But, no. That was the old Eve, the timid, little rabbit Eve. The new Eve? Well, the new Eve gnawed on her lip for a good two-second count before blurting, "You kissed me last night."

Okay, and that came out sounding more like an accusation than a question. Curses.

Billy planted his forearms on his thighs, letting his head hang between his shoulders and his big, lovely hands dangle between his legs. He was silent for a seemingly interminable moment during which time she was afraid her pounding heart might just leap right out of her chest. Then, he lifted those lovely eyes of his to her face, and his expression was...what?

Embarra.s.sed? Wry? Self-deprecating?

She couldn't tell. Oh, why couldn't she tell?

"Guess there's no way to un-ring that bell, huh?" he muttered, lips twisting, and all the hope that'd been expanding in her chest burst. She was surprised a loud pop didn't echo around the room.

The urge to run was more powerful than ever. But she held her ground, lifting her chin. "Would you..." She licked her lips and swallowed...her pride, perhaps? "Would you want to un-ring it?"

He made a face. "Maybe," he said. Then, "Probably."

Well, a girl couldn't fault the guy for being honest.

"Oh," she murmured, trying very hard to keep her shoulders from drooping and her lower lip from quivering.

"I went up to your room last night to attempt to give you a little comfort after your h.e.l.lacious last couple of months and to tell you that I'm done holding grudges about the past. But the urge to kiss you overcame me, probably something to do with old habits or bad instincts, and I wrongly acted on it. I'm sorry about that. It won't happen again."

But what if she wanted it to happen again? She opened her mouth to admit as much-talk about swallowing her pride-when his expression stopped her cold. She knew a wall when she ran into it, face-first.

He might be ready to try to forgive her for the past. But from the look of things, he wasn't ready, he'd never be ready, to start something new. There was just too much history there. Too many grievances and too much distrust...

She wanted to sit down and scream. Scream at herself for having been so disloyal and cowardly. Scream at her father for pushing her away from a good man and into the arms of a manipulative one. Just scream, scream, scream! But, the time for self-pity and blame was gone. Now she needed to do the right thing, the brave thing and offer Bill the apology that'd been a long time coming. Too long...

"Since we're...uh...since we're baring our souls here," she began hesitantly, "I-I want to tell you I'm sorry for the way I behaved all those years ago."

"You were young," he said. And considering all the times she'd hoped to see a little compa.s.sion shining out at her from the depths of his warm, brown eyes, the fact that she was seeing it now should've brought her more comfort. Instead, it only made her grief and regret burn brighter, hotter. Tears scorched at the back of her throat.

"That's no excuse," she admitted, staring down at her Asics.

"We were both young. And it takes two to make an accident," he quoted quietly, and her gaze shot up to his face.

"The Great Gatsby?" she asked, lower lip trembling-dang the thing! "That's...that's one of my favorites."

"I remember." His voice was gruff. And it was then, because of the unspoken look in his eyes, that she wondered if maybe he'd taken to reading books, the cla.s.sics in particular, to please her. Because when they'd dated that summer, reading the cla.s.sics had been her thing.

Oh, G.o.d! Why had she agreed to go out with Blake Parish? Why hadn't she told her father to go jump in a lake when he kept harping on her to forget about Billy and give Blake a chance? And why hadn't she been brave enough to hop on a plane to go see Billy after the misleading photos and articles had been printed in the papers? Why had she relied on those stupid, impersonal letters that probably hadn't accurately portrayed her regret or remorse? Why hadn't she been courageous enough to explain everything to him face-to-face? Perhaps if she had, he would've forgiven her then and everything would be different now...

But hindsight, as they say, is 20/20. And there was no going back. Now all she could do was move forward, no matter how painful it might prove to be.

"I am sorry," she said again, her heart a clenched fist in her chest.

"I know you are." He nodded, his smile gentle.

