever she referred to the men represented by the medals and photographs. The more excited she became, the more she moved one hand through the air, and I kept imagining those expressive fingers gripping my shoulders while I gave her something far less historical to talk about.

“Sorry.” She caught herself in the middle of explaining the newer hanging hardware and hugged the box closer again. “I know I’m giving you more detail than you probably need.”

“Don’t.”