* * *

“Blow,” Becky demanded, holding Delilah’s shiny silver Breathalyzer—a handy device used for checking blood/alcohol level—up to Mac’s mouth.

Delilah had taken to carrying the thing around in her saddlebags because anytime she joined one of the local MCs—motorcycle clubs—on a ride, it was inevitable the group would stop at a bar or roadhouse somewhere. Equally inevitable was the fact that some sorry sucker would have one too many, forcing Delilah and the rest of the gang to wait around while the guy—it was usually a guy, though once, it had been a gal—sobered up enough to blow below .08%.

“You heard me. Blow,” Becky repeated, wiggling the device.

Mac’s dark eyebrows winged down in a fierce V, his five-o’clock…no, more like ten-o’clock-shadowed jaw clenching. “I’m not drunk,” he ground out, crossing his arms over his chest, causing his leather biker jacket to pull tight across the wide expanse of his back.

They were standing in the lower level of the shop, readying their bikes for the ride south following what had been about five minutes of sheer pandemonium after Ali’s water broke. Ghost had immediately scooped his wife up in his arms, ran toward the stairs, then turned and ran back to the conference table to snag Ali’s purse. It was then that he nearly slipped in the puddle of clear amniotic fluid. Delilah had never seen a group of men move as fast as the Black Knights when, in unison, they’d leapt forward to steady the couple.

“H-E-double-hockey-sticks, Nate!” Ali’d bellowed, whacking Ghost on the arm. “I can walk! It’s not like this kid is going to slide out of me or something! And you’re liable to get us both killed this way!”

Ghost had ignored her, refusing to put her down. And after slinging her purse over his big shoulder—now that had been a sight, seeing a big, tough-looking guy like Ghost shouldering a pink, sparkly Guess tote bag—he’d bolted down the metal steps two at a time, his booted heels thundering and echoing around the cavernous space. Seconds later, the engine of BKI’s monster Hummer roared to life. A moment after that, the big garage door at the end of the shop rolled up, and Ghost left rubber on the concrete floor, fishtailing his way out of the building.

It was at that point that Becky yelled, “Ew! No! Bad kitty!”

As a group they’d all turned to find Peanut down on his fat, furry haunches, lapping at the puddle of fluid while purring contentedly. Ozzie made a retching sound. Boss muttered, “I think I might be sick.” Becky raced over to the supply closet and pulled out a mop and a bucket, while Steady grabbed the tomcat, holding the beast out in front of him and grimacing like he was about to lose the coffee he’d been swigging.

Some mopping, one quick, disgruntled cat bath, and a couple of packed saddlebags later, and the group heading south was finally ready to go. Well, almost. If Mac would only stop scowling like he’d been sucking on a lemon and blow into the damn Breathalyzer…

“You’re not drunk?” Becky impatiently shoved a green sucker into her mouth. The gesture looked like the physical equivalent of men…why the hell do they have to make everything so freakin’ difficult?

And even if Delilah had not felt obliged to agree with that sentiment based solely on the unspoken pledge between the sisterhood—you know the one, we gals stick together—she’d have agreed because, after all, it was Mac they were dealing with here. Mac…numero uno on her very short list of things that put a kink in her otherwise fairly straightforward life.

“No, ma’am. I’m not drunk,” he insisted. “I’ve had so much coffee that we’ll have to pull over every ten minutes so I can pee like a Russian racehorse.”

“I’ve always wondered about the origins of that phrase,” Ozzie observed. He’d already mounted up on his custom chopper. Steady was behind him in the process of doing the same. “I mean what’s so special about a ruski equine, I ask you?”

Becky ignored him, still frowning up at Mac. “So if you’re not drunk, prove it, Gigantor. Puff, puff.”

“Fine,” he grumbled before sticking the short, plastic tube between his lips and blowing. “There.” He showed Becky the digital number on the device’s screen, wiggling it in front of her face victoriously. “I told you. So, go cork your pistol.”

Becky rolled her eyes before moving on to Zoelner with the Breathalyzer.

