Born Wild (10 page)

Tilting his head from side to side, he was in the middle of working out the kinks in his neck when his iPhone blared the opening bars of “Amarillo Sky.”

Damn.
Sometimes he missed Texas.

“What's up, Ace?” he asked, holding the phone to his ear.

“Bad news.” Ace sounded annoyed. “The motor on the door to the Bat Cave on this end has broken.
Again
. And I can't get the sorry sucker open.”

“Shit,” Mac muttered, rubbing a thumb against his pounding temple.

“That about sums it up,” Ace concurred.

To avoid the reporters hanging out in front of BKI—Samantha Tate had been true to her word, it seemed—they'd exited the Knights' compound that morning via the top-secret underground tunnel that originated behind a heavy, twelve-foot-wide, brick and iron door in the motorcycle shop and terminated in a parking garage across the Chicago River. So, unfortunately, with their only other way back into BKI officially closed for business, they were left with the options of either driving in through the front gate—which couldn't happen because then the reporters would know that Black Knights Inc. came equipped with a very fancy, very illicit backdoor, and wouldn't
that
be just enough to pique their interest?—or he and Bill could stash Eve somewhere safe before frog-manning their way across the Chicago River, scaling the ten-foot-high, razor-wire topped fence commando-style, and helping Ace repair the motor. Fixing that rusting, old behemoth was always a two-, sometimes three-man job.

“Shit,” he said again, realizing that instead of a couple of ibuprofen and a quick nap in his future, he was doomed to engage in full-on
Mission
Impossible
-style maneuvers. “Hold tight, Ace,” he muttered. “I'll call you back in a sec.”

When he clicked off the phone, he turned to find Bill watching him with an expression like a bio-hazardous waste sign. “Let me guess,” Bill said. “The motor is broken on the Bat Cave door.
Again.
”

Mac just smiled and nodded, taking a page from Ace's book and batting his lashes.

“Shit,” Bill cursed, yanking the steering wheel on the Hummer, maneuvering the beast into a cramped parking space on the side of the street. Slamming the giant SUV out of gear and switching off the engine, he ran a hand through his hair and muttered again, “Shit.”

“I'm sensing a theme here,” Eve piped up from the back seat, and Mac turned to explain what the problem was and, as a result, what all the only possible solution entailed.

“Well,” she shrugged, “I guess you can drop me back at my cousin's condo, or…” She wrinkled her nose. “I suppose I could go to my dad's house. At least that'd stop him from calling me every five seconds.”

Bill shot Mac a sharp look.

“Yeah, well, here's the thing,” he said, wracking his brain for a way to serve her this bitter pill of truth so that it went down smoothly. Then he realized this was a situation where it was probably best to avoid the
truth
—at least the
whole
truth—altogether. “We'd feel a lot better if we stashed you with someone we know and trust.”

“Why?” Her brows formed a perfect V.

Good Lord, the woman was determined to make him perjure himself. He shrugged. “It's just better if you stay away from your usual spots.”

“Oh.” She nodded, her face clearing. “That makes sense.” And he was going straight to hell for being a liar-liar-pants-on-fire. “Okay, so where to?”

Mac glanced at Bill, proposing, “Shell and Snake's house? There's a key to their place in the glove box and—”

“Boss would skin us, fillet us, cook us, eat us, and then use our bones as toothpicks if we involved his sister and his nephew in anything even remotely dangerous,” Bill stated. “And that'd be a cakewalk compared to what Snake would do to us once he comes back from Mali.”

Mac knew the guy wasn't just being dramatic. Boss, like any good big brother, was extremely overprotective of his sister and her son. And Snake? Well, let's just say that when it came to his wife and child and their safety, the man lived up to his code name. Deadly.

“Okay, so that leaves us with…” He made a rolling motion with his hand, encouraging Bill to offer another option since none of the rest of the Knights had family—or even close friends—living nearby.

“Red Delilah's,” Bill said, and Mac's hand stopped turning as every cell in his body started running around like a blind dog in a meat factory. Delilah Fairchild, the owner of the biker bar Bill had just named, was everything Mac'd spent his whole life avoiding.

First, she was beautiful. Okay, that wasn't really true. She was
beyond
beautiful. From her deep auburn hair and her green eyes that tilted up at the corners, giving her the look of a guileful feline and making it appear as if she were privy to the world's secrets, to her slow, sultry smile that informed everyone around her she wouldn't be sharing with any of them, she was, bar none, the
sexiest
woman he'd ever seen. And that was before you got to her body. Because,
damn
, Mother Nature had given her a set of curves guaranteed to lower any male IQ from within a hundred yards.

