Born Wild (19 page)

His dimpled chin jerked back, and for a moment she thought she could see his thoughts spinning almost visibly behind his bright blue eyes. Then he smiled. Yes, smiled. The bastard had the audacity to
smile
at her. And
damnit
, Mac's smile could melt the polar ice caps. But it wasn't going to melt her ire. No. N-O. Hell no. He'd just been a complete
ass
to her. And she wasn't about to let him get away with that just because he had a nice smile. A blindingly
wonderful
smile.

“Just what is it about me, besides the fact that I might be the only man on the planet who doesn't want to sleep with you, that would lead you to believe I'm gay?” he asked.

“Honey,” she cocked a hip and batted her lashes sarcastically, “after
Brokeback
Mountain
I don't take anything for granted. And the truth is, you're not wearing a ring, you're always surrounded by men, and I've never seen you take a woman home from my bar. So,” she shrugged, making a nasty face, “ipso facto, you can't blame me for thinking you might be rockin' the rainbow.”

“I'm not gay,” he growled, his smile disappearing as quickly as it'd appeared.

“And I'm not trying to sleep with you, you miserable prick,” she shot back, glaring at him so hard it was a wonder he wasn't catapulted off his bike. “Holy shit, why don't you get over yourself already?”

He licked his lips and,
damnit, damnit, damnit,
the dart of his tongue momentarily distracted her. But not so much as his next words…

“I'm sorry.”

Uh-huh. Just like that. No defensiveness. No counterattack. Just an apology. Straight up and to the point. And what had she said about quiet, stoic, still-waters-running-deep men like him being cocaine to her?

Shit.
She wanted to hold on to her anger. She really did. It made the grief and the remorse she was feeling less sharp, the memories less soul-crushingly painful. But despite herself, despite her desire to the contrary, all her fury seeped out of her like flat beer down the drain on the bar's sink.

“Seriously,” he added. “I
am
sorry. I just thought,” he motioned with a hand toward the taped-up front door, “you know, after all the flirtin' and propositioning, after you sayin' that thing about a warm bed, that you were tryin' to—”

“Okay, I get it,” she cut him off. “Whatever. I just—”

“Delilah,” he interrupted her. “I can't let you stay at the shop. I really wish I could, but I can't.” He dipped his chin. “Do you get me? I
can't
.”

Can't.
It wasn't a word that carried much weight with her. He could if he wanted to. He
could
. It wasn't like there was an invisible force field around the place that prohibited the entrance of outsiders. It wasn't like the compound was some sort of top secret military installation like Area 51, where he'd be forced to kill her after showing her around. He
wouldn't
take her back to the chopper shop.
Wouldn't.
For whatever reason. Not
couldn't
.

“Fine. Whatever. Listen, you're off the hook, okay? I'll be okay here tonight.”

“Delilah, I—”

“And you know what?” An idea suddenly occurred to her. Another epiphany. She hoped this one worked out better than the last had. “I'll even do you one better.”

Again that dark brow climbed up his forehead. It
was
an infuriating brow. “What's that?” he asked hesitantly. And instead of ignoring the note of skepticism in his voice, she allowed it to fuel her ire.

“I'm going to use my contacts at the McClovern and Brown law firm to determine just how much hot water this Keystone Property Development company is in. Maybe there's something in the company's records that'll help determine which one of those men, Blake Parish or Patrick Edens, has more incentive to see Eve dead.”

And
that
would kill two birds with one stone. It'd allow her mind to focus on something other the horror of this god-awful, fantastically craptastic day, and it'd help her feel like she was doing her part to bring Buzzard's murderer to justice.
Booyah!
If she'd had a football in her hand, she'd have spiked it into the dusty pavement of the parking lot.

She didn't need to go home with Mac. She didn't need to hide behind the wide shoulders of some man. Hell no! She was Delilah Fairchild! The ass-kicking, Harley-riding, shotgun-toting, beer-slinger-from-hell! …And also, she was Delilah Fairchild, the certified forensic accountant who moonlighted—when she needed the extra cash—for one of Chicago's top firms.

For a good, long moment—during which time she offered Mac a smile like a cat might offer a canary—he just sat there blinking at her. He opened his mouth once. Closed it. Opened it again, and asked, “McClovern and Brown?”

