Hell for Leather Page 3

  “He didn’t?” Zoelner lifted a brow.

  And, okay, it was that expression right there that made her understand why her uncle preferred to keep his stint in the military on the DL. So many good men had died in that war—or else come home irreparably changed or damaged—that to admit he was a Marine who never saw any action seemed somehow worse than saying he’d never been in the Armed Services at all.

  “No. He was an analyst or an engineer or something,” she said, grateful when Mac suddenly interrupted their conversation with, “I seriously doubt her uncle’s combat status of thirty-some-odd years ago has anything to do with his disappearance today. So, let’s get back to the point, shall we?” Yes. The point. Of her uncle missing… Dear God! “Delilah, I need you to take me step-by-step through the last day.”

  And perhaps it was the fact that his electric-blue eyes never wavered from her face, or maybe it was the grounding effect of seeing the soft summer breeze ruffle his thick brown hair over his brow, but the sharp edges of the fear she’d been carrying around all afternoon and evening seemed to smooth out. Just a bit.

  “Uncle Theo and I rode down to Marion yesterday evening.” Was it her imagination, or was her voice a little steadier than it’d been only seconds ago? “We checked into a motel because Uncle Theo said Charlie’s house is a dump not fit for company. I gather Charlie doesn’t actually live in Marion but outside of it somewhere. And the fact that I have no idea where is another part of the problem.” She shook her head at herself. Why, why hadn’t she asked her uncle more questions? “But anyway, this morning Uncle Theo woke up early to drive out to Charlie’s. He told me they’d likely do nothing but talk about the old days and I’d be bored to death. So, he left me to sleep in and catch up on some reading. He was supposed to come back for lunch. We were going to go to the diner across the street to grab a burger before hopping on the bikes to make the return trip. It was all going to be easy peasy.”

  It occurred to her then that it was funny—not funny “ha-ha” but funny “sucky”—how quickly things could go from easy peasy one minute to freakin’ shitty the next.

  “He didn’t show up for lunch. He’s not answering his phone. The local hospitals haven’t admitted a man with his description. And the Marion police told me I’d have to wait twenty-four hours before they’d open an investigation. But I can’t wait twenty-four hours.” She reached out to grab Mac’s muscular forearm where the sleeve of his motorcycle jacket was shoved up. His coarse male hairs tickled her palm, and his flesh was hot against the pads of her fingers. A zing of awareness shot up her arm. She tried to ignore it. It worked. Sort of… “I know something’s wrong. He wouldn’t just disappear like this. Something’s happened to him, Mac. S-something bad.”

  And just like that, all her momentary calm disappeared. A sob she fought desperately to control strangled the back of her throat.

  Don’t panic.

  The words of the mantra had lost their meaning and, with that, their power. Truth was, she was beyond panicked. She was straight-up, without-a-doubt terrified. Terrified with a capital T. Terrified right down to her very soul.

  A muscle ticked in Mac’s five-o’clock-shadowed jaw, and the look on his face was—

  “Shh, now. You don’t know that for sure,” Zoelner whispered, throwing an arm over her shoulders.

  “But I do know that for sure,” she insisted, her eyes imploring Mac to believe her. Despite all rationale, despite their rocky relationship—or more like their rocky non-relationship—it was only his opinion that mattered.

  She thought she saw him nod, just a quick jerk of his dimpled chin. Then again, perhaps the dim light of the street was playing tricks on her, because the words he growled were, “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  She opened her mouth, but she was stopped from pressing her case further because suddenly and unceremoniously Mac grabbed her wrist and yanked her out from under Zoelner’s arm. Then, before she could utter a squeak of protest or, more likely, slug him on the shoulder for manhandling her, he hustled her up the steps until they were standing in front of the brownstone’s wide wooden door.

  “Geez,” she huffed, rubbing her wrist. Although, in all honesty, she didn’t really mind his manhandling. Because his manhandling meant that he was touching her. And the feel of his calloused palm was—

  Holy shit! Seriously, Delilah? How pathetic can you be? How many times does the guy have to tell you “no” before you’ll get the hint? And how screwed up are you to be mooning like some lovesick teenager when Uncle Theo is freakin’ MIA?