After Zoelner blew and proved that he, too, was fit to make the journey, Mac swung astride his monster bike. Delilah watched as his big thighs pulled the fabric of his faded jeans tight. For a second, just a split second, the searing image of what it would be like to have those muscled thighs pushing her legs wide burned through her mind. And in that fleeting moment, she imagined she could feel his crinkly man-hair brushing the tender skin at the apex of her legs as he pumped and strained into her. For that one all-too-brief instant, she fancied she could actually feel him there, so big and rough, so hot and hard, and…okay, crap. Her mind suddenly shook itself out of La-La-Land, and she realized she was staring at Mac’s jean-clad thighs like she was honing her knife and fork, ready to cut a big bite out of each.

You really are pathetic. And as much as she hated to admit it, that annoying voice was proving to be right far more often than it was proving to be wrong.

When she felt the top of her head buzzing like her scalp was threatening to lift away from her skull, she looked up to find Mac’s eyes narrowed on her and…was that slight reddening of his tan cheeks an actual blush?

Oh, great. Busted. Had her salacious thoughts been written all over her face?

She hoped not. And in the event that they hadn’t been, she licked her lips before blurting the first thing to come to mind. “Uh…just admiring your bike.”

Mac blinked, his expression turning contemplative before it once more slid into that inscrutable mask.

Delilah mentally slapped herself a high five. That was some pretty quick thinking on her part. And a believable excuse to boot. Because Mac’s custom Harley was one badass bike. Its name, Siren, said it all. With its intricate black-and-gold paint job offsetting and highlighting the glinting chrome of the handlebars, engine, battery box, and wheels—not to mention the mean stretch and the eye-catching blue LED running lights—the motorcycle was, to put it simply, flat-out mesmerizing. Enough to distract and draw in even the most disinterested of passersby just like the fabled Sirens of Greek mythology.

Still congratulating herself on her speedy and, moreover, believable explanation for the lust in her eyes and the drool on her lips, she mounted up on Big Red. Pressing her helmet over her head, she waited. Waited for the sound she loved. The sound that was the audio equivalent of a full-on, body-shaking orgasm. The sound of rolling thunder…

It didn’t take long.

Steady pushed the ignition on his bike and was rewarded by an immediate guttural rumble. Ozzie followed suit. Then Zoelner. Then Mac. And only when the full-throated roar of four well-tuned V-Twin engines filled the vast expanse of the shop did Delilah thumb the ignition on Big Red. The motorcycle came to life beneath her, growling and shaking like a steel beast.

A little thrill streaked up her spine…

That feeling, that excitement of being in control of something bigger and meaner than herself, never faded. Pressing her kickstand back with her booted heel, she twisted her wrist and followed the skid marks left by Ghost’s madcap exit from the shop, the four BKI operators rolling out behind her.

As the soft, summer breeze wafted against her face, she whispered quietly, a warm glow of hope filling her chest, “Just hold on, Uncle Theo. Whatever happened to you, wherever you are, just hold on. Because I’m coming. And I’m bringing the Black Knights with me…”

* * *

“She is back on her motorcycle,” Haroun relayed. The quiet hum of the small engine on the compact car they’d rented over the border in Canada barely competed with the sound of Qasim’s second-in-command’s voice. “And she is not alone. She has four men riding with her. I have followed them onto the highway. It appears they are headed south, in your direction.”

Qasim narrowed his eyes, staring into the near distance. The glitter of dust danced in the beams of the low-burning lanterns, reminding him of so many of the other dark, dusty corners he’d been forced to hide in. “In my direction? Do you suppose she’s already missing her uncle and is coming in search of him?” He hadn’t banked on that, on the fact that only a handful of hours after they’d captured Theodore, his disappearance would already be noted.

Praise Allah!

“It could be,” Haroun mused. “Perhaps she attempted to call him, and his not answering has spurred her concern.”

Hmm. That could very well be the case, especially considering how close Qasim suspected Theodore and his niece were. Flipping through the photos in the old Marine’s wallet, Qasim was privy to snapshots of the pair’s lives together. The photograph on top was apparently the most recent. Theodore had his arm thrown around a stunning, flame-haired woman. A golden turkey sat on a platter atop a long, dark bar in front of them while the sparkle of alcohol bottles stacked on shelves glinted in the background. Both Theodore and Delilah were grinning foolishly, as if they hadn’t a care in the world. A pang of envy sliced through Qasim.

The next picture was slightly older, given the fact that Theodore’s stark white hair was peppered with black. The former Marine was smiling broadly at Delilah, who was dressed in a graduation gown and holding up a diploma in one fist, her other hand forming a V for victory. Qasim growled. So much to celebrate for those two. So much promise for the future…