Born Wild (2 page)

And since that day, she and Billy had done their best to avoid each other.

Ha! Understatement of the century!
Because people
avoided
dog poop on the sidewalk. They
avoided
standing under a tree during a thunderstorm. They
avoided
mayonnaise-based salads that'd been left sitting out in the sun for more than an hour. What she and Billy had been doing? Well, that fell more into the turn-tail-and-run-for-your-life category.

Unfortunately, her current predicament precluded that particular status quo, so it was time to wrangle her wayward thoughts and lay it all on the line. Then again, this would all be so much easier with Becky in her corner.

Where
is
the
woman, anyway?

She voiced the question again, and added, “And where is everyone else? This place is like a tomb.” Usually, Black Knights Inc. was filled with the sounds of blaring music, whining tools, a gurgling coffee pot, and heavy boots clomping up and down metal stairs—not to mention, Becky's husband, Frank “Boss” Knight, could generally be relied upon to be bellowing at someone to pull their head out of their ass.

“Becky and Boss are taking a long weekend,” Bill informed her abruptly, clearly ready to get back to the question of why she thought someone would want to hurt her. And, yes, now that he mentioned it, she did remember receiving a text from Becky saying that very thing.

Shoot.
If she'd recalled that this morning after the police report came in, she might've thought twice about making this trek out to Goose Island. Then again…there was nowhere else for her to turn. The Black Knights…er, Billy and Mac it seemed, were her last hope.

“Everyone else is out on a mission or dealing with personal business,” Billy continued when he mistook her distracted silence as her waiting for him to answer the rest of her question. “Except for Ace, who'll be here soon. So now that we've covered the niceties, you want to tell us just what the hell has been going on with you? Why you've suddenly been thrown into the role of Violet Jessop?”

“Who?” she asked, her nose wrinkling, her brain reeling with too many thoughts to catch.

“You know,” he made a face, “the unluckiest woman in the history of the world? The one who was onboard the
Olympic
,
Titanic
, and
Brittanic
during all three disastrous voyages?”

She glanced over at Mac, distracted yet again by the turn of the conversation. And okay, maybe she was allowing it to happen on purpose. Because even though she knew she needed to answer Billy's question, the fact remained that she was scared to death he wasn't going to believe her when she did. Come on, he didn't think too highly of her to begin with—second understatement of the century—so why would he give her paranoid ramblings credence when the Chicago police hadn't? “Have you ever heard of this woman?” she asked Mac.

“Nope,” the big Texan shrugged. “But I don't question this guy on much,” he hooked a thumb at Billy, “considering he usually has his nose buried in a book.”

She swung her gaze back across the conference table, reading the calm certainty in Billy's eyes.

“Wow,” she shook her head. “And here I thought
I
had it bad. Sounds like this poor Violet Whats-Her-Name was the reason Murphy wrote his law. Somehow that makes me feel marginally better about everything I've been going through.” Then Mac's words sunk in and, in the spirit of continuing to avoid having to discuss her suspicions and fears—her personal defense instructor, who'd been telling her for months she needed to “
grow
a
set
of
balls
and
stop
avoiding
tense
situations
,” would've been so disappointed—she cocked her head and said, “I don't remember you reading a lot before. In fact, you used to tease me incessantly about having
my
nose pressed into a book all the time, and—”

She stumbled to a stop because Billy's eyes sharpened, like those of a hawk spotting its prey. She swallowed, her level of discomfort—because, hey, after their sordid history and Billy's obvious disdain for her, there wasn't a moment she
wasn't
uncomfortable when he was in the room—shot through the three-story roof. And when he opened his mouth? Boy, oh boy, you better believe she had every right to feel that way. Because his words were saber strikes, slicing into her already sadly lacking confidence, and making her regret not only her cowardice at not addressing the main issue head-on, but also in coming out to BKI at all. “And I don't remember you being a scooter-riding divorcee with a taste for skimpy dresses, fancy parties, and rich men,” he snarled. “I guess things change, huh?”

***

Holy shit fire.

