Born Wild bki-5, page 27
part #5 of Black Knights Inc. Series
And, praise be to the higher powers, if her rain-logged eyeballs weren’t deceiving her, that was a red cab with a busted tailpipe pulling up to the curb. A mammoth bolt of lightning ripped open the sky, and a gust of wind blasted down the street between the buildings. Delilah’s drenched hair plastered itself against her face as she heaved open the taxi’s door. Sliding into the faux-leather seat, she gave the cabbie the address for Black Knights Inc. and finished with, “And there’s an extra twenty in it for you if you get me there in under ten minutes.”
* * *
Black Knights Inc. Headquarters
8:55 a.m.
“Yo, asshole. Get up.”
Mac growled into the cushion of the shop’s leather sofa, his face occupying the spot usually reserved for someone’s ass. But he wasn’t going to think about that. Not until after he’d had his first cup of coffee. And certainly not until after he’d gifted whichever Connelly brother was barking orders at him with a witty rebuttal that began with the word “fuck” and ended with the word “you.”
Unfortunately, his witty rebuttal didn’t quite have the oomph he was going for because it was muffled by the couch cushion. He flipped over to see Geralt Connelly scowling down at him. The Connelly brothers were the quartet of red-haired, freckled, built-like-linebacker native Chicagoans who took turns manning BKI’s front gate. They were Irish Catholic to the core, rowdy as children, a slap-stick act when they all got together, and Mac usually liked them immensely. That is, when they weren’t waking him up…he checked his watch…just three hours after he’d managed to finally fall asleep.
After he arrived home last night, thoughts of Delilah, thoughts of how he should’ve been kinder to her, should’ve stayed with her, had swirled around and around in his head until he’d damn near driven himself crazy. So, he’d worked on his cycle, cleaning the fuel lines, replacing the oil, polishing the chrome, until the wee hours of the morning when the previous day finally caught up with him and he passed out face-first on the sofa.
“Fuck me?” Geralt asked incredulously, his big, ruddy face wrinkling. “No, thank you. I don’t go in for dick gymnastics.”
“Come on now,” Mac snorted a laugh. “I’m not even sure I know what that means.”
“You know exactly what it means,” Geralt replied in his thick Chicago accent. “Besides,” the man reached up to scrub a huge mitt over his buzzed, carrot-top head. “I like redheads. In fact, I’m an easy mark for redheads. Especially busty ones.”
Mac narrowed his eyes, pushing up into a sitting position. “And you’re tellin’ me this because…” He made a rolling motion with his hand, until it occurred to him that Geralt wasn’t at his post. “Why the hell aren’t you mannin’ the gate? Did those goddamned reporters out there do somethin’?”
“Those goddamned reporters hightailed it home when this god-awful storm broke,” Geralt said as a crash of lightning sizzled overhead. The resulting boom of thunder rattled the tall, leaded windows of the shop, and Mac suddenly realized the dull roar he’d been hearing wasn’t a result of his own headache, but was, in fact, the sound of a deluge pounding on the roof of the warehouse. “And I’m not manning the gate because I couldn’t get ahold of you.” Geralt folded his arms over his massive chest, scowling fiercely. “Either your damned phone is off, or it’s out of juice.”
Mac dug in his hip pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and realized he was dealing with scenario numero dos. He usually plugged his phone into the charger on his nightstand before catching some Zs. Not the case last night.
He cursed, frowning up at Geralt. “So what did you need?” But as soon as he asked the question, Geralt’s comment about being an easy mark for redheads, especially busty ones, had trepidation biting him in the ass like his father’s cranky old ranch dog used to do.
And, yeah, just as he suspected…“The always lovely and terribly overripe Delilah Fairchild is here,” Geralt announced gleefully, wiggling his nearly nonexistent eyebrows. Okay, so the dude’s eyebrows weren’t nonexistent. They were just so blond they appeared that way and—
And why the hell was he contemplating the color of Geralt’s eyebrows? Holy shit fire, that didn’t matter a hill of beans even on a good day! And this likely wasn’t a good day because, first off, he’d napped with his face in a spot usually reserved for someone’s ass. And secondly, Delilah was here. Which meant something was wrong. Something had happened. His heart crashed against his breastbone.
