Yeah, maybe Creed was right. It was a long shot, but long shot or not, they were running out of time.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Jane slowly wound herself up from a drowsy sleep, waking to a familiar sound: the deep-throated growl and chassis-shaking roar of Steele Street iron pulling to a stop in front of the house. Her money said Roxanne and Angelina had arrived, and wherever the two Detroit girls were, Christian Hawkins and Creed Rivera were bound to be with them.
I’m saved. The thought went through her on a wave of relief.
Or maybe she’d already been saved.
She looked over at the man sleeping by her side. He was so beautiful, the lines of his features so perfectly formed. Not even the scars running from his temple down to his jaw could take away from the cleanly chiseled artistry of his face. His nose was straight, his mouth firm, his dark hair cut short and tousled. His cheekbones were high, adding a hint of elegance to his bad-boy edge and reminding her of Kid. There was a reason she’d fallen so hard for him at first sight all those years ago, and nothing in him had changed enough to change her feelings. He was still the Guardian.
She let out a soft breath. Damn. She was usually more careful, always more careful than she’d been with him, but oh, God, what he’d done to her—made love to her, cherished her, and held her like he was never going to let her go.
She was such a fool.
She was so tempted to wake him and keep running, to the ends of the earth if that’s what it took to keep him by her side—but that was no good. He belonged to Steele Street, and whatever she could do to get him back there was the best for him. With the chop shop boys close outside, she only needed to hold on to him for a few more minutes. Wherever he’d been, whatever he’d done, whatever had been done to him, they were his best chance.
Which left her to wonder if he was her best chance.
Salvation and acceptance, that’s what she’d been looking for all these years, a few times in some pretty unlikely places, like with the art crowd in Los Angeles during the years she’d worked in Katya Hawkins’s gallery there. She’d met her share of movie stars, politicians, newsroom anchors, and artists, and been charmed by more of them than she could recall.
But it was men like the Steele Street crew who had always grabbed her the hardest, captured her attention the surest, and held it year after year. The first night she’d seen J.T. on the street, she’d recognized him for what he was: a kindred spirit, a warrior, a fighter like her.
And that hadn’t changed. It would never change.
She heard the muted thunk of car doors being shut and turned deeper into his arms, smoothing her fingers across his cheek and up into his hair. She could think of only one thing that could last as long as her fascination with him had: love, and it demoralized the hell out of her.
A smile curved his mouth in his sleep, and she melted even more inside. This was so impossible. J. T. Chronopolous barely existed. There was only this man, Con, and yet he was everything she remembered.
“Jane,” he murmured, his eyes slowly opening, his voice soothingly low and deep. His arm came tighter around her, pulling her in even closer, until her breasts were up against his chest and his hand could slide down over her hip. “Do they still call you Robin Rulz?”
She let out a short laugh. “Not to my face.”
“So no more princess of the underground?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’m completely legit now, have been for years.” Where were Christian and Creed? she wondered. She should have heard them coming up the walk by now.
He nodded thoughtfully and reached up to smooth a few stray strands of her hair behind her ear. “You’re thinking awfully hard about something.”
She gave a little shrug. “It’s been a big night.”
“Yeah, it has.” His smile broadened. “So you run an art gallery and sell paintings for a living.” His gaze was steady on her, with the smile lingering about his lips.
“Yes,” she said, then decided to take another chance. “All kinds of paintings. We even had one of you for a while.”