And for no reason Mac could explain, the phrase famous last words skittered through his mind like rancid, diseased leaves on a hot breeze. He shuddered...

Chapter Eighteen.

Chicago Police Station, District 2, Second Floor, Interrogation Room #6 11:42 p.m...

They don't know. I played my cards just right. They may have their suspicions, but they don't know. I was able to keep up the act around them, around her...

Her...the d.a.m.ned woman who was turning out to be impossible to kill. The d.a.m.ned woman who seemed to have nine lives. Who would've ever thought it? Certainly not him.

As he sat on the cold metal chair, staring at his reflection in the two-way gla.s.s on the opposite wall, he was careful to keep his expression shuttered. Careful to keep his face completely impa.s.sive as he mentally cursed those useless, moronic g.a.n.g.b.a.n.gers straight to h.e.l.l for botching what should've been an easy job.

And okay, fine. He realized he'd botched the first three attempts on her life, but that's only because his heart hadn't really been in it. He still loved her, d.a.m.nit! Which made his failures understandable, perhaps even reasonable. But Christ! How hard was it for a couple of d.i.c.kheads who-for s.h.i.ts and giggles-spent their weekends doing drive-bys to walk into a bar full of slow, fat bikers and put a bullet in the brain of one unarmed woman? Really? How hard was that?

Apparently too hard. And now not only did he have to deal with the fact that he was still at square one when it came to getting his hands on the money he needed, but there was also physical evidence left behind at the scene in the form of a blood sample-a blood sample that, when he stopped for a moment to think about it, was probably teeming with all manner of STDs; he knew the guy in question liked his crack as much as he liked his wh.o.r.es-that could eventually lead back to him...

No, no, no. I've been too smart. There's no way this will come back to bite me. I used a burner. I have alibis. And, besides, Devon Price won't let his man talk...

Devon Price. Just thinking the name of the leader of Chicago's biggest Southside gang, known as the Black Apostles, was enough to have the scotch he'd sipped earlier turning to bitter, burning acid in his stomach. And when he quietly and slowly blew out a breath, he could smell the anxiety and...fear-let's just call it what it was-coming up from deep inside him, from the pit of his somersaulting stomach.

He owed the man so much money. Too much money. Then again, the nice thing about being indebted to that snake-mean sonofab.i.t.c.h was that Devon needed him alive and out of jail in order to be able to cash in on the fat check he hoped to receive upon Eve's death. Which meant Devon would do what needed to be done to make sure the police didn't get anything on him.

For instance, he knew there'd be no hospital report of a man with buckshot in the leg, because the man with buckshot in his leg wouldn't be going to any hospital. In fact, the man with buckshot in his leg was currently being tended to by a veterinarian who made his bank by sewing up the bodies of Devon's gangland crew.

Bleh. He shivered just thinking of lying on a cold, metal slab where a whole slew of filthy, furry critters had lain before him, having his open wounds poked and prodded at with instruments that were likely seeing their second, third, or fourth use. But whatever. The b.u.mbling idiot's medical care, or lack thereof, wasn't his problem. His problem was whether or not the g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ger's DNA profile was in the system.

But if it is, it won't matter. It's not like Devon will let the man cut a deal even if he's inclined to, which, considering where the guy comes from, he's probably not.

One of the nice things about dealing with society's bottom-feeders was that, though they tended to have very few scruples, the one tenet they clung to more stubbornly than a c.o.c.klebur in a wool sock was the fact that they didn't rat. They didn't squeal. They kept their G.o.dd.a.m.ned mouths shut at any and all costs, no matter what they were accused of or what sort of sentence was coming down on their heads. Because they knew that to do otherwise would compromise the integrity of the gang and ensure one thing and one thing only for themselves: a good ol' fashioned shanking in the shower after being a.s.s-raped and beaten.

Okay. He blew out another sly, guarded breath. So, he was fine. He was covered. There was nothing to worry about on that front.

Which means now all I have to contend with is motive...

s.h.i.t.

And there was that. Then again, he could rest easy knowing he wasn't the only one with cause to want Eve dead...

So, I just need to continue to play it cool. Continue to cast doubt and continue to manipulate all the players around the board.

A smile threatened to curve his lips as he thought, it's a good thing I've always been so good at chess. But he knew any show of emotion other than concern would be viewed as suspect, so he folded his hands in his lap and looked up expectantly when the CPD detective threw open the door and schlepped his rumpled, hygiene-deficient self into the room...

Outside Red Delilah's Biker Bar Monday, 12:56 a.m.

Delilah glanced at the yellow and black police tape crisscrossed over her front door and shuddered as she swung from the back of Mac's big, gnarly bike. Reaching up to tug the helmet from her head, her arms felt like they weighed two hundred pounds. And she realized someone, at some point, had thrown a handful of grit in her eyes, because the suckers burned like fire as she watched Mac toe out the kickstand and switch off the loudly growling engine.

Crime scene...

Her beloved bar was a crime scene. The scene where her staunchest patron had been shot down in cold blood.

Cold blood...

Why did people use that phrase? Blood wasn't cold. It was hot. Hot and slick and smelling of the iron-richness of life, and- G.o.d, I'm exhausted. Exhausted and sad and- She glanced at the taped-up doorway again, and her stomach did a series of flips like it was competing for a slot on the Olympic gymnastics team or something. She had to toss Mac the helmet so she could put her hands on her hips and bend at the waist, taking deep, gulping breaths of the dense city air lest she loose her cookies on the spot.

"Hey," Mac reached forward to lay one of his big, broad hands on her shoulder. "Are you okay?"

Okay? "No, I don't think I am, I-"

She glanced up, and there it was again. All that glaring, yellow tape. A reminder that she'd watched as the last of Buzzard's life-giving blood seeped from his chest and puddled onto the floor and- Holy s.h.i.t, she didn't think she could stay here. Not tonight. Not when the memory of...everything was still so fresh. Too fresh. Too G.o.dd.a.m.ned fresh to stay here and face it all...

Tomorrow, she promised herself. Tomorrow, if the police will let me, I'll start putting my business back together. Tomorrow, I'll look into contacting Buzzard's estranged sister to tell her he's dead. Sweet Mary and Joseph, dead. She still couldn't quite believe it, except that the tears burning the back of her nose and the bile scalding the back of her throat told her it was true. Tomorrow, I'll suck-it-up-b.u.t.tercup and deal with what has to be dealt with.

But not tonight...

Tonight she just needed to be...away. And despite everything that Eve had 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 tw.a.n.g was nothing short of hilarious. She figured he'd offered up the levity on purpose-G.o.d 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 bulls.h.i.t, 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 s.h.i.t 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 c.o.c.ked 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d had the audacity to smile at her. And d.a.m.nit, Mac's smile could melt the polar ice caps. But it wasn't going to melt her ire. No. N-O. h.e.l.l no. He'd just been a complete a.s.s 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 c.o.c.ked 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 p.r.i.c.k," she shot back, glaring at him so hard it was a wonder he wasn't catapulted off his bike. "Holy s.h.i.t, why don't you get over yourself already?"

He licked his lips and, d.a.m.nit, d.a.m.nit, d.a.m.nit, 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?

s.h.i.t. 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 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 G.o.d-awful, fantastically c.r.a.ptastic 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. h.e.l.l no! She was Delilah Fairchild! The a.s.s-kicking, Harley-riding, shotgun-toting, beer-slinger-from-h.e.l.l! ...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 s.h.i.t again.

No, she a.s.sured 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. s.h.i.t. "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 a.s.sistant 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, G.o.dd.a.m.ned demoralizing thing for him.

And, s.h.i.t!

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...

Chapter Nineteen.