Born Wild (14 page)

Bill thumbed off his cell phone and turned to walk back toward the group. Buchanan, striding beside him, asked, “How the hell do you know my police chief?”

Well shit on a stick…

“Uh…a former military connection,” Bill lied. “We go way back. But I don't think all the semper-fi love on the planet would've changed his mind about this plan before you stepped in. So, thank you. I really think Eve needs this.”

Jeremy snorted. “Yeah, well, don't thank me too quickly. If this blows up, my name will be Mud with the CPD, and I might need to come to you for a job. I'll be honest and tell you right now that I'm total shit in the mechanic category, but I'm a quick learner.”

Bill slid the man a sidelong glance. Buchanan as a Black Knight? Two days ago he would've laughed at the idea. Now? Not so much…

“I'll run and get the wire from my duty vehicle,” Buchanan said.

“You're not going with us?”

“I wish. I'd like nothing more than to see Eve finally stand up to her father.” And that made two of them. “But that was my partner who called a minute ago, and I'm still on the clock.”

Bill nodded and watched Buchanan spin on his heel and jog down the alley. Turning back, he closed the distance to the group and handed his cell phone to the detective who was still attempting to question an uncooperative Eve.

“What's this?” Normandy asked, one bushy gray eyebrow sliding up his age-spotted forehead.

“It'll be your police chief on the other end once you hit redial,” Bill said, trying not to sound overly pleased with himself.

The look on Normandy's face before he turned away to do as Bill suggested told him he'd failed in that endeavor. He couldn't bring himself to care overly much, especially when, after a quick conversation, the detective turned back to him, gaze speculative. “You've got two hours,” the man said, echoing Washington's decree. “Then I expect to see you at the station.”

“You got it,” Bill repeated the assurance he'd given to Washington before glancing over at Eve. “Now, let's go question your father, shall we?”

“Yes,” she declared, eyes flashing, nose lifted so high in the air he was surprised she couldn't smell the aviation fuel from the jetliners flying into O'Hare. But he much preferred cocky, pissed-off Eve, to terrified, guilt-ridden Eve. Pissed-off Eve allowed him to keep his defenses up in a way terrified Eve did not. “And then you'll see you're wrong about him, Billy. Dad will explain everything.”

“I hope you're right, sweetheart,” he told her. Sweetheart? Damn, he just couldn't get away from that, could he? And then he quietly added, “For your sake.”

Her lower lip quivered, and for a moment he thought he'd gone and ruined it all, smashed all her hard-won temerity and bravado.
Way
to
go, Reichert
. But then she firmed her shoulders, and he breathed a quick sigh of relief.

“I am right,” she declared, although the doubt in her voice was as loud and bright as a flashbang.

“I'm coming, too,” Delilah announced, and Bill turned to her with a frown. He opened his mouth to tell her she wasn't involved when Mac beat him to it.

“If this man played a part in Buzzard's death,” Delilah ignored Mac's words as she slid a look toward Eve, wincing and laying a hand on Eve's forearm, “I'm not saying he did, honey, but
if
he did, I want to be there when he's confronted.”

And Bill could totally understand that. After all, it was his own desire to stare into Patrick Edens's face when Eve questioned him that'd led him to make that call to Washington in the first place. And as much as Buzzard had exemplified his nickname—the dude had been a wizened old bird who'd hung around the bar waiting to feed, in the form of a quick bathroom hump, on the carcasses of the drunk and over fifty crowd—Bill knew the man had also been one of Delilah's friends.

“What do you think, sweetheart?” he asked, turning to her and barely managing to keep from wincing.
Damnit. Again with the sweetheart?
“Everything that happens from here on out is your show.”

“She can come,” Eve declared, still standing tall and refusing to believe the evidence that was staring them all in the face. “If only to bear witness to my father's innocence.”

You
keep
telling
yourself
that. You just keep telling yourself that until you're ready to face the truth.

And, Lord help him, but when she
was
ready to face the truth and the inevitable psychological fallout it would unquestionably cause, he was probably going to have to be the one to help her pick up the pieces and put herself back together again. And how the hell was he going to do that and still keep his hands to himself? For shit's sake, he hadn't even been able to sit on her bed offering her comfort for two minutes before he'd slammed his mouth over hers. And ten minutes ago, he'd nearly screwed her cross-eyed in the middle of Delilah's parking lot despite the fact that she'd very recently wrestled with a gunman for her life right before witnessing the gruesome death of an old man.

