Page 65 of Connor's Claim
Around me, rain fell in a steady patter, running down my windshield and helpfully concealing me from any passersby on the side road where I’d parked. This afternoon, I’d cruised the city streets for a while before striking gold and now had only a few minutes to do what I needed then book it back to the warehouse.
The song’s chorus repeated, and I adjusted the lyrics for my amusement. “Crazy brother fucker.”
My fingers touched hard-edged plastic, and I extracted my treasure with a flourish. “Got ye. Now to put your arse to work.”
I tore the packet open and examined the small silver disc. Setting it up took a minute, but then I was ready, my red coat’s fluffy hood up and a tube of superglue in my pocket. Taking abreath, I calmed my speeding pulse and went through my plan one more time.
An empty street—check, the rain had done that job for me. No one emerging from the building site ahead yet—check. The workmen tended to finish around four, and I had ten minutes until then. I had the tools to do what I needed to, so there was no more reason to delay.
My phone chimed.
With a huff of annoyance, I checked the screen.
Genevieve: Fifteen minutes, my apartment.
Yeah, yeah. I sent back a thumbs-up, swallowed a fizz of rising excitement, then popped my door. I climbed out into the damp afternoon and advanced on the vehicle parked a few spaces ahead of my car.
Riordan’s matte-black motorbike.
Sitting there, all innocuous and tempting.
As I neared, I uncapped the superglue and squeezed a dollop onto the back of the tracking device then tossed the tube. I had seconds to do this.
My heart beat loud in my ears.
Stooping as if to check my shoe, I reached out and pressed the disc to the underside of the saddle, praying I didn’t knock the bike over. It already had a dent in the bodywork, and it was so pretty, it would be a shame to add another.
“Just a bit longer,” I coached myself.
The counter in my head reached twenty. I released the pressure, tapping the tracker to make sure it stayed. Then my finger grazed over something next to it. Another disc?
What the fuck?
I ducked to peer under the saddle. Right next to mine was another identical disc. Outrage filled me, and I snatched my keys from my pocket, wedging one under to pry it free.
How fucking dare someone track him? I mean, someone other than me. At least I was harmless. Mostly.
The second tracker cracked loose then dropped to the road and rolled into a puddle. For a beat, I stared at it.
“Hey!” a male voice challenged me.
Familiar tones that had featured in my toxic little dreams.
I shot up, stumbling, even though I’d worn trainers in case I needed to run. But I wasn’t fast enough. Riordan grabbed my arm, turning me back to face him.
“What the fuck are you doing to my bike?” He tugged back my hood.
Then stared.
Oh, fucking hell.
I stared right back, a prisoner to the minor inconvenience of an addictive personality and obsession at first sight. At well over six feet tall, and in a very distressed leather jacket, Riordan towered over me, his chocolate-brown hair darkened by the damp, and the green of his eyes intensified by the raindrops on his skin. Totally lickable. I crammed my hand to my mouth so I didn’t say any of that out loud.
Rainwater trickled down my face, and I came back to my senses and snapped my hood back up to cover my curls. “I can’t get my hair wet. It takes forever to get back under control.”
His puzzled expression didn’t change. “Cassie? What are you doing?”
“I…have no explanation.”