  The answers to those questions were simple. In order, they were: one, very pathetic; two, apparently at least one more time; and three, pretty darned screwed up. Then all thought flew from her head when Mac used the keys to unlock the front door and the smell of sawdust mixed with cigar smoke immediately assaulted her nostrils. Those two scents would always remind her of her uncle. And, just like that, she lost hold of the tenuous thread she’d managed to keep tied around her emotions.

  Her chin began to wobble.

  Never a good sign…

  And her nose began to burn.

  An even more petrifying harbinger of things to come…

  No, no, no. Don’t do it. Don’t you cry like a weak-kneed ninny.

  But it was too late. The waterworks broke past the levee and now there was no stopping them.

  At least that’s what she thought.

  Then she felt Mac reach down and lace his thick, warm fingers through hers…

  ***

  Mac was still drunk.

  It was the only way to explain why he’d unceremoniously yanked Delilah from Zoelner’s embrace in order to satisfy the demands of the green-eyed monster that roared to life inside him the moment the former CIA agent threw an arm around her shoulders. Because there was no doubt whatsoever that he shouldn’t care one whit whether or not another man was comforting her…touching her. Not after he’d spent most of his life avoiding women like her. And certainly not after he’d spent the last handful of years avoiding her in particular.

  The fact that he did care had to mean that, yessiree, he was still drunker than ol’ Cooter Brown. And that would also explain why, when he saw her little chin start to wiggle, he went against the grain and all his good sense and grabbed her hand.

  Then again, maybe he was giving too much credit to the booze for that last move because, truth was, he’d always been an easy mark for a pretty little gal with tears standing in her eyes.

  And Delilah’s tears?

  Man-oh-man! They were particularly gut-wrenching because usually she was the kind of woman who, as his father used to say, wouldn’t think twice before charging hell with a bucket of ice water. Although, when he glanced down, it was to find her eyes dry as bones and wide as pie plates.

  No doubt her shock was due in large part to the fact that he was actually, factually, willingly touching her. Especially since it was no big secret he’d spent a good amount of the time they’d known each other endeavoring to do exactly the opposite.

  See, the problem was, he’d always kind of figured touching Delilah was similar to taking a hit of crack cocaine. Once was enough to get a guy good and hooked for life. And when he felt her cool, slim fingers hesitantly close around his, when the softness of her breath tickled his chin because she was gaping up at him, succulent mouth open in a little O of surprise? Well, you can bet your bottom dollar Little Mac took notice. And Big Mac? Well, he knew he’d been right all along…

  He may have stopped the tears that had threatened to spill down Delilah’s cheeks, but he also just took that first hit of crack.

  Mistake, asshole. Huge mistake!

  Dropping her hand like the thing was a molten-hot cattle prod, he cleared his throat and turned to find Zoelner standing directly behind them. The guy was wearing an infuriatingly sly smirk as he lifted his Styrofoam cup to noisily slurp at the last of what had to be disgustingly lukewarm coffee.

  Mac narrowed his eyes and pinned
him with a look that clearly stated, Whatever it is you’re thinking of sayin’, you better check it at the back of your teeth lest you find those teeth shoved straight down your throat.

  But either Zoelner was still too sloshed to recognize the unspoken threat in his eyes, or, more likely, he just didn’t give a rat’s ass, because his sly smirk morphed into a devilish grin right before he opened his mouth. Luckily, Mac was saved from feeding Zoelner a five-finger sandwich—obviously men should never be allowed to drink; it caused them to revert to their lowest common denominator: i.e., freshman year of college—when Delilah cleared her throat and said, “Let’s do this, shall we?”

  Stepping over the threshold, she flipped a switch. Instantly, the room was washed in bright light from the single bare bulb hanging from a socket in the center of the ceiling, and Mac realized what it was he’d been smelling…

  Sawdust.

  It covered the large space in a fine powder, dusting the drop cloths lying over the bare wood floors, blanketing the power tools stacked here and there, and standing a centimeter thick on the sawhorses set up in the center of the room.