Christ, he was going to be in trouble. But he supposed he'd have to cross that bridge when he got there. For now, their two hours were quickly ticking away.

“Okay, so you're coming,” he told Delilah, shrugging when Mac turned to him with a look that screamed
what
the
hell, man?
“If it's okay with Eve,” he told the former FBI agent, “then I don't see how we can stop her.”

Mac spun to Delilah, his mouth open with what was undoubtedly a very reasonable and logical argument as to why she should stay here or else go with Normandy down to the police station. But before he could spit out one single syllable, Delilah raised a finger, shaking her head. “Uh-uh. You may as well check whatever you're about to say at the back of your teeth, because I've done all I can here. I've made sure my patrons are okay and giving statements. The police tell me they're closing the bar for the foreseeable future while they investigate the shooting. My uncle is down South somewhere and not answering his cell phone.” It was Bill's understanding that Delilah's uncle had been the one to raise her. “And I can't stay here a second longer because I keep seeing Buzzard s-slumped and…” her voice faltered before she dragged in a deep breath, squaring her shoulders and continuing, “and bleeding on that barstool. And if you must know it's making me absolutely crazy. So, I'm going. End of story.”

Mac was a smart man. He knew when to raise the white flag. “Fine,” he mumbled, sliding her a look that was both resigned and, if Bill wasn't mistaken, verging on protective, “can you ride?”

“Uh…” Delilah hesitated, twisting her hands together and making a face. “I'd like to say
yes
, but in all honesty I'd probably lay my bike over. Can I just ride with you?”

If the situation were any less dire, Bill might've laughed out loud at the unfettered horror that passed over Mac's face.

Obviously Delilah didn't see the humor in it because she planted her hands on her hips and scowled. “Oh, for heaven's sake! You can wipe off that expression this instant, Bryan McMillan!” She motioned to the dried blood staining her shirt. “Do you really think after all I've been through today, after having l-lost,” her voice faltered again, and Bill wished like hell he could go back and erase the last two hours, for her sake and for Eve's, “Buzzard, that I'm in the mood to work my feminine wiles on you?”

“Um…” Mac didn't get the chance to say any more than that, because Delilah turned on her heel and marched down the alley toward their waiting motorcycles. Which reminded Bill…

“We, uh, we had to ditch the Hummer,” he explained to Eve, closely watching her expression. As if the poor woman needed
another
frightening ordeal to have to contend with today.

“No problem,” she said, traipsing over to Phoenix and hopping into position on the recently installed king and queen seat.

With a surprised lift of his brow, he followed her, hesitating only a second to study her determined, tear-stained face before swinging astride the bike. And points for him, he stiffened only
slightly
, just ever so slightly, when she wrapped her arms around his waist.

Buchanan jogged over to them, wire and small recording device in hand. “Lift your shirt, Cuz,” he said.

“Wh-why?” Eve sputtered.

“Because the only way I could convince my chief to let you go talk to your father was if you're wearing a wire.”

Bill was almost afraid to glance over his shoulder at Eve's face. But he did. And he was surprised to find only confidence in her expression. “Good. Then everyone will be able to hear Dad explain everything.”

Oh, sweetheart…

He felt so goddamned sorry for her, and he faced forward once again while Buchanan made quick work with the wire.

“The investigators are going to need your phone, too,” Buchanan said, his tone apologetic. “It's evidence of the call between you and your dad.” He held out his hand.

“It's still in the bar,” Eve said. “Help yourself.”

When Buchanan glanced at Bill, his expression was tortured. “Don't worry,” Bill assured the man. “I'll keep her safe.”

A muscle twitched in Buchanan's cheek, and Bill could tell the guy was having a difficult time letting someone else take the lead on this, take the lead on protecting Eve. But then Buchanan blew out a deep breath and nodded, stepping back.

Bill cranked over Phoenix's big engine, and the bike came to life with a guttural roar. He stiffened wondering how Eve would react to the vibrating, snarling steel beast beneath her butt. But she didn't wince. She simply leaned forward, pressing herself against his back.

