Page 18 of Property of Saint

Bullseye sits back. “It’s the bullet then.”

Saint’s eyes roll up as he stares at the ceiling for a moment. Then, looking down, he asks, “Can I talk to you, Prez?”

Giving an emphatic shake of his head, Bullseye denies him, “She’s your problem, Saint. Sort it. One way or another, I don’t care.” He bangs a gavel. “Church dismissed.”

“Hey.” From somewhere, I discover a strength to use in my voice. The volume at least gets the men who are already rising from their seats to pause halfway. At Bullseye’s hand flick, they sit themselves back down. All eyes on me, I snarl, “Don’t I get any say in who my jailer should be?”

“You got the hots for any of us in particular?” The man next to me leans back in his chair and makes no secret that he’s palming his junk.

“I’d take you on, sweet cheeks,” the man I’d picked up as being called Winchester states. “Warn ya, though, me and the feds certainly ain’t friends.” He gives an evil chuckle. “Might find me a way of revenge.” He cocks an eyebrow at me. “But then, maybe you like it rough, and with a little pain?”

“I’d just kill her.” The man who’s spoken shrugs. “Problem solved.” He looks over to Saint. “That’s my advice to you, Brother.”

I try to sit up straight, but the pain in my head makes me wince so it’s not as effective as I’d have liked. “I don’t want any of you assholes to touch me,” I growl. “I’ve no problems staying here.” Shrugging, I explain, “I’m injured and need a place to lie low. And one thing’s for sure. If your plan doesn’t work and they don’t think I’m dead, no one will think of looking for me here. You can do your investigating, watch me like a hawk, but I’m not going to be tied to no man. No way. No how.”

Bullseye’s grunt makes me look in his direction, only to find his eyes are on Saint and not me. Then he states calmly, “You got her, VP?”

For an answer, Saint throws back his head in exasperation, and his eyes flare as he looks at his prez. Then he lumbersaround the table, pulling me up by my good arm. Trying to stand on my broken leg makes me cry out in pain. “For fuck’s sake!”

Suddenly, I’m in his arms, and instead of being handled roughly, he’s carrying me gently as though fully aware and conscious of my injuries. He can’t help his movements, though. Every stride makes each hurt sing and my head spin.

He walks me out of their meeting, across the clubroom, climbs the stairs, each step agony, then we’re walking along a corridor. I force my eyes open as he enters a room, the one that I so recently vacated. He lays me down, carefully, I have to admit, on the comforter.

My body might feel relief at being prone once again, my pounding head feeling the luxury of the softness of the pillows, my broken leg benefiting from being supported. But the physical comfort has no effect on my racing mind.

Before Saint can speak or move toward me, I spit out, “I’m never going to be your old lady. I’m never going to let you touch me. Better you just kill me now.” Saint, as I noticed earlier, is easy on the eyes, and maybe if he wasn’t a member of a criminal gang, and if his president hadn’t just announced he’d effectively given me to him, I might have acknowledged I felt a draw of attraction. But not now. And not in the next million years either.

“You think I want an ol’ lady?” he snarls back at me. “You think I want the weight of a ball and chain holding me down?” He clips his hair back over his ears. “Don’t tempt me, woman. It would be easier just to take out my gun and shoot you.”

CHAPTER NINE

SAINT

Iwish I’d never set eyes on the woman currently lying in my bed. Fuck knows why I let my curiosity get the better of me. I should have left well alone, never mind that she’d be dead. Better than being here and fucking up my life.

I’ve killed before, of course I have, but never someone in cold blood. When I served in the military, it was the enemy, insurgents and terrorists. On home turf, only people who’d injured my brothers, or who’d otherwise deserved to die. To take out my gun and put a bullet in her head? Fuck no. I shouldn’t be that bothered, after all, her profession alone classifies her as an antagonist toward our club. There’s just something about being responsible for a life once you’ve saved it that’s messing me up.

But what’s the alternative? To make her my old lady? Point one, I’ve never wanted to tie myself to a bitch. My sexual needs are well taken care of by the bunnies who hang around. Point two? If I did want a woman of my own, she’d be far from my ideal. I’d have to tame her and bring her to heel, and I just can’t be bothered.

I’m fucked whatever way I look at it. And currently, I’ve no idea how to get out of this predicament. As the VP, I know my prez far too well, and he’s not into making idle threats. As VP, I also accept that I’m only reaping the rewards of anyone who’s brought potential danger down on the club.

Do I believe she’s an undercover Fed? Actually, I don’t. If this was a plot to plant her in the club, it was a pretty risky one. Firstly, my actions couldn’t have been predicted, nor was I the right person to target. I’m not easily swayed by a pretty face or sexy body, though I admit, Pippa has both. If this had been a setup, there were too many ways in which it would have failed.

I wouldn’t have even brought her back to the clubhouse if she hadn’t rescued my cut – though, I accept, she’d been the one to suggest I took it off in the first place. Nah, I shake my head, there’s no way such an elaborate plot would work. If she was sent as a Fed, then she ended up in this club by accident.

Even if I don’t think she was planted here to spy on us, I won’t be letting her close to any club business. Her DNA runs different from ours, and if she learns something, she’d feel bound to report it.

What the fuck do I do with her?

I need time to think. As I watch, she shifts around, changing position, then moving back, obviously uncomfortable. Going to the bedside table, I lift the plastic bottles and tap out a couple of the strong painkillers and the antibiotic Doc had left. I hold them out to her. “Take these,” I instruct gruffly. “Fuck, woman, you’re dead on your feet and need rest.” When she starts shaking her head, I tell her, “The antibiotic is non-negotiable. Don’t want you getting an infection and puking up in my bed. As for the painkillers, you’re in my room. I’ll be right here with you. Worst that can happen is I’ll kill you in your sleep. I assure you, I much prefer my women conscious and willing. Tomorrow’s soonenough to deal with our problems. You’re hurt, injured, and need rest.”

Her eyes meet mine. She seems to be trying to pry into my mind.

“You don’t trust me, I get that. I don’t trust you. But tonight, it’s a truce. Pippa, take the fuckin’ tablets and get some rest.”

“Phillipa,” she replies with a challenging glint in her eye.

“Take the pills,Pippa,” I stress.

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