Walk In My Shadow: A Gripping Romantic Thriller (Mirror Book 3): A Mirror Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

the bike "just to see the world."
    "Sounds like quite an adventure."
    "What about you, Angel? What do you do for adventure?"
    "Hustle motorcycle men for their hard-earned money," she teased, found herself running her fingers over his ace of spades tattoo. She still didn't know his real name. She still told herself she didn't care. "You know, if you were in Russia…"
    "This tattoo would hail me a thief." He pointed to a tiger on his biceps. "And this?"
    "Enforcer."
    "You're definitely law enforcement."
    "Maybe I'm a criminal. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference." She'd meant it as lighthearted banter, but it didn't come out as evenly as she'd hoped.
    "As long as you know the difference, you should be just fine."
    Abby had a moral code, a line she wouldn't cross no matter what. For her family, she'd cross them all. Whether she knew the difference or not wasn't the issue. It was whether or not she cared. "Do you?"
    "Know the difference for myself?" He sat back and considered it. "I don't think there needs to be one."
    Of course he didn't. Most MCs straddled the line, and not well. It was a rough life. He slung a heavy arm around her and steered her toward the back door as she told him, "My car's out front."
    "You wanted a ride on the bike," he reminded her. "Perfect night for it."
    She didn't protest any further, followed him out into the cool night air and toward his massive Harley Fatboy. He handed her a helmet and moved closer to help her secure it under her chin and then he leaned down and kissed her.
    She wound her arms around his shoulders, leaned against him as his arms engulfed her against his chest.
    He murmured her name, over and over, but she was floating.
    Finally, she blinked and realized she was flat on her back, looking at a ceiling, not Ace. She sat up, cold, head pounding, with no idea where she was. She felt sick to her stomach, hung over, even, which seemed impossible after two draft beers.
    Last she remembered, she was supposed to take a ride on Ace's bike. Had they gotten into an accident? "Am I in a hospital?" she managed, her voice a croak into the semi-darkness.
    "You're fine, Abby."
    She whirled to see Ace, sitting ten feet from her, watching her every move. She cleared her throat, and even so, her voice still came out a rasp. "Do you have to drug all your dates to get them to fuck you?"
    "We didn't fuck." His tone was calm. Measured.
    She glanced around. Despite her chills, she was fully dressed, shoes, and all appeared to be well despite the oddly disconnected feeling in her brain.
    I haven't been touched.
    But what the hell was Ace doing with her, then? "Where am I?" And when Ace didn't answer, she charged for the door.
    It was, of course, locked, made of steel, with a narrow window she had to stand on tiptoe to look out of. The hallway beyond was semi-dark and devoid of people to help her…or hurt her.
    Which of those was part of his plan?
    Get it together, she ordered herself. At least fake being in charge.
    She turned back to Ace and straightened her shoulders. "Tell me what's going on. You obviously need me for something." It had to be work related, but there were better ways to get her to help than kidnapping…like simply asking. Was this related to a witness, past or present? How much danger was she in?
    He watched her as she ran through possibility after possibility in her mind, a hint of smug amusement on his face that she wanted to slap off. In fact, she got so tired of looking at it she strode forward, partially convinced of the effectiveness of doing just that, but at the last minute, he stood to tower over her.
    "I suggest you rethink your plan, Angel," he told her.
    "Abby," she practically snarked. "I've never had the pleasure of knowing your name."
    "You never asked, Angel. It's Vance. But you can call me Special Agent."
    "Over my dead body."
    "Could be arranged," he said blithely.
    'Special Agent' rolled through her head—it could be FBI or CIA, but if they were asking about