With more than an ounce or two of pride—okay, so maybe her ego wasn't so well-adjusted or perfectly proportioned, after all—she told him about her advanced degrees and her second job. Then she finished with, “What? Did you think I'd worked in this bar my entire life?”

“Well, I—” He stopped. Shook his head. Stared at her for a little while longer, then said, “But if you're a CFA, what are you doing bartending?”

Well for one thing, she loved it. And for another thing, she loved it. And finally…well…she loved it. It was just that simple. Of course, what she said to him was, “Oh, I don't know, Mac. Maybe I'm doing the same thing you're doing. You
are
an FBI agent currently working as a motorcycle mechanic, are you not?” She tilted her head, batting her lashes. She didn't need to say,
gotcha!
She made sure the sentiment was plastered all over her face.

A vein pulsed in his forehead, and the little devil he always managed to bring out in her rejoiced that she'd gotten the best of him. Then he swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in the thick column of his throat, and crossed his powerful arms, stretching the leather of his summer weight motorcycle jacket as he leaned back on the seat. “You really think you can discover anything the police can't?” he finally asked, after another long sit-'n'-stare session.

She shrugged. “I won't know until I try.” She didn't dare look back at the taped-up door—she didn't want to lose all the bravado she'd just acquired—as she motioned toward it. “It's not like there's much else I can do right now.”

He nodded, still eyeing her in that too-discerning way he had. It made her skin itch, her scalp tingle. It made her wonder if she really
was
feeling better, if she really
was
able to toss aside all her earlier fear and angst and discomposure now that she had a purpose, or if she was just fooling herself. It made her wonder if the moment she walked through that door she was going to lose her shit again.

No,
she assured herself.
I
won't. I had a moment. But now I'm done. I'm done feeling sorry for myself, done acting like a ninny. Just done…Aren't I…?

“I could drop you at a friend's house, or—”

She held up a hand, cutting him off. “No need.” And to prove to herself that,
yes
, indeed she
was
done feeling sorry for herself, done being a ninny, she dragged in a deep breath—the city air smelled damp and heavy, electric, like a storm lay brewing on some distant horizon—and said, “I'm fine. I was having a bit of a personal crisis there, a momentary breakdown, but now it's over. It's…” She shook her head. “It's all over.”

He swallowed again, his expression softening.
Shit.
“Delilah, I want you to know it's—”

Oh, no. She wasn't in any sort of emotional state to stomach an it's-not-you-it's-me speech. That might be just enough to push her over the edge. Again. “Save it,” she told him. “I'm going inside now. I'll email the assistant at McClovern and Brown tonight, and maybe by tomorrow afternoon she'll have had time to gather some files and records on Keystone Property Development. If I find anything interesting, I'll let you know. Goodnight, Mac.”

She considered offering him a handshake, but that would be too weird. And leaning forward to kiss his cheek would be weirder still, especially after their little conversation. So she simply turned and walked across the parking lot, studiously averting her eyes from all that tape on the front door, to the corner of the building. She'd use the alley stairs to reach her apartment on the second floor so she wouldn't have to go in through the bar. She might be done being a ninny, but she wasn't ready to see the broken bottles, or the busted jukebox…or the blood…

The urge to flee once more raced up her spine to scratch at the back of her head, but she beat it back. This was her
home
. It'd
always
been her home. Since the moment her parents died and her uncle Theo brought her here to raise her. And there were too many
good
memories in this place to let one bad one ruin everything. She wasn't going to run. She wasn't going to hide. Even for one night. This is where she belonged.

I
can
do
this. I can do this. I can do this.

The mantra spun through her head, reminding her of
The
Little
Engine
That
Could
and all the bedtime stories her uncle had read to her before heading back down to tend to the bar. And see?
Good
memories...

She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and lengthened her stride. She'd just stepped onto the first metal tread of the stairs when she heard Mac fire up his Harley. The bike growled happily, all low and guttural, smooth and even. It was the sound of a well-tended machine. A sound she loved.

She was on the landing when she heard him pull up and stop in the alley below. “What is it?” she yelled, leaning over the iron rail.