  “So this is Theo’s latest project, huh?” Zoelner asked, pushing Mac from behind, forcing him to follow Delilah into the house. “What happened to that old Victorian he was fixing up in Lakeview?”

  “He finished it two months ago,” Delilah said, walking toward the sawhorses.

  “Did he end up selling it for what he was hoping?” Zoelner inquired, strolling over to a big thirty-gallon trash can pushed into one corner and tossing his empty coffee cup inside.

  “About fifty grand more than he was hoping for.”

  “Wow.” Zoelner whistled. Delilah turned to gift him with the first smile…well, half-smile, really…she’d worn all night. Mac felt his hands curl into fists.

  Whoa. What the hell is that all about? Perhaps it was still a remnant of the scotch? Though, if he was being honest with himself, that excuse had just about run its course. “Am I mistaken, or did we come here for a reason?” he demanded, feeling unaccountably…something. Something he refused to name.

  “Yes.” Delilah nodded, her smile disappearing as quickly as it’d arrived. And, damnit, now he wanted to kick his own ass for being the cause of that. “Yes, we did. I’ll run upstairs to the room he’s using as his office. I know, way back in the day, before he plugged everything in to his iPhone, he used to keep an address book in the top drawer of his desk. Maybe it’s still there. And maybe it has Charlie’s information in it.”

  Aloud Mac said, “Sounds good.” But inwardly he instructed himself not to watch her climb the steps to the second floor. Unfortunately, what he told himself to do and what he did were two entirely separate things. The truth was, Delilah was dynamite from any angle. But with a set of buttery-soft leather chaps hugging her legs and revealing the jean-clad wonder that was her perfect, heart-shaped derriere, the view from behind was, in a word, staggering. He hadn’t heard Zoelner cross over to him, so he jerked when the guy clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder.

  “She’s the kind of woman you hate to see leave but you love to watch go. Am I right?” Zoelner winked at him.

  “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he insisted, his back teeth grinding so hard he wasn’t sure if it was them he heard crackling or the plastic drop cloth beneath his booted feet.

  “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Zoelner mimicked, doing a fairly good impression of a Texas drawl, before snorting so loudly Mac figured it was a wonder the guy didn’t swallow his tonsils. “You keep using that phrase in reference to your relationship with our oh-so-tempting bartendress. Which leads me to believe you’re completely full of shit.”

  “First of all, I don’t have a relationship with our oh-so-tempting bartendress. And secondly, I believe you’re still piss drunk.”

  “You might be right,” Zoelner admitted with a lopsided grin. “About the piss drunk part, anyway. But tomorrow I’ll be sober, and you’ll still be full of shit. So, there.”

  And, see, that little tit-for-tat proved Mac’s theory about the lowest common denominator. He frowned, which only caused Zoelner’s grin to widen. Then the guy shrugged and glanced around the room. “Man,” he said. “Ol’ Theo sure has his work cut out for him with this place.”

  And that reminded Mac of what had been bugging the holy hell out of him for the last few minutes. “How in the world do you know so much about what’s goin’ on in the lives of Delilah and her uncle anyway? I mean, a Victorian in Lakeview? Seriously?”

  Zoelner slid him a look that questioned the validity of his college degree. “I know so much about what’s happening in their lives because I, you know,” he made a sarcastic gesture with his hands, “actually talk to her and stuff when I go into her bar to have a drink.”

  “As opposed to?” Mac inquired.

  “Grumbling and growling and giving her dirty looks all the time.”

  “I don’t do that.”

  Zoelner’s face flattened. “Dude,” he said, “you really have no idea just how bad you’ve got it, do you?”

  Mac refused to respond to that question based solely upon its preposterousness. He knew what it was like to “have it bad.” He’d had firsthand experience with “having it bad.” And he most certainly did not have it bad for Delilah. In fact, he’d go so far as to say—

  A hard thump sounded directly above their heads. And Mac discovered what it was like to have a full-on heart attack. Because that thump was immediately followed by the sound of Delilah’s bloodcurdling scream…

  Chapter Two

  Delilah had just switched off the overhead fixture to her uncle’s upstairs office, plunging the space into inky darkness, when the faint light drifting up the stairwell from the lower level illuminated the fact that the door beside her…moved. And not the kind of movement usually seen in an old house full of loose hinges, strange drafts, and suffering from the occasional effects of a settling foundation.