Mac glanced back and forth between Bill and Eve, and the tension vibrating in the air caused the hairs on his arms and neck to lift. He ran a hand over the back of his head and opened his mouth to try to defuse the situation just as the rear door to the shop banged open and Ace yelled, “Hey, Lucy! I'm home!”

“Up here!” Mac called down, unaccountably glad for the distraction because,
damn
, these two were twitchier around each other than a couple of rattlesnakes. And all the not-so-subtle animosity flowing back and forth between them was making
him
feel twitchy.

He hated feeling twitchy.

Ace's boots clomped up the metal stairs. “And like Big Gay Al,” he continued, oblivious to the electric atmosphere sizzling around the place that was threatening to singe everyone's eyebrows off, “I've brought along some chocolate salty balls from that new chocolate shop across the street and, I must say, they are fantast…Oh, Eve,” Ace smiled when he topped the stairs, “what brings you out to our fine establishment this sunny Saturday afternoon?”

“It's Chef,” Eve said, her voice a little shaky, no doubt from having withstood the poison-tipped barbs Wild Bill had just thrown her way.

Mac didn't know what the history was with these two, but it was obviously ugly and painful, and it made him intensely thankful to have learned early on the lesson about that crazy little thing called love when it was combined with a beautiful woman. And Eve was certainly beautiful. Prettier than a speckled pup, as Mac's dearly departed, born-and-bred-Texan father would say. But given her raven hair, clear blue eyes, and milky skin, Mac was more inclined to agree with Bill's assessment that she looked more like one of those expensive china dolls than any pup, speckled or not.

“What did you say, love?” Ace asked, setting the box of chocolate truffles on the conference table and glancing around the group. He picked up on the strained emotions and frowned.

“It's Chef on
South
Park
who makes the chocolate salty balls, not Big Gay Al,” Eve said, her voice only marginally stronger.

“I knew there was a reason I loved you besides your smashing fashion sense and front-row tickets to all the best shows,” Ace chuckled, bending to smack a kiss on her cheek before pulling out the chair beside hers. Lowering his lanky frame into it, he hooked an arm around her shoulders. “Anyone who can appreciate the vulgarity and offensiveness of
South
Park
is A-okay in my book.” The guy gave her a hard squeeze and, from the corner of Mac's eye, he thought he saw Bill shift uncomfortably. Turning to lift a brow, he discovered that, sure as shit, the muscle in Bill's jaw was ticking fast enough to beat the band.

Dude, what the hell do you think? That Ace is suddenly gonna
stop
likin' long and hard and
start
likin' soft and wet?

Jesus. And once again Mac congratulated himself on having the good sense to avoid these types of sticky situations. Quickly, he filled Ace in on Eve's belief that someone was out to harm her. This also gave Bill a moment to get his sorry self under control—and the fact that he needed to get his sorry self under control was just too weird because usually, even in the middle of an all-out shit-storm, Wild Bill Reichert was cool as a cucumber.

“But who in the world would want to hurt you, love?” Ace asked, giving her another squeeze. This time Bill actually growled.

Mac rolled in his lips, glancing pointedly at the man, the look he gave was all about the
pull
your
shit
together
. When Bill ignored him, Mac kicked him under the table and was rewarded with a look that promised retribution. Ace, unaware of the little scuffle, continued, “Do you have any suspicions?”

“That's the thing,” Eve said, voice steadier now. Obviously she was unaware that Bill was a ticking time bomb, and with every one of Ace's squeezes, kisses, and endearments, he was getting closer and closer to blowing sky high. “There's only one person who comes to mind. But I don't think he's capable of violence.”

“What do you mean?” Bill demanded, sitting up straighter, his expression just this side of a death-squad.
Oh, my God. You've got it bad, my friend.
Mac mentally shook his head. “Who the hell comes to mind?”

“Dale Pennyworth,” Eve muttered, a sharp V forming between her sleek, black eyebrows. “He was my stalker.”

Stalker.