When Mac threw his head back to stare up at her, the light from a nearby streetlamp caught on his face, highlighting the dimple in his stubborn chin and the hollows beneath his high, flat cheekbones. With the soft, yellow glow shining on him like that, she thought perhaps, just perhaps, he might be the most beautiful man she'd ever seen.

“If you need anything, anything at all…” He raised his voice over the sound of the contentedly rumbling engine, letting the sentence dangle.

She lifted a hand and nodded. And when he dipped his chin before pushing his helmet down over his head, torqueing his wrist, and motoring loudly down the alley, she realized, quite disgustedly, that she was a glutton for punishment. Because despite everything, despite
all
his rejections, she still had a thing for him. A silly, stupid, unrequited, unreturned, goddamned demoralizing
thing
for him.

And,
shit!

But at least that gave her something to think about tonight other than the fact that one floor below her lay all the reminders of what'd happened that day. At least if she kept herself occupied and stewing over the idiotic fact that she was pining over a man who obviously didn't return her feelings, she wouldn't be thinking about Buzzard and agonizing over what she could have done differently.
If
she could have done something differently…

Lake Michigan

2:02 a.m.

Come on. Come on,
Eve silently begged the small inboard engine as she leaned down into the cramped motor compartment, checking the plugs and the fuel lines even though she'd already checked them three times before, and they were working fine. Which mean they
weren't
the reason the engine had suddenly stalled out. And it wasn't the dreaded zebra mussels—those pesky little critters that'd been introduced to the Great Lakes by the bilge water from transoceanic vessels—that'd fouled the lines. Because there was no tell-tale sooty residue near the output port. Which meant…what?

What the heck was wrong with the stupid thing?

She wracked her brain, coming up with a big load of nada. Which wouldn't normally be a problem. Just like being engineless on a sailboat wouldn't normally a problem. Sailboat equals sails, after all. Sails catch wind and
voila!
The boat moves.

Except for tonight…

Because tonight there wasn't a breath of wind. Tonight Lake Michigan showcased a glassine surface, not even one tiny ripple marred its blue-black expanse. Tonight it was an inky mirror, perfectly reflecting the glittering stars overhead and the minute glow of Chicago's city lights far, far in the distance.

Please
tell
me
whatever
is
wrong
with
you
is
something
simple. An easy fix
, she begged the motor.

But in the general way of inanimate objects, the engine refused to answer her.

Thump.
She pushed up and spun around in time to see Billy toss a big, yellow waterproof flashlight onto the turquoise cushion of the captain's chair. The softly glowing LED lights that ran the length of the sailboat's cabin and surrounded the small wheelhouse washed his dripping form in faint, bluish light. He tugged off his sopping T-shirt using that quintessential guy-move where he reached over his shoulder and grabbed the collar, dragging the entire garment off in one fell swoop. It landed on the teakwood deck with a splat. And if the sight of his mile-wide chest with its smattering of hair, and his tan, corrugated belly wasn't enough to make her heart skip a beat, then the stars tattooed just inside each of his hipbones, emphasizing the delineation of his abdomen muscles and accentuating the large veins that ran down into his groin certainly were.

Holy
schnikes! Billy is ripped!
Like seriously, brutally, cause-a-girl's-tongue-to-hang-out
ripped.
And, sweet Lord in heaven, those tattoos. He hadn't had them twelve years ago. And just looking at them now, looking at the perfection of his male body, watching the crystalline water droplets run down his chest and his stomach into the waistband of his swim trunks was enough to make the breath catch at the back of her throat, and caused most of her blood to pool hot and heavy between her legs.

Well, that's an improvement, I suppose.
Because ever since she'd stood in the parking lot at Delilah's, contemplating the fact that her father might be the one behind the attempts on her life—and
certainly
after she'd discovered he and Blake had conspired against her with the press—her blood had been like ice.

“Jesus Christ!” Billy yanked off a set of diving goggles and tossed them onto the captain's chair to join the flashlight. Grabbing the white fluffy towel that was draped over the back of the seat, he used it to roughly scrub the water from his hair before moving to dry off his arms and chest. “That water is colder than a penguin's backside.” He shivered once, then shook himself like a dog shaking off water before wrapping the towel around his shoulders.