Unless of course, a soft voice of reason whispered, she’s here because she already has information on Keystone Property Development.
A certified forensic accountant? Who’da thunk it? Because she didn’t look like any accountant he’d ever known. Not by a long shot.
“Where is she?” he asked as another flash of lightning blazed through the windows. “At the gate?”
“She came by taxi,” Geralt said, frowning down at him like he was a few brain cells short of a fully functioning cerebral cortex. “And I couldn’t very well leave her standing out in a thunderstorm. Although…” a devilish light entered Geralt’s eyes, “…a wet T-shirt contest does sound—”
“Then where is she?” Mac cut in, wanting to hear the end of Geralt’s sentence about as much as he wanted to schedule a colonoscopy.
“She’s out in the courtyard,” Geralt replied, now eyeing him curiously. When Mac pushed up from the sofa, Geralt stopped him from stomping toward the back door with a meaty hand on his chest. “You got a thing for her or something? Because I’ve known her for years, but I was thinking it might be time I try to get my swerve on, if you know what I mean. But if you’ve got dibs, then I—”
“No dibs,” Mac informed him, though, for some reason he refused to contemplate, his blood pressure shot through the roof. He could actually feel the vein on the side of his neck pulse in warning.
“Good,” Geralt said as he followed Mac down the long hallway toward the back door leading to the large, partially covered courtyard with its myriad outbuildings.
Before Mac pushed outside though, he quickly stepped to his left, glancing through one of the tall windows to see Delilah standing under the drooping, rain-heavy canopy with her arms crossed over her breasts, chafing her biceps like she was cold. And she probably was cold. You know, considering she was completely, deliciously, ball-swellingly drenched. Her hair was plastered down around her face and sticking to her pale cheeks. Her jeans—which always looked like they were painted on—now accentuated every tiny detail of her figure, like the fact that she had the cutest and most tempting little rolls right at the top of her thighs beneath her pert ass. And her T-shirt? Well, to put it simply, the damned thing should’ve been outlawed.
Wet T-shirt contest, indeed…
“If you’re thinking about going back and trying to claim dibs,” Geralt said from over his shoulder, “you can forget about it. You had your chance.”
“I don’t want your goddamned dibs,” Mac harrumphed. Though he didn’t know who he was trying to convince, Geralt or himself.
“Good.” Geralt dipped his chin. “Then I’m headed back to the front gate.”
“Good,” Mac parroted, watching the carrot-topped giant lumber back down the long hall before wrenching open the heavy metal door. He stepped outside and a gust of warm, wet wind frisked him as efficiently as a well-trained field agent.
“Oh, thank God,” Delilah breathed, taking a couple of steps forward to lay a hand on his arm. Her palm burned him. Actually burned him, and he had to resist the urge to yank out of her reach.
“What is it?” he demanded, trying, really trying not to look at her boobs in that wet T-shirt.
“It’s not just Eve’s father and ex-husband who are partners in Keystone Property Development.” She lifted a hand to pull a lock of hair from where it’d blown across her mouth. Yessirree. Her nipples were hard. And okay, so he was looking at her boobs.
Goddamnit Mac, stop being such a shit-heel, he groused at himself. Himself immediately answered back with, Yeah, easier said than done.
“There’s a third partner,” she said, and that got his attention. “He invested less than Parish and Edens, so I suspect that means he has diluted voting power when it comes to business decisions. But he’s still a partner.”
“But Chief Washington said—”
“Chief Washington said his initial investigation was cursory at best.”
Bill and the rest of the Knights claimed Mac had Spidey sense. He wasn’t sure about that. But something inside him, something chilling, snaked up his spine, filling his brain with an icy blast of foreboding. And then he knew…
“Jeremy Buchanan,” he muttered, the hairs on his arms standing straight as if in warning of another lightning strike. But the angry sky remained gray and unlit by electricity.
