Born Wild

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 years. 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