  Oh, no. This kind of movement had purpose behind it. It had…a person behind it!

  Everything that happened next occurred in ultra-slow motion, like an old 45 vinyl record being played at 33 RPMs. And for what seemed an eternity, she watched, dumbfounded, completely transfixed, as a large shadow emerged from behind the door.

  On instinct, she stumbled back, her legs moving like the soles of her biker boots were mired in Super Glue, her heart skipping a couple of sorely missed beats. A million half-formed thoughts had time to spin through her brain—not the least of which was What the hell?—right before she slammed into the doorjamb, hitting her head.

  Crack!

  All thought ground to a halt, extinguished by the sharp pain cleaving her skull in two. A bright kaleidoscope of stars burst before her eyes, momentarily stunning her and distracting her from the set of arms that reached out to seize her around her waist.

  This isn’t happening…

  This can’t be happening!

  Fortunately, her instincts took over for her bruised brain because she let loose with a scream to do a Chicago Bull’s cheerleader proud. A sweaty hand clamped over her mouth.

  “Shut up, bitch,” an accented voice hissed in her ear just as the world ubiquitously decided that, yep, the need for the weirdo, slow-mo time warp had passed. Time once more resumed its usual course, and it was then she realized her heart and lungs were set on overdrive, each threatening to come bursting through her ribs. “If you behave, I will not have to hurt you.”

  Yeah, well she couldn’t promise the same thing. Because she was going to take the first opportunity she could find to inflict some serious damage to the guy who was holding her hostage. And it was a guy. The deep voice and large body told her as much, even if the darkness precluded her ability to see him. Of course, the fact that the stars dancing in front of her eyes had suddenly grown propulsion packs and were zinging across her vision in a dizzying array of luminous flashes wasn’t helping matters.

  Don’t you dare pass out. You h
ave to fight back!

  And yeah. She could do that. With an old trick her uncle taught her when she turned fourteen and grew a set of D-cups…

  Lifting her leg, relying on her sense of touch and location alone, she kneed the sonofabitch straight in the happy-sack. Soft flesh gave way to the hard crunch of her attacker’s pelvic bone.

  Bull’s-eye!

  She mentally shot a fist in the air as her assailant howled in agony. She used his distraction to twist out of his grip. Unfortunately, he was blocking the doorway, so the only direction she could run was back into the pitch-black office.

  She didn’t hesitate. She stumbled inside and allowed the darkness to swallow her whole.

  “Delilah!” Mac’s voice boomed up the stairs.

  It seemed as if minutes had passed since she’d screamed in terror, but in reality she figured the whole struggle had barely lasted two seconds.

  “Delilah! Answer me!” Mac thundered, his tone sharp with fear. But answering wasn’t an option. She couldn’t allow the intruder to discern her exact location within the room. She didn’t know if he had a gun. She didn’t know if he—

  Her thoughts screeched to a halt when her hip slammed into one corner of her uncle’s desk.

  Oh, thank heavens, the desk! If I crawl beneath it, maybe he won’t be able to find me. Maybe that will give Mac enough time to—No, wait! The letter opener! She’d seen it lying on the corner of the desk when she was searching—turns out quite unsuccessfully—for her uncle’s old address book. It was a weapon! Hallelujah!

  But where was it exactly?

  Her hand silently scrabbled across the wooden surface. Searching…searching…

  She detected movement by the door. A shadow, dimly outlined by the miniscule amount of light, straightened and took on the vague shape of a man just as her hand landed on a smooth length of cold steel. Then the shadow shifted, sliding into the darkness, and Delilah knew this was it. Not daring to move, barely daring to breathe, she listened…and waited…

  She could hear Mac and Zoelner’s footsteps pounding down the hallway as her eyes searched the darkness to no avail. Her fingers curled around the hilt of the letter opener so tightly her knuckles ached.