Julie Walker - Born Wild

Buchanan jogged over to them, wire and small recording device in hand. “Lift your shirt, Cuz,” he said.

“Wh-why?” Eve sputtered.

“Because the only way I could convince my chief to let you go talk to your father was if you’re wearing a wire.”

Bill was almost afraid to glance over his shoulder at Eve’s face. But he did. And he was surprised to find only confidence in her expression. “Good. Then everyone will be able to hear Dad explain everything.”

Oh, sweetheart…

He felt so goddamned sorry for her, and he faced forward once again while Buchanan made quick work with the wire.

“The investigators are going to need your phone, too,” Buchanan said, his tone apologetic. “It’s evidence of the call between you and your dad.” He held out his hand.

“It’s still in the bar,” Eve said. “Help yourself.”

When Buchanan glanced at Bill, his expression was tortured. “Don’t worry,” Bill assured the man. “I’ll keep her safe.”

A muscle twitched in Buchanan’s cheek, and Bill could tell the guy was having a difficult time letting someone else take the lead on this, take the lead on protecting Eve. But then Buchanan blew out a deep breath and nodded, stepping back.

Bill cranked over Phoenix’s big engine, and the bike came to life with a guttural roar. He stiffened wondering how Eve would react to the vibrating, snarling steel beast beneath her butt. But she didn’t wince. She simply leaned forward, pressing herself against his back.

“I thought you didn’t like motorcycles,” he yelled above the growling engine.

Her words, spoken directly in his ear, had goose bumps erupting across the back of his neck. “That was a long time ago, Billy,” she said, her tone low and sure. “And I’m not the same person you used to know.”

And as much as it might scare the living crap out of him to admit it, she was right. She wasn’t that same timid, wide-eyed girl anymore. Now, she was a fully grown, fully actualized woman, with all the mysteries and complexities inherent therein.

Unfortunately—and talk about scaring the living crap out of a guy—he realized there was a part of him, a foolish part obviously, that desperately wanted to get to know this new Eve…

Patrick Edens’s Condo Building

7:14 p.m.

Delilah tugged off the helmet Mac had loaned her. At any other time, she’d probably be turned on from snuggling up against his very broad, very warm back—especially with a badass bike rumbling between her legs—but she hadn’t been shitting him back there in the parking lot when she told him she was in no mood to work her feminine wiles. Because poor Buzzard…

The image of him sitting on that barstool, dead eyes open and glassy, blood pouring out of him in a gruesome flood, would forever be imprinted on the backs of her lids like a monstrous tattoo. And, yes, he’d been a patron. Someone who paid her to pop the tops on his beers and keep his pretzel dish full. But he’d also been a friend. When the guy spent most of his evenings warming a stool in front of the bar she manned, it was kind of hard for him to be anything less.

She knew about his three failed marriages, his shady insurance scams, and his unrequited love for one of her waitresses. And she knew he’d fought in Vietnam and had shrapnel in his hip that pained him on rainy days.

A knot of sorrow lodged in the back of her throat, and to help swallow it down—she so couldn’t fall apart after they’d agreed to let her come along—she glanced up, way up, at the sparkling glass and steel structure of the downtown high-rise.

Instantly, her sorrow was replaced by red-hot rage.

“So this is how rich murderers live,” she snarled, swinging from the motorcycle with the ease of a frequent rider.

“We don’t know that for sure,” Mac warned, hooking the helmet she handed him over the handlebars of his tricked-out ride. And speaking of tricked-out rides…

“Says the ex-FBI-agent-turned-motorcycle-mechanic slash…” she let the sentence dangle, frowning when he refused to fill in the blank. “Oh, come on!” she wailed over the loud, gut-rumbling roar of Bill and Eve pulling up behind them. All her sorrow and anger needed an outlet, and right now Mac and his goddamned reticence were awfully handy. “You have bug-detection equipment in your shop and a direct line to the Chicago police chief. So do you really expect me to continue to believe that incredibly sucktastic we’re-just-a-bunch-of-grease-monkeys line? Seriously, dude, I could eat a bowl of Alpha-Bits cereal and crap out a better story than that!”

When one corner of his mouth twitched, she narrowed her eyes and pointed a finger at his rugged face. “It’s not funny! Nothing about this day has been funny!”

And, just like that, the picture of Buzzard’s last moments burned in front of her eyes, immediately causing tears to scald the back of her nose.

