Born Wild

suffered, despite what the woman was still dealing with, Delilah discovered she was green with envy. Because Eve was…away.

After they’d left the police station, she and Mac had waited at a nearby coffeehouse while Bill and Eve went to the BKI chopper shop on Goose Island to pack a couple of bags—and, yes, Delilah totally suspected they’d done it that way because neither Mac nor Bill wanted her going inside the place. Although, when she’d said as much to Mac while trying to choke down a cappuccino, he’d simply pointed a finger at his slightly crooked nose and sing- songed, “You see this? You can’t read my p-p-p-poker face.”

Which truthfully, and despite a day that’d gone from perfect to puke, and despite the fact that she couldn’t close her eyes without seeing Buzzard’s last moments emblazoned on the backs of her lids, it’d made her laugh. To hear a big, burly guy like Mac quoting Lady Gaga in a slow, Texas twang was nothing short of hilarious. She figured he’d offered up the levity on purpose—God love him—in an attempt to lighten the tense atmosphere and brighten her black-on-black mood. And it’d worked. For all of about half a second. Then her laughter had died a quick death when he’d added, “Besides, you’re completely wrong. We’re waiting here because I thought you could use this time to gather your thoughts.”

Gather her thoughts? Gather her thoughts? Really? He thought she needed to gather her thoughts? That was the last thing she needed! In fact, what she needed then, what she needed now, was to stop thinking altogether. Just stop the sickening cascade of memories…And for a moment, after Bill and Eve had returned, and while she and Mac had followed them out to Belmont Harbor, and especially when Mac had…wait for it…helped Bill check the boat for bugs—and not the creepy/crawly kind, either; the black wands the men had waved over the entire vessel had been searching for the transmit-y/receive-y kind—she’d gotten her wish. For those few, too few blessed minutes, she’d completely forgotten about her own troubles. She’d been too busy watching the men flit around the boat like drain flies while simultaneously trying to swallow down the giant serving of bullshit, a.k.a. we’re nothing more than motorcycle mechanics who’ve seen the darker side of life, that Mac’d served her earlier.

Sheesh. The man was obviously under the impression she’d fallen off the turnip truck only yesterday. Or else, he simply didn’t care what she thought.

Then again, none of that mattered now because the point was she didn’t want to be alone with her thoughts, she didn’t want to stay here tonight, and she’d watched with an envious heart as Bill and Eve fired up the inboard engine on the sailboat. She barely resisted calling out “Take me with you!” as she stood on the softly rocking dock, the stars glinting overhead while the vessel motored out into the vast midnight blue of Lake Michigan. So, yup. She was jealous of Eve. Because she, too, wanted…no, needed to get away.

And then an idea washed over her so brightly, she actually tilted her head back to see if there was a light bulb shining above her. Nope. No light bulb. But an epiphany nonetheless.

“Let me stay with you tonight, Mac,” she blurted. When he blanched like she’d kicked his dog, she tried really hard, really, really, really hard not to let the expression get to her. And before he could open his mouth to reject her, again, she pushed ahead. “The cringe-factor here is just way too high. I could seriously use a few hours away.” And when he hesitated once more, she swallowed her pride and begged. Well, as much begging as her ego—her very well-adjusted and perfectly proportioned ego, thank you very much—would allow her. “Please,” she added.

He twisted up his lips, narrowing his eyes at her. And when he said, “Is there a mathematical way to calculate a cringe-factor that isn’t too high?” she realized she was holding her breath.

Blowing it out in one exasperated puff, she said, “I’m serious, Mac. I don’t want to stay here. And I don’t care what you’re trying to hide at the chopper shop. Really, I don’t. My motto has always been don’t get other people’s shit on my shoes. So, my lips are sealed, whatever it is. I can promise you. My. Lips. Are. Sealed. I just want a warm bed somewhere other than the place one of my friends died. And I don’t think I can stand to be alone in some hotel. Is that too much to ask?”

He had that stop-and-stare thing down pat. And as he sat there straddling his big, mean-looking motorcycle, regarding her so intently, she realized why it was she was so attracted to him. Forget about the muscles and the thick, dark hair, forget about the piercing blue eyes and the air of mystery. Because, to put it simply, all that stoicism, all that quiet, macho-man reticence was like a hit of cocaine for a woman like her. A hit of cocaine for a woman who knew that still waters ran deep.

Of course, he went and ruined it all, ruined all her softer feelings toward him, when he cocked his head and said, “Are you tryin’ to pull my heart strings? Because I have to tell you, they’re not really attached to anything. And I’m not gonna let you use the excuse of what you’ve been through today to try to finagle me into climbin’ in bed with you.”

And, yes. That would be her jaw hanging down to her chest. She snapped it shut so hard her teeth clacked. Disappointment, then anger, had her lips thinning into a tight line, and all of her exhaustion disappeared in a flash. “That’s not what I was doing,” she ground out, horrified when tears of humiliation and rejection burned at the back of her throat.

“No?” He lifted one infuriating brow.

“No,” she declared, her cheeks burning despite the soft puff of cool evening air that tried, without much success, to ruffle her tangled, matted hair. “I just wanted a friend. Do you know what that is, Mac? A friend?” Her upper lip curled. “As in, a person who’s there for me when someone I care about dies?” And then, because she had the tendency to become petty and biting when she’d been intentionally and cruelly dissed—no, she wasn’t proud of it, but neither could she seem to help it—she added, “Besides, I thought you were gay.”

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