Next, she was used to getting any man she wanted.
Any
man. And that kind of power warped a person's psyche. He knew that from experience.

And last, but certainly not least, in any situation he'd seen her involved in, she'd come out on top. Whether it was bar brawls, raucous drunks, or bums who couldn't pay, she was somehow able to manipulate all sides into the middle and get what she wanted from anybody just by being herself. And that crazy ability made every instinct in him yell loud and clear to stay far,
far
away from her.

Unfortunately, she seemed
determined
he should do just the opposite. She was a big ol' scoop of sweet, melting, strawberry ice cream, and she was constantly daring him,
daring
him, to take a bite. She flirted with everyone, that was her nature, but she flat-out
propositioned
him every chance she got. And he was terrified he might one day, in a moment of weakness and unbearable horniness, take her up on one of those offers.

Which would be bad. For
many
reasons…

“I'm not sure Eve will be comfortable hanging out in—” he began but was cut off when Eve said, “Oh, no. That'll be good. I've met Delilah a couple of times. I like her.”

Yeah, who doesn't?

“Perfect,” Bill restarted the engine. “It's all set, then. We'll drop her at Delilah's then go get wet.”

Oh, goody. This day just keeps getting better and better…

Red Delilah's Biker Bar

4:38 p.m.

Delilah Fairchild liked four things: her motorcycle, her bar, her double-barreled shotgun—those folks who treated her right only saw the business ends of her motorcycle and bar—and Sunday nights.

Because Sunday nights were calm, at least when compared to the usual biker bar bullshit and chaos, and they allowed her a much-needed break. Tonight would be filled with the “usuals.” The usual customers; those barflies who preferred to spend the last night of the weekend bellied up to a length of nicely polished mahogany. The usual drinks; whiskey and beer, both cheap and straight up. And the usual music on the jukebox; eighties hair bands and hard-driving rockabilly.

For her, this was a little slice of heaven.

And yup, she didn't know if that was poetic or just plain sad…

Running a dishtowel over the ring of condensation left behind by the empty Budweiser bottle she tossed into the thirty-gallon recycling can—the loud
clink
let her know she was about a twelve-pack away from needing to empty the sucker—she asked Buzzard, her most loyal and loveable patron, “Another round?”

“Keep 'em comin', doll face,” Buzzard gave her his standard reply, flashing his gold tooth at her as he wiped a couple of stray droplets of beer from the scraggly gray hairs of his beard.

She'd just popped the top on another bottle of the King of Beers when the front door banged open. Late afternoon sunlight spilled into the place, highlighting the red vinyl booths, the buckets of unshelled peanuts sitting beside the tables, and the rough wooden slats of the flooring.

She set the fresh beer in front of Buzzard and moved toward the end of the bar and the empty seats that were the likely landing points of the new arrivals. But she'd gone no more than three steps when the
fifth
thing she liked—she'd totally forgotten to include him on her earlier list; where
had
her head been?—stepped out of the ray of sunlight and waltzed into view.

Okay, maybe not waltzed. Bryan “Mac” McMillan didn't waltz. He swaggered, or maybe
stalked
was a better word, walking with an efficiency that spoke of his previous career as an FBI agent as opposed to his current career as a motorcycle mechanic.

And, yup, there had to be a story there. Just like she knew there had to be a story behind
all
the men at the custom motorcycle shop known as Black Knights Inc. But she found herself only interested in Mac's tale…or was that tail?

She snorted, smiling at her own wit right before her lips curved into a frown.

No matter how much
she
liked Mac, no matter how much his sense of humor, his solid build, and his dauntless loyalty to his friends appealed to her, Mac always treated
her
like she was covered in poison ivy. And, for the life of her, she couldn't fathom why that should be. As far as she knew, she'd never done anything to garner his scorn. From day one, she'd been nothing but smiles and come-ons, so what was his deal?

She narrowed her eyes as she watched his approach, racking her brain and trying to figure it all out. As usual, all she came up with was,
damned
if
I
know…

Although, one thing she
did
know was that his surliness made the devil in her come out to play. Time and again, she couldn't help but push the buttons that seemed to stand out all over him like porcupine quills. So, pasting on a wide smile, she placed a hand on one cocked hip and used the other to toss her heavy hair over her shoulder. “Whoa,” she called out. “Somebody slide me a glass, will ya? Because I just spied me a tall drink of water!”

