Born Wild

prohibited the entrance of outsiders. It wasn’t like the compound was some sort of top secret military installation like Area 51, where he’d be forced to kill her after showing her around. He wouldn’t take her back to the chopper shop. Wouldn’t. For whatever reason. Not couldn’t.

“Fine. Whatever. Listen, you’re off the hook, okay? I’ll be okay here tonight.”

“Delilah, I—”

“And you know what?” An idea suddenly occurred to her. Another epiphany. She hoped this one worked out better than the last had. “I’ll even do you one better.”

Again that dark brow climbed up his forehead. It was an infuriating brow. “What’s that?” he asked hesitantly. And instead of ignoring the note of skepticism in his voice, she allowed it to fuel her ire.

“I’m going to use my contacts at the McClovern and Brown law firm to determine just how much hot water this Keystone Property Development company is in. Maybe there’s something in the company’s records that’ll help determine which one of those men, Blake Parish or Patrick Edens, has more incentive to see Eve dead.”

And that would kill two birds with one stone. It’d allow her mind to focus on something other the horror of this god-awful, fantastically craptastic day, and it’d help her feel like she was doing her part to bring Buzzard’s murderer to justice. Booyah! If she’d had a football in her hand, she’d have spiked it into the dusty pavement of the parking lot.

She didn’t need to go home with Mac. She didn’t need to hide behind the wide shoulders of some man. Hell no! She was Delilah Fairchild! The ass-kicking, Harley-riding, shotgun-toting, beer-slinger-from-hell! …And also, she was Delilah Fairchild, the certified forensic accountant who moonlighted—when she needed the extra cash— for one of Chicago’s top firms.

For a good, long moment—during which time she offered Mac a smile like a cat might offer a canary—he just sat there blinking at her. He opened his mouth once. Closed it. Opened it again, and asked, “McClovern and Brown?”

With more than an ounce or two of pride—okay, so maybe her ego wasn’t so well-adjusted or perfectly proportioned, after all—she told him about her advanced degrees and her second job. Then she finished with, “What? Did you think I’d worked in this bar my entire life?”

“Well, I—” He stopped. Shook his head. Stared at her for a little while longer, then said, “But if you’re a CFA, what are you doing bartending?”

Well for one thing, she loved it. And for another thing, she loved it. And finally…well…she loved it. It was just that simple. Of course, what she said to him was, “Oh, I don’t know, Mac. Maybe I’m doing the same thing you’re doing. You are an FBI agent currently working as a motorcycle mechanic, are you not?” She tilted her head, batting her lashes. She didn’t need to say, gotcha! She made sure the sentiment was plastered all over her face.

A vein pulsed in his forehead, and the little devil he always managed to bring out in her rejoiced that she’d gotten the best of him. Then he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in the thick column of his throat, and crossed his powerful arms, stretching the leather of his summer weight motorcycle jacket as he leaned back on the seat. “You really think you can discover anything the police can’t?” he finally asked, after another long sit-’n’- stare session.

She shrugged. “I won’t know until I try.” She didn’t dare look back at the taped-up door—she didn’t want to lose all the bravado she’d just acquired—as she motioned toward it. “It’s not like there’s much else I can do right now.”

He nodded, still eyeing her in that too-discerning way he had. It made her skin itch, her scalp tingle. It made her wonder if she really was feeling better, if she really was able to toss aside all her earlier fear and angst and discomposure now that she had a purpose, or if she was just fooling herself. It made her wonder if the moment she walked through that door she was going to lose her shit again.

No, she assured herself. I won’t. I had a moment. But now I’m done. I’m done feeling sorry for myself, done acting like a ninny. Just done…Aren’t I…?

“I could drop you at a friend’s house, or—”

She held up a hand, cutting him off. “No need.” And to prove to herself that, yes, indeed she was done feeling sorry for herself, done being a ninny, she dragged in a deep breath—the city air smelled damp and heavy, electric, like a storm lay brewing on some distant horizon—and said, “I’m fine. I was having a bit of a personal crisis there, a momentary breakdown, but now it’s over. It’s…” She shook her head. “It’s all over.”

He swallowed again, his expression softening. Shit. “Delilah, I want you to know it’s—”

Oh, no. She wasn’t in any sort of emotional state to stomach an it’s-not-you-it’s-me speech. That might be just enough to push her over the edge. Again. “Save it,” she told him. “I’m going inside now. I’ll email the assistant at McClovern and Brown tonight, and maybe by tomorrow afternoon she’ll have had time to gather some files and records on Keystone Property Development. If I find anything interesting, I’ll let you know. Goodnight, Mac.”

She considered offering him a handshake, but that would be too weird. And leaning forward to kiss his cheek would be weirder still, especially after their little conversation. So she simply turned and walked across the parking lot, studiously averting her eyes from all that tape on the front door, to the corner of the building. She’d use the alley stairs to reach her apartment on the second floor so she wouldn’t have to go in through the bar. She might be done being a ninny, but she wasn’t ready to see the broken bottles, or the busted jukebox…or the blood…

The urge to flee once more raced up her spine to scratch at the back of her head, but she beat it back. This was her home. It’d always been her home. Since the moment her parents died and her uncle Theo brought her here to raise her. And there were too many good memories in this place to let one bad one ruin everything. She wasn’t going to run. She wasn’t going to hide. Even for one night. This is where she belonged.

I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

The mantra spun through her head, reminding her of The Little Engine That Could and all the bedtime stories her uncle had read to her before heading back down to tend to the bar. And see? Good memories...

She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and lengthened her stride. She’d just stepped onto the first metal tread of the stairs when she heard Mac fire up his Harley. The bike growled happily, all low and guttural, smooth and even. It was the sound of a well-tended machine. A sound she loved.

She was on the landing when she heard him pull up and stop in the alley below. “What is it?” she yelled, leaning over the iron rail.

When Mac threw his head back to stare up at her, the light from a nearby streetlamp caught on his face, highlighting the dimple in his stubborn chin and the hollows beneath his high, flat cheekbones. With the soft, yellow glow shining on him like that, she thought perhaps, just perhaps, he might be the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.

“If you need anything, anything at all…” He raised his voice over the sound of the contentedly rumbling engine, letting the sentence dangle.

She lifted a hand and nodded. And when he dipped his chin before pushing his helmet down over his head, torqueing his wrist, and motoring loudly down the alley, she realized, quite disgustedly, that she was a glutton for punishment. Because despite everything, despite all his rejections, she still had a thing for him. A silly, stupid, unrequited, unreturned, goddamned demoralizing thing for him.

And, shit!

But at least that gave her something to think about tonight other than the fact that one floor below her lay all the reminders of what’d happened that day. At least if she kept herself occupied and stewing over the idiotic fact that she was pining over a man who obviously didn’t return her feelings, she wouldn’t be thinking about Buzzard and agonizing over what she could have done differently. If she could have done something differently…