The room did a fast tilt, and Bill grabbed onto the edge of the conference table to steady himself. “You have a stalker? Why in God's name didn't you mention that in the beginning?”

“
Had
a stalker,” Eve emphasized, eyes flashing, chin raised. “
Had.
I haven't seen Dale nor had any contact with him in over a year. And, like I said, I don't think he's a violent man. Crazy and a little bit obsessive, but not violent.”

Was she nuts or just naïve? Because stalking very rarely ended with a bouquet of flowers and a touching good-bye letter.

“I hate to break it to you, sweetheart,” he said, and then felt like biting his lip when her nostrils flared delicately. He'd used that endearment with her years ago, and to pull it out now caused memories to burn as harsh and fresh as the bile climbing up the back of his throat. In an instant, a kaleidoscope of images skittered across his brain. The way she used to look at him, with such faith and conviction and…
adoration
glowing in her wide, blue eyes. The way she used to touch him, tentatively and curiously and so freakin' sexily that he'd been hard-pressed not to throw her down on a horizontal surface every chance he got. The way she used to…
Damnit.
With a hard shove, he stuffed everything back into a mental closet and slammed the door shut before continuing, “But stalkers aren't known to just give up and go about their business. Once you're someone's obsession, you
remain
someone's obsession.”

Lord knew he could personally vouch for that. Because for over a decade, a day hadn't gone by when he didn't think of Eve, a night hadn't gone by when he didn't dream about her…

“Can we back up a minute here?” Mac cut in, his lazy Texas twang belying his tack-sharp mind. “Before we start discussin' suspects, we need to figure out why Eve disagrees with the police reports claiming these events are nothin' more than a string of bad luck.”

Eve made a face, one of self-doubt, and it took everything Bill had not to reach across the table and squeeze her hand. Then Ace did the deed for him, and an angry shade of red edged into his vision. He started grinding his molars hard enough to crack his tooth enamel and figured chances were pretty good that any second now he'd be spitting out his fillings. And, yeah, it was ridiculous to be jealous of a man who made no secret about being gay. Ace was about as far out of the closet as you could get. We're talking shock-your-grandma, jazz-hands, out-as-in-
way
-out.

But that was definitely jealousy Bill was feeling. Because Ace got to touch Eve, kiss Eve, comfort Eve…

And though Bill didn't want to do those things…
he
didn't!
…he still remembered how good it felt when he'd been twenty-one, stupid, and horny—the most common and most dangerous trifecta amongst human males—and he
had
wanted to do them. And, it was a goddamned Charlie Foxtrot—otherwise known as a clusterfuck—but he missed that. There! He admitted it!

He should've felt better afterward.

He didn't.

Shit.

“It's not that I don't believe you, Eve,” Mac was quick to add. “But I want to make sure I have my facts straight.”

“I'm afraid you'll all think I'm just being paranoid or something,” Eve mumbled, studying the nails on one hand like they might hold the answer to the origins of man. Bill wasn't going to think about the fact that her
other
hand was still held tightly in Ace's. No, he wasn't.
Sonofabitch!
Now he was staring at their entwined fingers. Hers were so pale and delicate compared to BKI's resident helicopter pilot's. “That's what the police thought when I told them someone's out to kill me.”

And
that
was enough to snap his attention away from Eve and Ace's interlaced hands. Because those last two words had all the blood in his body rushing to his head until it was hard to hear past the pulsing roar in his ears.

Kill
her?
That was a damn sight more specific than her earlier declaration that someone was out to hurt her.
Sonofa—
Stars skipped behind his lids when he blinked, and he realized he was holding his breath. Sucking in a slow, steady gulp of oxygen, he tried to convince himself that maybe she
was
just being paranoid.

Yeah, perhaps it's just a figment of her overly sheltered imagination.

Unfortunately, the part of him that'd been honed to a razor's edge in too many high-stakes operations to count argued that, when it came to three life-threatening “accidents” in close succession, there was no such thing as paranoia.

