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place made for Fire.” Artair
chuckled while Sparks danced around, happy as a kid in a toy store. “I don’t
expect trouble, but ye best stay close to my side, Becca.”
    Close to his side? The man changed his moods at the drop of a
hat. When he’d held her, she’d felt safe for the first time since this nightmare
began. His embrace had been soothing, but he’d suddenly gone hard, shouting at
her and growling whenever he had the chance. In fact, growling and grunting
seemed to be his favorite forms of communication. God, he confused her. Of
course, her whole damn life was confusing now.
    She still didn’t understand how she’d known where they’d find
Megan. Yet as Rebecca had touched Sparks, the face of a woman with hair the
color of fire had formed in her mind. A tug pulled her thoughts toward
Condemned, a bar she wouldn’t have dreamed of being caught dead in but somehow
knew was exactly where they would find this Megan.
    Sparks led the way through the front door, followed by Artair.
Rebecca reluctantly went inside, trying to hide behind his bulk. He stopped
short, and she ran right into his back. With one of his growls, Artair grabbed
her upper arm and tugged her to stand at his side. “Stay close.”
    She glanced around. Condemned was exactly what she’d expected.
Dirty and rough. The place smelled of stale tobacco and spilled beer. Peanut
shells littered the floor, and she didn’t think they’d feel too pleasant against
her bare feet. She’d never seen so much leather in one place. Men. Women. It
didn’t seem to matter. They were all clad in the most stereotypical biker attire
she could have imagined. T-shirts with Harley logos. Heavy chains as jewelry.
The rough sounds of George Thorogood’s “Bad to the Bone” thrummed through the
bar. If she hadn’t been so frightened, she would have laughed at a song like
that greeting them as they walked into a place like this.
    From behind the long bar, an overweight man wearing a dirty
wife-beater slapped a bar towel over his shoulder. “You folks ain’t welcome.
This here’s a private club.”
    “Ah, Jim,” a throaty, feminine voice scolded from farther down
the bar. “Where’s your hospitality?”
    The face she’d seen in her vision came toward them. She tried
to squelch her envy at the woman’s appearance. Her hair was the same brilliant
shade of red as Sparks and hung past her shoulders in waves. Her oval face was
so perfectly shaped, she could have been on the cover of Cosmopolitan. Bright blue eyes didn’t seem to miss anything. Dressed
in black leather pants and a black T-shirt that hugged her ample curves, the
woman stopped in front of Artair.
    “My, my. Aren’t you a tall drink of water?” Her gaze slowly,
blatantly raked him from head to foot then returned to rest on his kilt. “Nice
legs too. Buy a girl a drink?” She laid a hand on his chest, lightly scraping
her perfectly manicured, blood-red nails across his muscles. “Mmm. You’re a
weightlifter,” she purred, moving her hand from his chest to rub her palm over
his broad shoulder.
    Jealousy sparked in Rebecca at the woman’s familiarity with
Artair. She had no inkling where the resentment came from, but if this was truly
Megan, Rebecca doubted they would ever get along. All she wanted to do at that
moment was break Megan’s nose the way she’d broken Rick’s. Thankfully, Artair
saved her the trouble.
    “You’ll not be that free with your hands, lass.” He shoved
Megan’s hand away, folded his arms over his chest and leveled that same hard
stare he’d used back at the church. “Yer Megan Feuer, aye?”
    Megan cocked her head. “Who wants to know?”
    Sparks would probably step in with her explanation, but because
Rebecca had been so intent on watching Megan put her mitts all over Artair, she
hadn’t realized Sparks wasn’t standing with them any longer. Her gaze wandered
the room until she noticed Sparks at the bar, throwing back a shot.
    Artair must have noticed as