Rough Justice (Sinner's Tribe Motorcycle Club #1)(9)
“That would be me.” She gave him a cool smile, amused by his assumption she’d required assistance to get free.
Jagger glared at Sherry and Wheels. “No one thought to put them back on her? After I told you only twenty minutes ago that she was a flight risk?” He crossed the room and slammed the window closed behind her, the loud bang shaking the glass panes. “And you’re letting her stand by an open window no more than ten feet off the ground?”
Wheels and Sherry shared a terrified glance, and Arianne felt a twinge of annoyance. Despite her situation, she had to admit they’d been nothing but friendly. Not that she would jump to their defense. Political savvy had saved her neck time and again in the Black Jack clubhouse, and no one, but no one, challenged the president. At least, not in public.
Jagger dismissed Wheels and Sherry, waiting until the door closed before he circled Arianne’s wrist with his thumb and forefinger, his voice dropping to a sensual growl. “When I cuff you to the bed, I expect you to stay there.”
If his intent was to throw her off balance, it had worked. Mouth dry, every nerve in her body focused on the soft brush of his thumb over her skin, her body came alive with sensation. She toyed with the hem of her shirt as she tried to get herself together.
“I wasn’t really in the mood to be restrained.”
His eyes glittered, and electricity fired the air between them. “What were you in the mood for, little vixen?” He dropped his gaze to her lips, and for a second, she thought he might kiss her. Instead he tugged her in the direction of the bed.
“Escape. That’s usually what people want when they’ve been captured.”
“You think you’re a prisoner?” He spun to face her, filling every inch of her personal space.
Arianne forced herself to look away from his broad chest and rippling abs. He had a warrior’s body—taut, hard, and without an ounce of fat. “Can I leave?”
“No.”
“Then, yes, I think I’m a prisoner.” Arianne scowled, no longer flustered by the proximity of his body or by his direct stare. “Kinda fits the definition, since you’re holding me here against my will.” She stifled a curse and tried to shake off his hand. During her years with the Jacks, she’d learned the hard way how to stay cool around dangerous men. Problem was, except for her father, she’d never met a man so dangerously attractive as Jagger.
A high-pitched whine from the hallway broke the spell. Jagger released her wrist and crossed the room to open the door. With a sharp bark of delight, a midsize collie bounded into the room.
Jagger’s face softened in an instant and he bent down and ruffled the collie’s fur. “This is Max. We found him abandoned when we took over the property a few months ago. He’s not supposed to be in the house, but tonight has been unsettling for everyone.”
Arianne knelt down and held out her hand. After much sniffing, Max licked her palm. “He’s beautiful.”
“You like dogs?”
“We had a golden lab when I was growing up,” she said wistfully. “If I didn’t live in an apartment now, I would get another one. But they’re big dogs. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“Dogs need their space.” Jagger went thoughtful, staring at her, and Arianne tugged her shirt down over her knees, self-conscious about being hunkered on the floor beside Max, wearing only the oversized T-shirt and a pair of panties.
“Max and I come out here a coupla times a week to run.” He patted Max’s head. “Gives me time to check up on the property and we get some time away. The minute the vehicle stops, he’s gone. Only way to get him back is to whistle. He can hear the sound almost a mile away.” When he held two fingers up to his mouth, Arianne put up a warning hand.
“No need for a demo. I like my eardrums unbroken, thank you.”
Jagger chuckled and held out a hand to help her up. The small courteous gesture sent a warm tingle through her body that turned into a full-on tidal wave when skin touched skin and he pulled her up.
For a moment, neither of them moved, and then Jagger dropped her hand. “Better get some sleep.”
“Well … good night.” She stood beside Max, waiting for Jagger to leave, but instead he sat on the bed and pulled off his boots.
Arianne’s palms grew clammy. “You’re sleeping here?”
He licked his lips and smiled. “Not many of the bedrooms are furnished, and since you clearly can’t be trusted on your own, this is the only option. The bed is big enough for both of us, but I’m not planning to do anything more than sleep. It’s been a helluva day.”
“I’ll sleep on the floor, then,” she said. “Maybe Max can keep me company.”
“Unacceptable. You’re injured and a woman. You’ll sleep in the bed.”
Irritation chased the filaments of Arianne’s fear away. “Women can sleep on floors.”
“Not under my roof and not in my club.” Jagger removed his cut and then stripped off his T-shirt.
Arianne’s eyes widened and her jaw went slack. Oh God. Why did he have to do that? He had the kind of chest she’d seen only on billboards or in men’s underwear ads. Well, except for the Sinner’s Tribe tattoo that spanned his broad chest, the wings surrounding the skull reaching up and over his shoulders to join the intricate tat sleeves that covered his upper arms. But it was the scar down the center of his chest and not totally concealed by the tat that gave her pause. Not a knife scar—she was well acquainted with those—but something more precise. Surgical.