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  “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…

  Chapter Ten

  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 yea
rs. 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.”

  Eve bit her lip, smiling, more comfortable now that they’d both shared confidences. It was another hallmark of any good bartender. “And you’d choose Mac if he let you?”

  “In a heartbeat,” she admitted. “But, alas, he wants no part of me.” She shook her head, frowning, thinking back on all his rejections and trying and failing not to feel the sharp sting o
f them. What does he have against me? Again, she racked her brain and came up with a big ol’ handful of…nothing. “I think I’ll join you in that strawberry daiquiri,” she told Eve who laughed delightedly.

  “I’d love that.”

  Nodding, Delilah turned toward the freezer. Pulling out a bag of frozen strawberries and some ice, she mulled over Mac’s decree that she could use a little subtlety—Subtlety? Her? Pfft, as if—as she dumped the load in the blender before adding sugar, lime juice, lemon juice, and top shelf rum. From the corner of her eye, she saw Eve fiddling with her phone, playing a game or texting or something. Then the device jingled out the opening bars to a Styx song and, with half an ear, she caught the woman’s exasperated-sounding, “Enough with the phone calls, Dad. I’m fine.” That was followed up by, “No, I’m not going to come back home. And, no, I’m not going to make it to our weekly dinner tonight. Didn’t you read the email I sent you this morning?” Delilah hit the button on the machine, drowning out the rest of the conversation, and allowed herself to focus all her efforts on forgetting about one infuriating ex-FBI agent turned motorcycle mechanic.

  ***

  Somewhere on Lake Shore Drive

  5:13 p.m.

  He ran a hand over his mouth once he thumbed off the cell phone, staring at the device as his heart thundered out a terrible rhythm. The time was now. It was do or die. Meaning, he’d better do what he’d promised or he was likely going to die.

  It was awful, really, what it’d all come down to. But self-preservation won out every day of the week. And, yes, he fully realized there’d be many who’d disagree with him. Many who’d think he was the scum of the Earth for choosing himself over her. Hell, even he would’ve shouted from the rooftops a couple of years ago that no way, no how would he sacrifice her to save himself. But that’s only because he hadn’t been faced with the actual choice back then. When a person was faced with the actual choice of their life in exchange for the life of someone they loved, convictions often crumbled.