“I thought you didn't like motorcycles,” he yelled above the growling engine.

Her words, spoken directly in his ear, had goose bumps erupting across the back of his neck. “That was a long time ago, Billy,” she said, her tone low and sure. “And I'm not the same person you used to know.”

And as much as it might scare the living crap out of him to admit it, she was right. She
wasn't
that same timid, wide-eyed girl anymore. Now, she was a fully grown, fully actualized woman, with all the mysteries and complexities inherent therein.

Unfortunately—and talk about scaring the living crap out of a guy—he realized there was a part of him, a
foolish
part obviously, that desperately wanted to get to know this new Eve…

Patrick Edens's Condo Building

7:14 p.m.

Delilah tugged off the helmet Mac had loaned her. At any other time, she'd probably be turned on from snuggling up against his very broad, very warm back—especially with a badass bike rumbling between her legs—but she hadn't been shitting him back there in the parking lot when she told him she was in no mood to work her feminine wiles. Because poor Buzzard…

The image of him sitting on that barstool, dead eyes open and glassy, blood pouring out of him in a gruesome flood, would forever be imprinted on the backs of her lids like a monstrous tattoo. And, yes, he'd been a patron. Someone who paid her to pop the tops on his beers and keep his pretzel dish full. But he'd also been a friend. When the guy spent most of his evenings warming a stool in front of the bar she manned, it was kind of hard for him to be anything less.

She knew about his three failed marriages, his shady insurance scams, and his unrequited love for one of her waitresses. And she knew he'd fought in Vietnam and had shrapnel in his hip that pained him on rainy days.

A knot of sorrow lodged in the back of her throat, and to help swallow it down—she
so
couldn't fall apart after they'd agreed to let her come along—she glanced up,
way
up, at the sparkling glass and steel structure of the downtown high-rise.

Instantly, her sorrow was replaced by red-hot rage.

“So this is how rich murderers live,” she snarled, swinging from the motorcycle with the ease of a frequent rider.

“We don't know that for sure,” Mac warned, hooking the helmet she handed him over the handlebars of his tricked-out ride. And speaking of tricked-out rides…

“Says the ex-FBI-agent-turned-motorcycle-mechanic slash…” she let the sentence dangle, frowning when he refused to fill in the blank. “Oh, come on!” she wailed over the loud, gut-rumbling roar of Bill and Eve pulling up behind them. All her sorrow and anger needed an outlet, and right now Mac and his goddamned reticence were awfully handy. “You have bug-detection equipment in your shop and a direct line to the Chicago police chief. So do you really expect me to continue to believe that incredibly sucktastic we're-just-a-bunch-of-grease-monkeys line? Seriously, dude, I could eat a bowl of Alpha-Bits cereal and crap out a better story than that!”

When one corner of his mouth twitched, she narrowed her eyes and pointed a finger at his rugged face. “It's not funny! Nothing about this day has been funny!”

And, just like that, the picture of Buzzard's last moments burned in front of her eyes, immediately causing tears to scald the back of her nose.

Why
didn't you hit the floor like everybody else, Buzzard? Why didn't you—

And she realized she was shaking when Mac cursed beneath his breath before swinging from the bike. He wrapped a heavy arm around her shoulders just as Bill killed his cycle's engine. The sudden, ringing silence made her feel unmoored. She imagined it was only the weight of Mac's arm that kept her from floating up into the balmy evening air. Sucking in a calming breath, she turned to watch Bill and Eve's approach.

Eve…

Now
there
was something to take her mind off her own troubles. She cocked her head at the woman, lifting a brow at the sure steps, the steady expression, the eyes that were clear and determined.

Damn.
Considering they were going upstairs to accuse Eve's father of attempting to murder her, Delilah was shocked and impressed to discover Eve was doing one hell of a job of keeping her shit together. Then again, delusion combined with denial had been known to be a wonderful cocktail when it came to pumping up a person's courage.

Her
own
father. Holy shit…

Delilah couldn't fathom it. Then again, in her experience, the ultra-wealthy sometimes had very skewed priorities, and often had very questionable loyalties. Scrooge McDuck-style piles of cash did strange things to folks…

“Are you guys ready?” Bill asked, and Delilah wondered if he realized he reached for Eve's hand, or if the gesture was subconscious.