Cold? Yep, she remembered just how cold it could be. Which was why she hadn't put up a fight over which one of them would jump overboard to see if whatever was wrong with the engine had something to do with the propeller.

And speaking of…

“Did you see anything?” she asked, unconsciously licking her lips when her gaze snagged on one lone droplet of water as it rolled lazily down the center of his torso until it dipped into his bellybutton, reemerged, and got caught in the thin line of hair that arrowed down the lower portion of his stomach.

Ripped. Jacked. Buff.
A whole slurry of descriptors tumbled through her head, but none seemed quite up to snuff when it came to encapsulating the wonder that was Billy and—

“We ran over some sort of rope, I think. The damn thing's wrapped six ways from Sunday around the prop,” he said, bending to wring out what water he could from his loose swim trunks. “I'm going to need to go back down there with a knife and see if I can saw it loose.”

Saw it loose…which meant he'd have to go back into that frigid, pitch-black water time and time again. Coming up for air, going back under. Rinse and repeat until he was a human popsicle. Although, it would certainly go much faster if she just went with him. She could hold the light while he worked on the rope.

She could hold the light…in all that endless, frigid, pitch-black water…

The memory of the scooter ride, of the weight of her backpack pulling her down, down,
down
into the abyss flashed through her head and refroze her blood in an instant.

“
Crap,
” she cursed, biting her lip and glancing out over the lake. “Crap, crap,
crap
!” She turned to slam the teakwood hatch down over the top of the engine compartment.

Blam!

The loud report echoed out over the water and gave her a tiny niggle of satisfaction. But not enough to mitigate the tsunami wave of self-pity and frustration and…
fear
that threatened to engulf her. And was it too much to ask that Fate throw her one, just one—she didn't need more than one, but she'd like just one—flippin' bone? Seriously? After everything, didn't she deserve just a teensy, tiny break?

She reached up to fist both hands into her hair, her
wet
hair, which reminded her how twenty minutes ago she'd tried—without any luck—to shower away all her cares and worries. The maneuver
usually
worked. Being out on the water, on her Catalina 34-foot sailing yacht nostalgically named
Summer
Lovin'
, with none of the bullcrap day-to-day…
things
around her, save for the absolute bare necessities, she was
usually
able to find some clarity, some…peace.

But not tonight. Because either her ex-husband or her father or
both
were trying to kill her, and they'd apparently teamed up years ago to ensure she'd not only lost what little free will she had, but also completely annihilated any chance she had of making a life with the one and only guy she'd ever had the good fortune to love and…and…on top of all of that, an innocent man was
dead
because of their duplicity, because of
them
, because of
her
.

Blood running down a beer belly…Bearded mouth slightly open…Gray eyes glassy and dead…A red puddle of waning life steadily growing on the floor beneath a bar stool…

The images invaded her brain like a disease, and
shoot!
Now, she was going to lose it. She was
supposed
to have toughened up. She was
supposed
to have grown a set of brass ladyballs, but right now, despite her best efforts, everything was catching up with her, pressing down on her, pressing
in
on her. And she was going to lose it.

She bit her lip to try to hold it all back, but the sharp pain of her teeth sinking into the delicate pad didn't work. The world around her began to dissolve into a jumble of fuzzy shapes as tears welled in her eyes.
No, no, no…Don't do this. Don't—

“Hey, hey,” Billy padded over to her, throwing a heavy, damp arm around her shoulders. “It's no big deal. If I can just cut it away—”

“Y-you'll need m-my help,” she sobbed, turning her face into his shoulder, breathing in the crisp smells of lake water and Billy. And it was official. The dam had broken. No, not broken. Exploded. Suddenly, she was shaking and bawling and probably working herself up to be a big ol' snot factory. But she couldn't help it. It felt like the entire world was out to get her, out to punish her for…for…“And I-I,” she hiccupped, “I'm scared to go down there with you after,”
hiccup
, “I nearly drowned!”

“You don't have to go down there with me. I can do it on my own, and—”

“Th-that's not
it
,” she cried. “I'm n-n-not supposed to be scared of the water. It's my,”
hiccup,
“my job!” Turning to wrap her arms around his neck, she choked on another sob when he immediately hugged her close. Hugged her up all tight and secure against his warm, solid chest, instinctively trying to sooth her, protect her. Being so nice. Being…Billy.