“Bingo.” Delilah’s green eyes were circled by mascara, but it did nothing to camouflage the fear in them. “And he knows where they’re headed…”
* * *
“Give me your phone,” Mac demanded, holding out his wide palm.
“Wh-what?” Delilah sputtered, looking down at his hand in confusion. “Didn’t you just hear me say—”
“I heard you.” The vein in Mac’s temple pulsed, and his blue eyes glinted like the vodka bottles she kept on the third shelf back at her bar. The wind whipped his dark hair around his head. “Which is why I need your phone to call Bill. Mine’s dead.”
“Oh!” She dug into her purse. Now, where’s my damned phone when I…aha!
She’d barely pulled her iPhone past her purse’s top zipper before Mac snatched it out of her hand, thumbing it on and punching in a series of numbers with a rough finger. He held the device to his ear while she held her breath and waited. A second slid by, then another and another until Mac cursed, bellowing into the receiver, “Goddamnit, Will Bill! I hope you check your messages, because Jeremy Buchanan is mixed up in that mess with Eve’s father and ex-husband, and he knows you’re heading to Ludington. Call me!”
He jabbed a finger onto her phone’s power button before handing it back at her. She curled her fingers around the device, holding it against her pounding chest, searching his impenetrable expression. “That’s it?” she demanded. “We just sit here and hope he gets that message? What if he lost his phone? Or what if he—”
“Be quiet for a second,” Mac said, his voice barely discernible above another boom of thunder. “I need to think.”
“Well, think faster!” yelled.
He scowled at her. She scowled back. She hadn’t gone through all this, through the hell of yesterday and last night and this morning, just so he could leave a freakin’ message!
“The Coast Guard!” he snapped his fingers. “They can relay a communique to Bill via the sailboat’s VHF radio.” He turned to open the huge metal door with Delilah hot on his heels. He quickly swung back around, and she skidded to a stop, her Converse sneakers squeaking on the slate ground-covering.
“Don’t you even think about leaving me out of this,” she said, lifting her chin. “I’m in it. I’ve been in it. I have the right to see it through.”
He stepped up close to her, his voice a low rumble. “Okay,” he said, and the victorious smile that started to curl her lips turned down at the corners when he continued, “But before you set foot in this building, you need to understand something. You can’t breathe a word about what you see inside.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Not one word. Not to anybody. Or you could land all of us in hot water.” The expression in his eyes was wary and worried…and perhaps a little bit beseeching. “Do you understand me?”
Her lungs froze in an instant, as did her heart. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what are they doing in there?
“Do you understand me?” he asked again, reaching up to grasp her bicep and give her a little shake. “I have to know I can trust you. There’s more at stake here than you realize.”
She swallowed, nodding jerkily. He searched her eyes for a second longer before turning to throw open the door. Following him inside, she quickly glanced around, expecting to see…she didn’t know what, especially not after that speech he’d just given her. But to her utter relief and astonishment, the place looked rather ordinary. Rather like she’d expect a custom motorcycle shop to look. The exposed brick wall lining the right side of long hall he led her down was covered with old motorcycle license plates. And when they pushed out into the main body of the shop, she saw all the usual equipment. Bike lifts. Power tools. Blow torches. A big, precision water saw. The place smelled like burned coffee, hot metal, and old oil. It smelled just as she’d imagined it would smell and—
“This way,” Mac motioned, turning to clomp up a set of metal stairs. She followed him, the sound of their footfalls on the treads echoing around the huge space, bouncing against the brick walls painted with massive, colorful caricatures of all the Black Knights. Yup. Nothing out of the ordinary there either. Bikers loved nothing better than to immortalize themselves in murals or in their own tattoos. Then she topped the last riser…
Uh…okay.
Because the lower floor might’ve looked like your typical custom chopper shop, but this second floor? Well, this second floor looked like what she imagined NORAD must look like. Stacked two-high against the far wall was a bank of massive computer screens, all blinking and buzzing, showing satellite images and real-time feeds from places that had to be on the other side of the globe. And sitting in front of that bank of computers, iPod earbuds shoved in his ears, head bobbing to whatever music he was listening to while tossing a pencil in the air, was Ace. The guy she’d been led to believe was the Black Knights’ resident wiring expert. She immediately adjusted her thinking on that score. Especially when he turned and his jaw slung open like there was a two hundred-pound weight attached to his bottom teeth. He yanked the earbuds from his ears. “Delilah? Wh-what the hell are you doing here?”