“I, uh…” Mac gingerly removed his arm—she immediately missed his warmth and the grounding effect it had on her—and ducked his chin to peer into her face. “Are we?”

Seriously?
She
was the weak link in this not-so-happy little chain?

Nuh-uh. Oh, hell no.
Because she was supposed to be the ass-kicking, Harley-riding, shotgun-toting, beer-slinger-from-hell!

Okay, so maybe not all of
that
. But she was definitely determined to hold her own.

“Of course I'm ready.” She lifted her chin while simultaneously girding her loins.

Although, she had to admit, when they walked into the building's posh, air-conditioned lobby and the stuffy, balding, Armani-clad doorman took one look at her before curling his lip in disdain, some of her bravado abandoned her. Then the man's eyes came to a full stop on her boobs and remained glued there for a ridiculous length of time, and all her spit and vinegar returned in full measure. She found herself battling the distinct urge to punch the douchebag in the plums.

Instead, she smiled acidly and chirped, “Mesmerizing, aren't they?”

“Oh, uh…” The doorman had the wherewithal to look appropriately chagrined. “Ms. Edens,” he said, turning toward Eve and frowning when he took in her disheveled appearance. “Shall I call your father and tell him you've—”

“No need, Arthur.” Eve waved him off, sailing toward the bank of elevators, ignoring the curious and pointed looks of the well-coifed couple signing the ledger at the front desk.

“But, madam, I've been instructed to—”

“I said there's no need, Arthur,” Eve tossed over her shoulder, and
damn!
The woman could do haughty and entitled like no other. Which was kind of amazing since Delilah knew Eve was, at her core, as shy and retiring as a field mouse.

Then again, she
had
come out on top in the fight with that masked gunman, so obviously the woman had hidden depths.

Good
for
you, girlfriend,
she thought.
You're going to have to plumb those depths during the ordeal to come…

The four of them loaded into a waiting elevator—Sir Arthur Stares-A-Lot still making noises about needing to call up to Eve's father—and when the silver doors slid shut with a dainty
ding
, Delilah was confronted with her hazy reflection.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, she was a horror show…

Her hair was an absolute rat's nest. Mascara was smudged under her bloodshot eyes, giving her the look of a drunken raccoon. And her lipstick red T-shirt was stained brown with dried blood.
Buzzard's
blood…

And before she knew it, her chin was wobbling again.

“Delilah,” Mac began, turning toward her, concern twisting his face. “You don't have to do this. You could—”

But that's as far as he got before the express elevator
bing-bonged
their arrival on the penthouse floor.

“I got this,” she told him, never so happy to see a set of doors slide open in her life.

He narrowed his keen blue eyes. In return, she gave him a look that said,
Dude, I told you, I got this!

He either believed her or figured this was no time to argue, because he didn't try to stop her as she followed Bill and Eve from the elevator into the marble foyer of the penthouse. Immediately she felt the urge to whistle through her teeth. With the grand archways, mahogany pillars, and soaring twenty-foot ceilings—not to mention the frou-frou smell of expensive furniture polish hanging in the air—the place belonged on an episode of
Lifestyles
of
the
Rich
and
Famous
.

Talk about champagne wishes and caviar dreams.
Holy
shit!

“Dad!” Eve yelled, and the word bounced around the cavernous space, shrill and incongruous against all the opulence.

“Dad!” Eve yelled again, angrily shaking off the restraining hand Bill placed on her shoulder. “Stop it, Billy. I don't need you to coddle me.”

“I wasn't cod—” But that was as far as Bill got, because Patrick Edens appeared at the top of the grand, sweeping staircase. Delilah recognized him from the covers of a few local magazines.

“Eve?” he murmured, lifting one brow. The man was wearing precisely pressed silk slacks and a navy and maroon velvet smoking jacket which, seriously? A velvet smoking jacket? Delilah always assumed those were used strictly for gag gifts and bad Halloween costumes. But, apparently not. Because Patrick Edens didn't seem the least bit whimsical as he descended the stairs like a king coming to court. She wouldn't have been all that surprised had the brass band notes of “Hail to the Chief” begun blasting through hidden speakers in the walls.