G.o.d, that smile killed her. "I'd like to explain what happened. I think you deserve...I don't know...more than what I gave you. I think you deserve to hear-"

"And I would like to hear what you've got to say," he said, cutting her off. "But not now." She couldn't help it, the muscles in her shoulders loosened, and she dragged in a tired sigh. "First, let's figure out who's behind these attacks on you. Let's get you safe and secure before we sit down for a heart-to-heart, okay? That way there'll be no distractions."

She held his gaze for long seconds, feeling as if, regardless of the words coming out of his mouth, the book on that part of her life had inexplicably slammed shut. Just as she'd suspected, last night's kiss had been an ending.

"Do you think it's possible for us to maybe...to maybe be friends someday?" She didn't care that there was an obvious note of hope in her voice.

A muscled ticked in his jaw, and she rolled in her lips, waiting. Finally, he gave her a shrug, "Maybe...Someday..."

"Good." She blew out a shaky breath, having no choice but to accept what he was offering. "Thank you, Billy."

"You're welcome, Eve," he said in that deep voice of his that'd always reminded her of thunder rolling in over Lake Michigan. She took that as her cue.

Turning on her heel, she exited the outbuilding, carefully closing the door behind her, and stepping onto the slate flagstones of BKI's back courtyard. She lifted her face to the warm sun peeking over the eastern perimeter wall and closed her eyes, bathing in its warmth.

"It's enough," she murmured to herself. "If I can have his friendship, it'll be enough."

But the words fell flat on her ears, because what she wanted from him, what she'd always wanted from him, was so, so much more...

Belmont Avenue 4:15 p.m.

Mac was beat. We're talking dead-dog-roadkill tired. Or as he father used to say, too p.o.o.ped to pop-whatever that was supposed to mean. Because not only had he spent the entire day with Bill and Eve and the s.h.i.t-storm of angst that seemed to swirl around those two in a dizzying funnel cloud-something had happened between them last night that'd turned all their overt animosity and ill-disguised insults into covert glances and tense silences-but he'd also just blown the last hour trying to wheedle a yacht club members list from a guy with salon-quality hair and handmade Italian loafers.

The dude had had silver spoon stamped on his forehead and giant, unremitting a.s.shole scrawled on top of that. And Mac had suffered so much of the guy's sneering, condescending looks that he'd been two seconds away from strangling the c.o.c.ksucker, when Eve stepped in, cool and unflappable, finally getting the information they needed.

He had to give the woman some serious props. She was the picture of poise and grace, of geniality and charm...well, except when she was around Wild Bill. And now he was back to the first of his day's headaches. He glanced over at Bill only to find the man surrept.i.tiously watching Eve in the rearview mirror. Eve, for her part, was staring out the rear pa.s.senger side window and gnawing her lower lip like the thing was tastier than apple pie.

What happened between those two last night to wind them tighter than fiddle strings? he wondered for the zillionth time. Then, quickly following that, he thought, ah to h.e.l.l with it. Because he was done trying to figure them out. It was making his headache worse. Plus, he'd learned long ago it was best to leave all that ooey-gooey stuff to Ace.

Tilting his head from side to side, he was in the middle of working out the kinks in his neck when his iPhone blared the opening bars of "Amarillo Sky."

d.a.m.n. Sometimes he missed Texas.

"What's up, Ace?" he asked, holding the phone to his ear.

"Bad news." Ace sounded annoyed. "The motor on the door to the Bat Cave on this end has broken. Again. And I can't get the sorry sucker open."

"s.h.i.t," Mac muttered, rubbing a thumb against his pounding temple.

"That about sums it up," Ace concurred.

To avoid the reporters hanging out in front of BKI-Samantha Tate had been true to her word, it seemed-they'd exited the Knights' compound that morning via the top-secret underground tunnel that originated behind a heavy, twelve-foot-wide, brick and iron door in the motorcycle shop and terminated in a parking garage across the Chicago River. So, unfortunately, with their only other way back into BKI officially closed for business, they were left with the options of either driving in through the front gate-which couldn't happen because then the reporters would know that Black Knights Inc. came equipped with a very fancy, very illicit backdoor, and wouldn't that be just enough to pique their interest?-or he and Bill could stash Eve somewhere safe before frog-manning their way across the Chicago River, scaling the ten-foot-high, razor-wire topped fence commando-style, and helping Ace repair the motor. Fixing that rusting, old behemoth was always a two-, sometimes three-man job.