“According to the fire marshal,” Eve explained softly, “the blaze in my apartment started when a strong breeze through my open living room window blew my curtains onto a lit candle. But, I
always
make sure to blow out my candles before going to bed. And I distinctly remember doing it that night. Then again, perhaps it's possible the wick relit itself somehow, but…” She shook her head and lifted her hand to chew a hangnail.

Bill knew it for the sign of agitation it was. Sometimes, he thought he knew her
too
well even though they'd only spent three measly months together. Then again, there were other times he regretted the fact that he didn't know her well enough…

Of their own accord, his eyes drifted down her slender throat, past her little pearl pendant necklace—Yes, the woman actually wore pearls. And it drove him crazy, because the jewelry was so delicate, so feminine and classy, and it reminded him of everything about her that he'd initially been attracted to, was
still
attracted to as a matter of fact,
goddamnit—
to the gentle slope of her breasts beneath her demure, pastel blouse.

Yeah, there were a lot of things about her he still didn't know. Like the way she'd arch beneath him when he drove into her, or sigh with completion after he'd pushed her to the pinnacle of physical release, or taste when she—

Christ, man! Get a hold of yourself.

He shifted in his chair, trying to rearrange the hard-on that seemed to be part of his SOP—standard operating procedure—whenever Eve was in the same room with him. Well that, along with a heaping helping of wariness and, okay, let's stop beating around the bush and admit he also suffered from a pretty decent amount of
hurt.
Yes, he was still
hurt
by what had happened with her. By the
way
it'd all happened.

There! He admitted that, too!

And why the hell his little revelations weren't making him feel better today, he'd never know. Wasn't honesty supposed to be the best policy, especially when it came to being honest with oneself?

Well, so far, his personal epiphanies were only piling on the shit topping to what was turning out to be a craptastically awful day. And that was just about perfect.

“What about the mugging?” Mac's question interrupted his ill-tempered musings.

Eve stopped chewing on her nail and shrugged. It caused her breasts to press against the delicate fabric of her top until he could see the imprint of the lace along the upper edge of her bra. But he wasn't going to stare. No, he absolutely was
not
going to stare.

Ace kicked him under the table, and he realized he was staring.
Jesus!
And what was
with
everybody today? Did his shins have bull's-eyes painted on them or something?

“It was strange,” Eve admitted, unaware of the under-the-table byplay. “I worked late at the Shedd Aquarium, and as I was crossing the parking lot to my Vespa, a masked man hopped out of the bushes and pointed his gun at me.”

That was just the thing Bill needed cool his ardor. Because the thought of the girl who'd been so painfully shy it'd taken him almost three weeks just to coax a kiss from her staring down the business end of a loaded weapon was absolutely, positively terrifying.

Then she proved how far she'd come from that quiet, self-conscious young woman he'd first fallen in love with when she continued, “I told him to take my purse. I was going to throw it away, to the side, and run in the opposite direction like you're supposed to do. But the man just stared at me, the gun shaking until it rattled. And that's when my training kicked in, and I executed a roundhouse that knocked the weapon from his hand. I bolted for my scooter, gunned it, and didn't look back.”

Every single thought in Bill's head came to a screaming stop. He fancied he could hear the
errrrtttt
of tires squealing between his ears because…Eve? Training? Roundhouse kick?

He knew he was gaping, jaw unhinged and hanging somewhere in the vicinity of his chest, when Eve looked at him and lifted her chin. “Ever since the pirate episode, I've been taking personal defense classes and shooting lessons. I've gotten pretty good,” she boasted, though the effect was somewhat ruined when her lower lip trembled ever so slightly.

“Hot damn,” Ace whistled. “You're one kick-ass broad, you know that?”

Eve blushed, dropping her eyes back to the surface of the table. Now
that
was more like the old Eve. “No,” she jerked her chin from side to side. “It was just instinct brought on by good training. I was shaking so badly by the time I made it out to Lake Shore Drive that I had to pull over. I still shake when I think back on it.”

To prove it, she held up her hand, palm down. And, sure enough, the thing was quivering like a dry leaf in a stiff breeze.