Why didn’t you hit the floor like everybody else, Buzzard? Why didn’t you—

And she realized she was shaking when Mac cursed beneath his breath before swinging from the bike. He wrapped a heavy arm around her shoulders just as Bill killed his cycle’s engine. The sudden, ringing silence made her feel unmoored. She imagined it was only the weight of Mac’s arm that kept her from floating up into the balmy evening air. Sucking in a calming breath, she turned to watch Bill and Eve’s approach.

Eve…

Now there was something to take her mind off her own troubles. She cocked her head at the woman, lifting a brow at the sure steps, the steady expression, the eyes that were clear and determined.

Damn. Considering they were going upstairs to accuse Eve’s father of attempting to murder her, Delilah was shocked and impressed to discover Eve was doing one hell of a job of keeping her shit together. Then again, delusion combined with denial had been known to be a wonderful cocktail when it came to pumping up a person’s courage.

Her own father. Holy shit…

Delilah couldn’t fathom it. Then again, in her experience, the ultra-wealthy sometimes had very skewed priorities, and often had very questionable loyalties. Scrooge McDuck-style piles of cash did strange things to folks…

“Are you guys ready?” Bill asked, and Delilah wondered if he realized he reached for Eve’s hand, or if the gesture was subconscious.

“I, uh…” Mac gingerly removed his arm—she immediately missed his warmth and the grounding effect it had on her—and ducked his chin to peer into her face. “Are we?”

Seriously? She was the weak link in this not-so-happy little chain?

Nuh-uh. Oh, hell no. Because she was supposed to be the ass-kicking, Harley-riding, shotgun-toting, beer-slinger-from-hell!

Okay, so maybe not all of that. But she was definitely determined to hold her own.

“Of course I’m ready.” She lifted her chin while simultaneously girding her loins.

Although, she had to admit, when they walked into the building’s posh, air-conditioned lobby and the stuffy, balding, Armani-clad doorman took one look at her before curling his lip in disdain, some of her bravado abandoned her. Then the man’s eyes came to a full stop on her boobs and remained glued there for a ridiculous length of time, and all her spit and vinegar returned in full measure. She found herself battling the distinct urge to punch the douchebag in the plums.

Instead, she smiled acidly and chirped, “Mesmerizing, aren’t they?”

“Oh, uh…” The doorman had the wherewithal to look appropriately chagrined. “Ms. Edens,” he said, turning toward Eve and frowning when he took in her disheveled appearance. “Shall I call your father and tell him you’ve—”

“No need, Arthur.” Eve waved him off, sailing toward the bank of elevators, ignoring the curious and pointed looks of the well-coifed couple signing the ledger at the front desk.

“But, madam, I’ve been instructed to—”

“I said there’s no need, Arthur,” Eve tossed over her shoulder, and damn! The woman could do haughty and entitled like no other. Which was kind of amazing since Delilah knew Eve was, at her core, as shy and retiring as a field mouse.

Then again, she had come out on top in the fight with that masked gunman, so obviously the woman had hidden depths.

Good for you, girlfriend, she thought. You’re going to have to plumb those depths during the ordeal to come…

The four of them loaded into a waiting elevator—Sir Arthur Stares-A-Lot still making noises about needing to call up to Eve’s father—and when the silver doors slid shut with a dainty ding, Delilah was confronted with her hazy reflection.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, she was a horror show…

Her hair was an absolute rat’s nest. Mascara was smudged under her bloodshot eyes, giving her the look of a drunken raccoon. And her lipstick red T-shirt was stained brown with dried blood. Buzzard’s blood…

And before she knew it, her chin was wobbling again.

“Delilah,” Mac began, turning toward her, concern twisting his face. “You don’t have to do this. You could—”

But that’s as far as he got before the express elevator bing-bonged their arrival on the penthouse floor.

“I got this,” she told him, never so happy to see a set of doors slide open in her life.

He narrowed his keen blue eyes. In return, she gave him a look that said, Dude, I told you, I got this!

He either believed her or figured this was no time to argue, because he didn’t try to stop her as she followed Bill and Eve from the elevator into the marble foyer of the penthouse. Immediately she felt the urge to whistle through her teeth. With the grand archways, mahogany pillars, and soaring twenty-foot ceilings—not to mention the frou-frou smell of expensive furniture polish hanging in the air—the place belonged on an episode of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.