Oh, God! What had she
done
? Why hadn't she been tougher twelve years ago? Why hadn't she told her father to go screw himself when he kept after her about Blake? If she had, she'd have never betrayed Billy and she wouldn't be in this mess right now. If she'd only remained strong, remained true, her whole life would be different.

What was that old chaos theory about a butterfly flapping its wings and setting into motion a series of events that resulted in a hurricane? Well, her decision to submit to her father's wishes was like the flapping of that butterfly's wings. And now she was experiencing the hurricane. She wished, oh, how she
wished
she could blame it on something or someone else, but it
had
been
her decision, so this
was
all her fault…

And,
holy
cow
, she was so tired. So tired. And so scared. And so unbelievably sorry for…for
everything
.

“Okay,” Billy murmured next to her ear, his deep voice calm and capable-sounding. “You're not really scared of the water. You're just exhausted.” She opened her mouth to refute his claim but snapped it shut when she realized he might be right. She was exhausted. Exhausted and defeated. “Which means you're going straight to bed.”

“Wh-what about the rope?” she asked.

“In case you've forgotten, I'm a highly trained Navy SEAL. This little problem is exactly that. A
little
problem. And once I take care of it,
by
myself
,” he stressed, “everything will be perfectly fine.”

Perfectly fine. Ha! Was he delusional? Nothing was perfectly fine. Everything was perfectly
wretched,
and
see!
Defeated. She was completely defeated. Which was…pathetic. And
so
not the kind of woman she'd been working hard to become.

Another wracking sob shook her shoulders despite her best efforts to hold it back, and Billy held her tighter.

“Hey now,” he crooned. “It's okay. I know things look really bad and everything feels really disastrous right now. But you just need some good, solid sleep. You'll feel better in the morning. Things
will
look better in the morning. I promise.”

She tried to nod. Unfortunately the gesture just elicited a wet-sounding whimper.

You
are
such
a
loser, Eve! A pathetic, wimpy, spineless, pathetic loser. Did I mention pathetic?

“All right,” he said. “I can see we've reached an impasse here. So, up you go.” He bent to wrap an arm beneath her knees, then hoisted her up against his chest with the ease of the supremely fit.

“I can w-walk,” she protested, her nose buried in the crook of this wonderfully solid shoulder.

“Shh,” he murmured, turning sideways so he could squeeze them down the stairs leading to the small cabin. “I know you can walk, sweetheart. You can do whatever you set your mind to.” No. No, she couldn't. Because she'd set her mind to winning him back, but so far she'd managed diddly-squat. Sure, he was being nice to her now, but that's only because she was having some sort of nervous breakdown and he was Billy. Loyal Billy. Courageous Billy. Trustworthy Billy.
Sweet
Billy. Kicking someone when they were down wasn't in his nature. But that didn't change the fact that her betrayal had cut him so deeply that even now, all these years later, he still had a hard time even agreeing to be her friend.

Maybe…Someday…
The two words he'd mumbled back in BKI's onsite gym tumbled through her head like a couple of hot, thorny boulders, making her tears flow faster.

See? A loser! A sorry, pathetic loser!

“Come on, Eve,” he begged. Peripherally she knew he was shuffling past the compact galley and the small table and booth toward the lone berth. “You've got to stop that. You're breaking my heart.”

Oh,
great
. As if she hadn't done enough of that already!

“I'm s-s-sorry!” she wailed, now crying so hard her bones were rattling, so hard her lungs felt like they were trying to crawl out of her throat. “I never wanted to-to hurt you!”

“I know, sweetheart,” he said, gently placing her on the mattress, dragging a pillow under her head and flipping one side of the blue and green coverlet over her. “I know you didn't. Just take a couple of breaths, okay? Can you do that for me?”

Could she do that for him? Was he serious? If asked her to jump off the John Hancock building, she'd happily pioneer unassisted human flight. But he wasn't asking her to jump off the John Hancock building, was he? He was only asking her to calm down, to take some breaths. Which she could do. Which she
would
do…