Buzzard—never one to pass up being part of joke—leaned over the bar, snagged a whiskey tumbler, and slid it in her direction. The rest of the patrons dutifully lifted their drinks, allowing the glass to zip down the wide plank of lacquered mahogany unencumbered until she stopped it with a slap of her palm. Turning, she gave Buzzard a saucy wink.

Her gesture was returned with gusto.

“Gimme a break, will ya, Delilah?” Mac groused, stalking farther into the bar. His voice was low and rough, and with that slow Texas drawl, she figured he could give Sam Elliot a run for his money in that whole smoky, sexy cowboy thing.

“I'd like to give you something,” she quipped right back as the front door slammed shut. She instantly recognized the other two people with Mac. Bill Reichert was the quiet, dark-eyed brother of Becky Reichert, the tiny spit-fire of a woman who designed the motorcycles over at Black Knights Inc. And Eve Edens was Chicago's own socialite
du
jour
and Becky's best gal pal. And if that wasn't the strangest matchup on Earth, Delilah didn't know what was. One woman wore Chanel; the other wore bearing grease.

“Where's the rest of the crew?” she asked, strolling the last few feet to the empty bar stools. She cocked her head when Eve was the only one to take a seat.

“Busy,” Mac said. One word.

“Geez, Mac.” She frowned at him. “Let a girl get a word in edgewise, why don't ya?”

Mac growled. Actually growled. And a delighted
zing
of excitement shot up Delilah's spine. She grinned in response.

Bill glanced back and forth between them. “What
is
it with you two anyway? Why are you always sniping at each other?”

Sticking out her bottom lip in a pout, she said the one thing guaranteed to ruffle Mac's already wildly ruffled feathers, “Because Mac won't give me a ride on his pony.”

“For Christ's sake, woman!” Mac glared out at her from under his thick eyebrows.
And
bingo!
That was the look she'd been waiting on. The one that told her she'd succeeded in
really
nudging him over the edge. “You've got more nerve than my uncle's got liver pills.”

Smiling into his flashing eyes, she gave herself a moment to study the face that'd haunted her dreams for the last few years. And, just like always, she was hard pressed to find anything she didn't like. Because Mac had one of those big, square faces typical of his Irish heritage. Only, instead of the red hair and freckles, he sported the coloring of the black Irish: dark brown locks and striking blue eyes.

No one would call him handsome. Not with that sizeable jaw and that nose that listed slightly to the left—no doubt from some long-ago brawl or youthful indiscretion. But Delilah had always been a sucker for his kind of face. The kind that looked like it'd been forged from raw steel, all hard angles and brutal expanses. And that was before she got to his smile. Because his smile? Oh, man, it lit him up like a glow stick. And it tempted a woman to do seriously stupid things to try to keep the expression in place.

Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on your point of view—right now, he wasn't even close to smiling as he continued to gripe at her, “Has it ever occurred to you to try a little subtlety?”

She made a face before slowly glancing down at her body. In the vernacular of the former generation, she was a brick house. And she didn't say that with any sort of vanity or pride. It was just the way of things, the way she'd been put together since the age of fourteen. It had its pros, it had its cons, but one thing it didn't have was subtlety.

“Are you serious?” she gaped, shaking her head. “What about me leads you to think
subtlety
is an option?”

“I have the feeling,” Bill said, “that if I don't cut you two off right now, we'll be here all night. And Mac and I don't have time for that. Delilah,” he reached across the bar and patted her shoulder, “we're going to leave Eve in your care for a couple of hours.”

“Leave her in my care?” she asked, one brow raised as she glanced at the woman in question. Eve just rolled her eyes. “Why do you need to leave her in my care?”

“It's a long story for another time,” Bill assured her, and it occurred to her then that
all
the Black Knights tended to be evasive. None so much as Mac though.

She slid her gaze over to the man, not surprised to find his expression churlish. “Fine,” she said. “Good. Whatever.” She made a shooing motion with her hands. “Off you go, boys. Leave us girls here alone so we can gossip about you.”

She didn't pretend to fight the smile that tilted her lips when she saw Mac's back teeth set. Still, the guy held his tongue as Bill slapped him on the shoulder and motioned with his head toward the front door.

