Page 7 of A Christmas Auction

“Mac, what’s wrong?”

His body jerked as though he’d been struck. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

“Mac, I’m sensing some hostility—”

“You were fucking attacked!” he raged. “At our bar! And you didn’t CALL ME!” he roared, clearly pissed right the fuck off.

My shoulders slumped as I realized what was happening. “Mac, seriously, I’m fine. You’re overreacting.”

“Overreacting,” he sneered. “You haven’t seen overreacting, but you will,” he threatened. “No one messes with Hound property and lives to talk about it.”

“I’m not Hound property.”

“The fuck you aren’t,” he countered, spitball flying alongside his fury.

“Mac, really. It wasn’t that bad…” I began, attempting to de-escalate the situation.

He spoke through his teeth. “My sources tell me it was the Baskin brothers. Two men that are twice your size, came onto Hound turf and roughed up one of ours? And you tell me I’m overreacting? Are you fucking kidding me!”

I walked over to the bar and set my duffle on one of the stools. “Mac, listen to me,” I tried again.

“No! You listen, Holly. You may not realize the severity of the situation, because you’re sweet. And me and my brothers protect sweet. But”—he pointed at my chest—"no one messes with you.” Then he pointed at the bar top. “Or this bar as long as it’s in Hound’s territory.”

“Don’t worry, they’ve been taken to jail. My guess, they’ll be in there for a while.”

He reached out and took my hand and gave it a squeeze. I couldn’t help the instant wince and hiss of pain that left my lips, because my palms were still healing.

His eyes flared with white-hot fire as he turned over my hand and saw the abrasions from when I skidded across the gravel multiple times.

Gently, he grabbed my other hand and turned it palm up. He dipped his head and placed a featherlight kiss on each one just like a father or a big brother would for his daughter or little sister.

“I’m going to fucking kill them with my bare hands,” he rumbled so low I could feel that vow thunder through my chest like an incoming storm.

Shit. The last thing I needed were the Hounds involved. Even if they meant well, I suspected they got into a lot of illegal activity, and I wanted no part of that lifestyle.

“Mac, please, I’m okay. Really.” I pulled my hands out of his grasp. “I just want to forget all of this ever happened and get back to work.”

He nodded, his jaw firm, his eyes wild. I didn’t know if he’d listen to me, but at that moment, I just wanted to move forward.

* * * *

Unsurprisingly, that night, the entire The Las Vegas Hounds motorcycle club was in attendance. Each one of them spoke kindly to me, overtipped, and eyed every last man that entered the bar. Until one of the sexiest women alive entered. Then all eyes were on her.

“God damn,” Mac breathed as Alana Toussaint entered, wearing a fierce all-white business suit that hugged every inch of her lithe form. A pair of red four-inch stilettos made the outfit not only fashion-forward but edgy. Her black hair was parted down the center and fell in a flat glossy sheet down her back. Her eyes were lined with kohl in a vicious cat-eye shape I’d always wanted to learn but never got the hang of. Her hips swayed from side to side, mesmerizing every biker in the room. She smiled coyly as she approached the bar, her cherry-red lips looking positively edible. She was a force of nature, and I desperately wanted to know her secret.

“Bonjour, chérie,” she said as she waved at the stool in front of me.

Sam, a hot biker that had been hitting on me for years, promptly got up and out of his seat to help Alana get settled.

“Merci.” Alana smiled sweetly and then sat, placing a slim, red leather wristlet wallet onto the counter. “I believe you know what I like.”

Mac leaned forward. “I’d be happy to make it my business to give you anything you’d like, beautiful,” he said using that biker charm that wooed the biker chicks.

I shoved Mac aside. “Don’t even start,” I warned. “I happen to know for a fact she’s married to a hot French guy. Christopher? No, Christophe.” I tried to remember the man she introduced me to the second time I saw her. Now that I was out of the hospital and in my right mind, I remembered exactly when we’d first met. Her limo had blown a tire. She drank tequila and chatted about life while her driver took care of the problem. Then she’d come in a second time a month or so later, with her husband, to have a nightcap.

Mac covered his heart with both his hands. “Say it ain’t so, beautiful?”

“I’m afraid it is. Married thirty years and counting.”

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