"s.h.i.t," he said again, realizing that instead of a couple of ibuprofen and a quick nap in his future, he was doomed to engage in full-on Mission Impossible-style maneuvers. "Hold tight, Ace," he muttered. "I'll call you back in a sec."

When he clicked off the phone, he turned to find Bill watching him with an expression like a bio-hazardous waste sign. "Let me guess," Bill said. "The motor is broken on the Bat Cave door. Again."

Mac just smiled and nodded, taking a page from Ace's book and batting his lashes.

"s.h.i.t," Bill cursed, yanking the steering wheel on the Hummer, maneuvering the beast into a cramped parking s.p.a.ce on the side of the street. Slamming the giant SUV out of gear and switching off the engine, he ran a hand through his hair and muttered again, "s.h.i.t."

"I'm sensing a theme here," Eve piped up from the back seat, and Mac turned to explain what the problem was and, as a result, what all the only possible solution entailed.

"Well," she shrugged, "I guess you can drop me back at my cousin's condo, or..." She wrinkled her nose. "I suppose I could go to my dad's house. At least that'd stop him from calling me every five seconds."

Bill shot Mac a sharp look.

"Yeah, well, here's the thing," he said, wracking his brain for a way to serve her this bitter pill of truth so that it went down smoothly. Then he realized this was a situation where it was probably best to avoid the truth-at least the whole truth-altogether. "We'd feel a lot better if we stashed you with someone we know and trust."

"Why?" Her brows formed a perfect V.

Good Lord, the woman was determined to make him perjure himself. He shrugged. "It's just better if you stay away from your usual spots."

"Oh." She nodded, her face clearing. "That makes sense." And he was going straight to h.e.l.l for being a liar-liar-pants-on-fire. "Okay, so where to?"

Mac glanced at Bill, proposing, "Sh.e.l.l and Snake's house? There's a key to their place in the glove box and-"

"Boss would skin us, fillet us, cook us, eat us, and then use our bones as toothpicks if we involved his sister and his nephew in anything even remotely dangerous," Bill stated. "And that'd be a cakewalk compared to what Snake would do to us once he comes back from Mali."

Mac knew the guy wasn't just being dramatic. Boss, like any good big brother, was extremely overprotective of his sister and her son. And Snake? Well, let's just say that when it came to his wife and child and their safety, the man lived up to his code name. Deadly.

"Okay, so that leaves us with..." He made a rolling motion with his hand, encouraging Bill to offer another option since none of the rest of the Knights had family-or even close friends-living nearby.

"Red Delilah's," Bill said, and Mac's hand stopped turning as every cell in his body started running around like a blind dog in a meat factory. Delilah Fairchild, the owner of the biker bar Bill had just named, was everything Mac'd spent his whole life avoiding.

First, she was beautiful. Okay, that wasn't really true. She was beyond beautiful. From her deep auburn hair and her green eyes that tilted up at the corners, giving her the look of a guileful feline and making it appear as if she were privy to the world's secrets, to her slow, sultry smile that informed everyone around her she wouldn't be sharing with any of them, she was, bar none, the s.e.xiest woman he'd ever seen. And that was before you got to her body. Because, d.a.m.n, Mother Nature had given her a set of curves guaranteed to lower any male IQ from within a hundred yards.

Next, she was used to getting any man she wanted. Any man. And that kind of power warped a person's psyche. He knew that from experience.

And last, but certainly not least, in any situation he'd seen her involved in, she'd come out on top. Whether it was bar brawls, raucous drunks, or b.u.ms who couldn't pay, she was somehow able to manipulate all sides into the middle and get what she wanted from anybody just by being herself. And that crazy ability made every instinct in him yell loud and clear to stay far, far away from her.