Bill felt the overwhelming urge to get up and go pound on this Dale Who-The-Fuck-Ever's door in order to put the guy in a nice, tidy chokehold. Even if he
wasn't
the person who'd jumped out of the bushes to hold a gun on Eve, the fact remained the man had stalked her and Bill needed an outlet for all the violence that was suddenly and unexpectedly coursing through his veins.

Fortunately, Mac's cooler head prevailed. “So you don't think this man was simply after your purse?”

Eve shook her head, then hesitated, gnawing her bottom lip—another sign of agitation Bill knew well—and shrugged. “But maybe he was, you know? Maybe that was his first robbery and what I took to be indecision about killing me was really just nerves about pulling off the heist in the first place. That's what the police suggested. Well,” she frowned, “except Jeremy. Jeremy doesn't buy that explanation, but what can he do about it? It's not his case. And he's just about gotten himself fired multiple times because he continues to hound the higher ups in the CPD to look into these incidents again.”

“Jeremy?” Mac inquired, leaning forward on the conference table and cocking his head.

“He's my cousin,” Eve explained. “Our mothers were identical twins. After my mom died when I was seven, Aunt Betty sort of acted like a surrogate. So, really, Jeremy is more like a brother to me.” And Bill remembered the man very clearly. Well, he remembered the man's overgrown superiority complex, that is. “He works vice for the CPD,” Eve continued. “And I've been staying with him since the fire in my condo.”

Now
that
surprised Bill. Because when he'd known her, she always run to Daddy Dearest when things got dicey.

“You're not staying with your father?” he asked, closely watching her pretty face to catch any snippet of emotion. Eve's expressions usually came in two forms. One was the open book form. And two was the
wide-
open book form.

“No,” she shook her head, not meeting his gaze. “Dad and I haven't exactly been getting along recently. He doesn't approve of some of the…uh…
changes
I've been making in my life or in myself.” Her subtle frown told him it was a little more than that. And, bastard that he was, he couldn't say he was sorry Eve had had a falling out with her world-class prick of a father. Then, she added quietly, “I think he wanted me to stay his shy little girl forever.”

Because
you're easy to control that way,
he thought.
And
Patrick
Edens
is
the
most
controlling
sonofabitch
ever
to
have
been
born
of
woman.

“Let's move on to the Vespa,” Mac said, interrupting Bill's astringent thoughts and the vitriol they inspired. Which was a good thing. Because he felt his stomach fill with acid, and he knew if he didn't put a check on his emotions soon, he'd be swilling Pepto-Bismol like a drunkard swilling boxed wine. “The newspaper said it was a rusted coupling on your brake line.”

And all the uncertainty that'd been in Eve's face as she was recounting the details of the first two episodes disappeared. Her jaw firmed, her eyes sparked, and she withdrew her hand from Ace's—
praise
be
—and used it to plant a firm finger onto the tabletop. “No,” she shook her head adamantly. “No way. Four months ago when I bought that scooter, I had Becky inspect it from top to bottom. If there'd been a rusty coupling, she'd have found it. Someone sabotaged it. They
had
to have.”

And okay, now Bill was completely, totally, unequivocally convinced. Because his mechanic-extraordinaire baby sister didn't make mistakes. “I believe you, Eve,” he blurted before he realized he even opened his mouth.

She stared at him, peach-colored lips slightly open, surprise flickering in her eyes. “You do?” There was such a note of hope in her voice and it went all through him.

Jesus.
Sometimes he wanted to kick his own ass for the way he'd been treating her since their reintroduction. Was it her fault she'd done what many young girls her age and from her socio-economic station did, which was become fascinated by the poor boy from the wrong side of the tracks? Was it her fault that once he was out of the picture at BUD/S training and she was away at college that she began to realize her daddy was right about a guy like him—a guy who didn't know the difference between a dinner fork, salad fork, and dessert fork—not belonging in her life? Was it her fault that her head had been turned by a Ralph Lauren-wearing, fancy-talking Ivy Leaguer who epitomized everything that was familiar and safe to her?