- Shopping Bag ( 0 items )
Marcus's ominous form turned slowly on his bar stool, then rose to his full six-foot-four height, glaring down on LeAnne McVeigh. His eyes, dark as night, bore something akin to evil.
Clearing her throat, she continued. "You are under arrest for the murder of your wife, Jillian Gallego. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up the right…"
Her gaze swept the bar as her voice went through the motion of reading him his rights. She had done this many times before and could probably do it in her sleep. Except, this time was different–this time the man was strong enough to take off her head, and good-looking enough to sweep her off her feet.
Marcus simply chuckled, mocking her. The sound, deep and rumbling, seemed to travel from the soles of his worn leather boots up through the broad expanse of his chest.
Of course, the two deputies accompanying her could have done this, saving her the trouble, if not the embarrassment. But she had wanted to be in on the arrest. This was her case.
Besides, the deputies were here to watch her back. LeAnne knew better than to enter a bikers' bar alone to arrest one of their kind, and certainly would not have dared, had the bar been full.
"Place both hands on the bar, Gallego," she instructed, motioning for one of the deputies to pat him down.
He simply crossed his arms over his chest and grinned. "You got the wrong man, lady."
LeAnne clenched her teeth. Sure, she was a woman, but she would be damned before she would allow him to think her any less of an adversary than the deputies accompanying her.
"Hands on the bar,Gallego," she repeated, taking a step forward. The two deputies fidgeted, obviously nervous at her putting herself within the tall man's reach.
His jaw twitched as he seemed to weigh his options, then finally did as she instructed. Tom, the larger of the two deputies, kicked Gallego's feet farther apart, then frisked him. Tom laid Gallego's change, keys, and wallet on the bar as murmurs from the other patrons increased.
Tom stepped back. LeAnne grasped Marcus's wrist, wrenching his taut arm behind his back. She slapped the cuff around it, the sharp clack easily carrying through the now-hushed room.
"What the–" he gritted between his clenched teeth as he jerked on his arm, nearly tearing it from her clasp.
But with a strength someone her size could not seemingly possess, she pulled his arm back behind him, pushed his chest down on the polished but scarred bar, and cuffed his wrists together.
"Don't push me today, Gallego," she hissed. "I sure as hell am not in the mood." Then snatching a fistful of his worn brown leather, she jerked him upright. "You're going downtown."
"What about my bike?"
LeAnne wanted to laugh. Here she was hauling his sorry hide to the station for the murder of his wife and the only thing he could think about was his precious Harley.
"Not my problem now, is it? Get someone else to take it home," she stated in a stern voice, daring him to argue.
She knew she posed no threat to a man of his caliber, but with two armed men accompanying her, he might think twice before harming her.
He nodded his dark head at a salt and pepper-haired biker with a beard reaching to his chest. A beer-belly parted his vest as the sides of his rear spilled off the stool. This man held no similarities with the one she held in her grip; she doubted Marcus Gallego sported even an ounce of fat.
Copyright © 2002 by Patricia A. Rasey
Posted September 21, 2013