Unfortunately, she seemed determined he should do just the opposite. She was a big ol' scoop of sweet, melting, strawberry ice cream, and she was constantly daring him, daring him, to take a bite. She flirted with everyone, that was her nature, but she flat-out propositioned him every chance she got. And he was terrified he might one day, in a moment of weakness and unbearable horniness, take her up on one of those offers.

Which would be bad. For many reasons...

"I'm not sure Eve will be comfortable hanging out in-" he began but was cut off when Eve said, "Oh, no. That'll be good. I've met Delilah a couple of times. I like her."

Yeah, who doesn't?

"Perfect," Bill restarted the engine. "It's all set, then. We'll drop her at Delilah's then go get wet."

Oh, goody. This day just keeps getting better and better...

Chapter Ten.

Red Delilah's Biker Bar 4:38 p.m.

Delilah Fairchild liked four things: her motorcycle, her bar, her double-barreled shotgun-those folks who treated her right only saw the business ends of her motorcycle and bar-and Sunday nights.

Because Sunday nights were calm, at least when compared to the usual biker bar bulls.h.i.t and chaos, and they allowed her a much-needed break. Tonight would be filled with the "usuals." The usual customers; those barflies who preferred to spend the last night of the weekend bellied up to a length of nicely polished mahogany. The usual drinks; whiskey and beer, both cheap and straight up. And the usual music on the jukebox; eighties hair bands and hard-driving rockabilly.

For her, this was a little slice of heaven.

And yup, she didn't know if that was poetic or just plain sad...

Running a dishtowel over the ring of condensation left behind by the empty Budweiser bottle she tossed into the thirty-gallon recycling can-the loud clink let her know she was about a twelve-pack away from needing to empty the sucker-she asked Buzzard, her most loyal and loveable patron, "Another round?"

"Keep 'em comin', doll face," Buzzard gave her his standard reply, flashing his gold tooth at her as he wiped a couple of stray droplets of beer from the scraggly gray hairs of his beard.

She'd just popped the top on another bottle of the King of Beers when the front door banged open. Late afternoon sunlight spilled into the place, highlighting the red vinyl booths, the buckets of unsh.e.l.led peanuts sitting beside the tables, and the rough wooden slats of the flooring.

She set the fresh beer in front of Buzzard and moved toward the end of the bar and the empty seats that were the likely landing points of the new arrivals. But she'd gone no more than three steps when the fifth thing she liked-she'd totally forgotten to include him on her earlier list; where had her head been?-stepped out of the ray of sunlight and waltzed into view.

Okay, maybe not waltzed. Bryan "Mac" McMillan didn't waltz. He swaggered, or maybe stalked was a better word, walking with an efficiency that spoke of his previous career as an FBI agent as opposed to his current career as a motorcycle mechanic.

And, yup, there had to be a story there. Just like she knew there had to be a story behind all the men at the custom motorcycle shop known as Black Knights Inc. But she found herself only interested in Mac's tale...or was that tail?

She snorted, smiling at her own wit right before her lips curved into a frown.

No matter how much she liked Mac, no matter how much his sense of humor, his solid build, and his dauntless loyalty to his friends appealed to her, Mac always treated her like she was covered in poison ivy. And, for the life of her, she couldn't fathom why that should be. As far as she knew, she'd never done anything to garner his scorn. From day one, she'd been nothing but smiles and come-ons, so what was his deal?

She narrowed her eyes as she watched his approach, racking her brain and trying to figure it all out. As usual, all she came up with was, d.a.m.ned 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 b.u.t.tons that seemed to stand out all over him like porcupine quills. So, pasting on a wide smile, she placed a hand on one c.o.c.ked hip and used the other to toss her heavy hair over her shoulder. "Whoa," she called out. "Somebody slide me a gla.s.s, will ya? Because I just spied me a tall drink of water!"

Buzzard-never one to pa.s.s 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 gla.s.s to zip down the wide plank of lacquered mahogany unenc.u.mbered 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, s.e.xy 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 c.o.c.ked 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.