“Darling?” Patrick Edens cooed once he'd stepped from the last tread, his expensive, calf-skin loafers shushing on the polished tile. The endearment, spoken in that precisely cultured voice, went through Delilah like the stomach flu, making her want to puke her guts up. “This is a pleasant surprise. I thought you weren't making it to dinner tonight.” Then, “Oh! Sweet Lord! What happened to you?”

Like
you
don't know.
Delilah seethed, barely resisting the urge to clap and yell
bravo
in response to that lovely performance. How could the man stand there, talking to his daughter as if he hadn't just hired two thugs to shoot her down?

“I was attacked by masked gunmen inside Delilah's biker bar a little over an hour ago,” Eve said, lifting her chin and refusing the concerned hand her father extended in her direction.

Patrick Edens frowned at her rebuff, and Delilah figured he'd chosen the wrong profession. With his perfectly coiffed salt-and-pepper hair, aristocratically handsome face, and Oscar-worthy acting ability, he should've gone out West in order to grace the silver screen.

“Christ! Are you okay?” Edens asked, taking the opportunity to glance around the group. If Delilah wasn't mistaken, that was one-hundred-percent pure hatred gleaming from his dark blue eyes when his gaze landed on Bill.

Huh, so there's a story there.
Although, she was learning that when it came to the Black Knights, there was a story
everywhere
.

“I'll be f-fine once you tell me you had nothing to do with it,” Eve said, her lips quivering, belying the fact that the brave face she was putting on was just that, a face…

Hang
tough. You can do this.

“M-me?” Edens sputtered. “What in the world would lead you to think I—”

“You're the only one who knew where I
was!
” Eve shouted, her decorous mask slipping another inch. Delilah saw the red splotches standing like flags on the poor woman's neck and chest.

“Darling.” Edens stepped forward again, this time not allowing Eve to shake off the hand he laid on her arm. Delilah bit her tongue to keep from screaming,
Don't touch her, you murdering bastard!
“Just listen to yourself. You're losing it, jumping at shadows again because your cousin was silly enough to encourage your paranoia. No one is out to kill you. Who would dare?”

Uh, I don't know…maybe
you?

“And as for these masked gunmen in the biker bar,” he went on, “what do you expect when you hang out in those types of seedy, lowbrow establishments?”

Oh no he didn't.
If Mac hadn't placed a restraining hand on her arm, Delilah would have stepped forward to clock the pompous bastard. As it stood, she remained rooted to the spot, wondering if it was possible for steam to actually pour from her ears or if that only happened on Saturday morning cartoons.

“And,” it appeared Patrick Edens wasn't done, “when you align yourself with seedy, lowbrow people?”

That was it. Delilah was going to slug him. Unfortunately, Bill beat her to the mark. From the corner of her eye, she saw him blow up like a rooster in a chicken coop when a rival struts in. All ruffled feathers and pomp. Only Bill's ruffled feathers were really big, really impressive muscles, and his pomp was the two vigorous steps he took in Patrick Edens's direction. “You better step up, or step off, asshole,” he growled, and Delilah figured her teeth were going to leave permanent marks on her tongue. Now she was biting it to keep from shouting,
you
tell
him, Bill!
“Because you keep looking at me and my friends that way, you keep referring to us in that snide tone, and I'm liable to take a swipe at you.” Bill lifted his chin, staring Eve's father down. “And you know for goddamned sure you're not ready for that.”

“He's really good at that, isn't he?” Mac bent to whisper in her ear.

“At what?” she whispered right back, mesmerized by the staring contest happening eight feet in front of her. Men! They stomped around each other, taking bites, when the truth was they should just whip 'em out and measure, solve everything just like that.

And, if she was a betting woman—which she so totally was—Bill would win that little competition hands down.
Hands
being the operative word. Because Bill's were big and square and strong-looking, while Patrick Edens's were long and thin and almost feminine. And in her experience that old wives' tale about the size of a man's hands compared to the size of his…erm…
bits
was right far more times than it was wrong.

“At making little speeches that encourage a man to fill his drawers,” Mac breathed against her cheek, his breath warm and distracting. She started to turn to him, but Patrick Edens took a small step back, riveting her attention to the scene playing out in front of her.