She swallowed, shaking her head because she just couldn’t take it all in. “M-me?” she finally sputtered. “The better question is what the hell are you guys doing here? What is this place?” She was starting to get the feeling she’d been a lot closer than she ever could’ve imagined with her earlier comparison to Area 51.
“No time for explanations,” Mac cut in, stomping over to Ace. “We need to find the number for our contact in the Coast Guard.”
“Why?” Ace asked him, though his astonished expression was still glued to Delilah’s face.
As Bill filled him in, Delilah made sure she kept her eyes focused straight ahead. Not that the urge to look around wasn’t intense, mind you. It was really, really intense. But if she wasn’t mistaken, this place looked suspiciously like a secret government installation. And those unlucky civilians who stumbled upon secret government installations usually found themselves six feet under, didn’t they? Well, they did in the movies—which was her only point of reference since she’d never seen the likes of anything like this in real life—so, yup, she’d just go with what she knew and focus on seeing as little as possible.
Holy shit. Holy, holy, holy shit!
A chill that had nothing to do with her wet clothes or the cool air of the warehouse slipped up her spine. With half an ear, she listened while Ace contacted the Coast Guard. With the other half, she concentrated on the pulsing sound of all her blood rushing to her head. She couldn’t believe it. The Black Knights are some kind of—
“He says he can’t raise the ship.” Ace turned away from the computers, lowering his cell phone from his ear.
Delilah watched as the two men exchanged a look. “Call Washington,” Mac instructed. “Let him know the situation. Tell him to alert the Ludington police.” Then, Mac said four words she never thought she’d hear outside an AMC movie theater. “And get the chopper…”
Chapter Twenty-five
Harbor View Marina, Ludington, Michigan
9:27 a.m.
What the hell is the matter with me? Bill thought as he secured the last rope around a cleat on the weathered dock. Eve Edens had professed her love, her no strings attached love, almost two hours ago, and he’d yet to do or say anything in response.
And, yeah, yeah. So, they’d been a little busy fighting a raging storm that’d battered them unmercifully until it finally decided to blow itself out a mere five minutes before they pulled into port. But that was only a small part of the reason why it’d been Mum City inside the cramped wheelhouse. The truth was, he’d kept his mouth shut was because he didn’t know what to say to something like that. A part of him gloried in her confession. She loved him! Everybody wanted to be loved, right? According to Lennon and McCartney, that’s all you needed. On the other hand—there’s always another hand, isn’t there?—a part of him was—
“Your turn,” Eve said, cutting his thought short. She’d emerged from the cabin after donning a dry T-shirt and a clean pair of jeans. Standing at the sailboat’s rail, she was in the process of pulling her damp hair back into a ponytail. The way her arms were raised, he could see the faint outline of her erect nipples. Those sweet nipples. Those sensitive nipples. Those nipples he’s sucked and laved and licked and…
Shit. Now was not the time to be thinking about her nipples. If he started thinking about her nipples, next thing you know he’d be thinking about getting her back into bed. And a man shouldn’t think about getting a woman who’d just confessed her love for him back into bed unless he had something more than slack-jawed silence to offer her.
“I, uh…” He had a tough time meeting her gaze. Her eyes were too sad. Too hurt. Too…something he didn’t want to acknowledge. “I think I’ll go make sure Chris left his extra truck for us.” Chris was an old high school friend who’d moved from the city to Ludington to become a fishing guide. Before they’d pulled away from the dock back at Belmont Harbor, Bill had called and asked the man to leave his spare truck in the parking lot. “Also, I need to stop at the yacht club, if it’s open, to call back to BKI. Let the guys know we made it,” he told her, shuffling his flip-flops against the slats of the dock. “Why don’t you get everything secured on the boat, and after I’ve, uh, checked on everything, I’ll come back and help you with the bags.”