Delilah watched them go, idly wondering what they were up to—excitement generally followed that group of ruffians for one reason or another. And not for the first time, she speculated on whether or not they were running more than motorcycles out of that shop on Goose Island. They weren't a chartered MC—motorcycle club—but that didn't mean they weren't living the whole outlaw lifestyle all the same. And there had to be
some
reason, regardless of their past government and military careers, as to why the BKI boys always wore an air of constantly being on edge, of looking over their shoulders.

Drugs?

Nah, she couldn't see that.

Guns maybe?

But that was just too stereotypical.

Well, whatever it is, as long as they keep it out of my bar, we're golden.

After the front door slammed shut, she turned her attention to Eve. Only Eve wasn't staring back at her. Instead, the woman was gazing wistfully after the departed men.

“Which one?” Delilah asked, a sharp stab of jealously slicing through her. Eve was a gorgeous woman, and even though Delilah hadn't seen Mac on Eve's arm in any of those pictures that ran in the society papers, she could totally envision a guy like him going for a woman like Eve.
Eve
was subtle.

“Which one what?” Eve asked, turning to her.

“Which one of those handsome motorcycle hunks do you wish was your boyfriend?”
Please, don't say Mac. Please, don't say Mac. Please, don't say—

“I don't wish
anyone
was my boyfriend,” Eve stated with forced conviction, wrinkling her nose.

Huh. Delilah reached up to scratch her head, studying the well-coifed woman across the bar. Finally she shook her head and blurted, “Well, you just said that like it's a good thing when, in fact, I'd say it's probably an example of where you've gone wrong in life. Either one of those guys could guarantee a girl a good time and—”

“Billy,” Eve blurted, gnawing on her bottom lip.

For someone as pretty, smart, and
rich
as Eve was, it was kind of amazing that she still managed to come off as self-conscious and shy. For the life of her, Delilah couldn't understand it. But perhaps that's because there wasn't an ounce of self-consciousness or shyness in her own makeup, meaning she had little to draw on for empathy.

To
each
his
own,
she thought, refusing to look too closely at the wave of relief that washed through her upon Eve's confession. Reaching across the bar to give the woman's hand a sisterly pat, she cocked her head and pursed her lips in consideration. “Bill, huh? Sure, I can see that. He's got that whole ruggedly handsome, Josh Brolin thing going.” A little too pretty for her tastes, but again, to each his own. “So, then, why haven't you bought a ticket on that bus?”

Eve frowned and started chewing on the side of her thumb. “Well, probably because of the conversation he and I had this morning, where he made it clear the only stops that…uh…
bus
makes are in Buddyville and Friendtown.”

“Ouch,” Delilah winced. The Friend Card: the worst one in the deck when it was played by the man a girl dreamed of being so much more. She could relate. Although, come to think of it, Mac hadn't even offered her
that
option. Hell, no. He was firmly holding
all
his cards close to his vest, the exasperating jerk. And when she added, “That sucks,” she wasn't sure if she was referring to Eve's situation or her own. Perhaps both?

“Yes,” Eve grimaced. “It certainly does.”

Shaking away her own troubling thoughts, Delilah pulled on her bartender hat and tapped a ruby-red fingernail on the bar. “But you know what's a guaranteed cure?”

“What?”

“One of my world-class strawberry daiquiris.”

Eve smiled wanly before shrugging. “Well, then serve me up. Because I need all the help I can get.”

And now they were
really
talking turkey, which was Delilah's forte…every good bartender's forte as a matter of fact. She was a pro at hashing out troubles and patching up heartbreak with Band-Aids in the form of alcoholic beverages.

“Still,” she propped a hip against the bar, narrowing her eyes at Eve, “I'm sensing there's more here than a simple rejection. I'm sensing you've been…what? Having a bit of a dry spell, maybe?”

“Dry spell?”

“You know,” she waved her hand through the air. “No sex, or
bad
sex, which is sometimes
worse
than no sex.”

Eve's blush stretched from the roots of her hair into the collar of her delicate-looking blouse. Delilah lifted a brow. She'd never seen someone actually
do
that, and
she
was a natural redhead…

Glancing down at the bar, Eve cleared her throat softly, and whispered, “Between you and me, I haven't had sex, good, bad, or anything in between, for years. I have enough pent-up sexual energy to power all of Chicago for a month.”

Delilah chuckled. “I hear ya, sister.”

Eve flashed her a look of disbelief.

“Hey,” she motioned toward her boobs, held up by an industrial-strength underwire bra and tight T-shirt, “don't let these things fool you. I'm incredibly choosy when it comes to men.”