She opened her mouth, but she was stopped from pressing her case further because suddenly and unceremoniously Mac grabbed her wrist and yanked her out from under Zoelner’s arm. Then, before she could utter a squeak of protest or, more likely, slug him on the shoulder for manhandling her, he hustled her up the steps until they were standing in front of the brownstone’s wide wooden door.

“Geez,” she huffed, rubbing her wrist. Although, in all honesty, she didn’t really mind his manhandling. Because his manhandling meant that he was touching her. And the feel of his calloused palm was—

Holy shit! Seriously, Delilah? How pathetic can you be? How many times does the guy have to tell you “no” before you’ll get the hint? And how screwed up are you to be mooning like some lovesick teenager when Uncle Theo is freakin’ MIA?

The answers to those questions were simple. In order, they were: one, very pathetic; two, apparently at least one more time; and three, pretty darned screwed up. Then all thought flew from her head when Mac used the keys to unlock the front door and the smell of sawdust mixed with cigar smoke immediately assaulted her nostrils. Those two scents would always remind her of her uncle. And, just like that, she lost hold of the tenuous thread she’d managed to keep tied around her emotions.

Her chin began to wobble.

Never a good sign…

And her nose began to burn.

An even more petrifying harbinger of things to come…

No, no, no. Don’t do it. Don’t you cry like a weak-kneed ninny.

But it was too late. The waterworks broke past the levee and now there was no stopping them.

At least that’s what she thought.

Then she felt Mac reach down and lace his thick, warm fingers through hers…

* * *

Mac was still drunk.

It was the only way to explain why he’d unceremoniously yanked Delilah from Zoelner’s embrace in order to satisfy the demands of the green-eyed monster that roared to life inside him the moment the former CIA agent threw an arm around her shoulders. Because there was no doubt whatsoever that he shouldn’t care one whit whether or not another man was comforting her…touching her. Not after he’d spent most of his life avoiding women like her. And certainly not after he’d spent the last handful of years avoiding her in particular.

The fact that he did care had to mean that, yessiree, he was still drunker than ol’ Cooter Brown. And that would also explain why, when he saw her little chin start to wiggle, he went against the grain and all his good sense and grabbed her hand.

Then again, maybe he was giving too much credit to the booze for that last move because, truth was, he’d always been an easy mark for a pretty little gal with tears standing in her eyes.

And Delilah’s tears?

Man-oh-man! They were particularly gut-wrenching because usually she was the kind of woman who, as his father used to say, wouldn’t think twice before charging hell with a bucket of ice water. Although, when he glanced down, it was to find her eyes dry as bones and wide as pie plates.

No doubt her shock was due in large part to the fact that he was actually, factually, willingly touching her. Especially since it was no big secret he’d spent a good amount of the time they’d known each other endeavoring to do exactly the opposite.

See, the problem was, he’d always kind of figured touching Delilah was similar to taking a hit of crack cocaine. Once was enough to get a guy good and hooked for life. And when he felt her cool, slim fingers hesitantly close around his, when the softness of her breath tickled his chin because she was gaping up at him, succulent mouth open in a little O of surprise? Well, you can bet your bottom dollar Little Mac took notice. And Big Mac? Well, he knew he’d been right all along…

He may have stopped the tears that had threatened to spill down Delilah’s cheeks, but he also just took that first hit of crack.

Mistake, asshole. Huge mistake!

Dropping her hand like the thing was a molten-hot cattle prod, he cleared his throat and turned to find Zoelner standing directly behind them. The guy was wearing an infuriatingly sly smirk as he lifted his Styrofoam cup to noisily slurp at the last of what had to be disgustingly lukewarm coffee.

Mac narrowed his eyes and pinned him with a look that clearly stated, Whatever it is you’re thinking of sayin’, you better check it at the back of your teeth lest you find those teeth shoved straight down your throat.

But either Zoelner was still too sloshed to recognize the unspoken threat in his eyes, or, more likely, he just didn’t give a rat’s ass, because his sly smirk morphed into a devilish grin right before he opened his mouth. Luckily, Mac was saved from feeding Zoelner a five-finger sandwich—obviously men should never be allowed to drink; it caused them to revert to their lowest common denominator: i.e., freshman year of college—when Delilah cleared her throat and said, “Let’s do this, shall we?”

Stepping over the threshold, she flipped a switch. Instantly, the room was washed in bright light from the single bare bulb hanging from a socket in the center of the ceiling, and Mac realized what it was he’d been smelling…

Sawdust.

It covered the large space in a fine powder, dusting the drop cloths lying over the bare wood floors, blanketing the power tools stacked here and there, and standing a centimeter thick on the sawhorses set up in the center of the room.

“So this is Theo’s latest project, huh?” Zoelner asked, pushing Mac from behind, forcing him to follow Delilah into the house. “What happened to that old Victorian he was fixing up in Lakeview?”

“He finished it two months ago,” Delilah said, walking toward the sawhorses.

“Did he end up selling it for what he was hoping?” Zoelner inquired, strolling over to a big thirty-gallon trash can pushed into one corner and tossing his empty coffee cup inside.

“About fifty grand more than he was hoping for.”

“Wow.” Zoelner whistled. Delilah turned to gift him with the first smile…well, half-smile, really…she’d worn all night. Mac felt his hands curl into fists.

Whoa. What the hell is that all about? Perhaps it was still a remnant of the scotch? Though, if he was being honest with himself, that excuse had just about run its course. “Am I mistaken, or did we come here for a reason?” he demanded, feeling unaccountably…something. Something he refused to name.

“Yes.” Delilah nodded, her smile disappearing as quickly as it’d arrived. And, damnit, now he wanted to kick his own ass for being the cause of that. “Yes, we did. I’ll run upstairs to the room he’s using as his office. I know, way back in the day, before he plugged everything in to his iPhone, he used to keep an address book in the top drawer of his desk. Maybe it’s still there. And maybe it has Charlie’s information in it.”

Aloud Mac said, “Sounds good.” But inwardly he instructed himself not to watch her climb the steps to the second floor. Unfortunately, what he told himself to do and what he did were two entirely separate things. The truth was, Delilah was dynamite from any angle. But with a set of buttery-soft leather chaps hugging her legs and revealing the jean-clad wonder that was her perfect, heart-shaped derriere, the view from behind was, in a word, staggering. He hadn’t heard Zoelner cross over to him, so he jerked when the guy clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“She’s the kind of woman you hate to see leave but you love to watch go. Am I right?” Zoelner winked at him.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he insisted, his back teeth grinding so hard he wasn’t sure if it was them he heard crackling or the plastic drop cloth beneath his booted feet.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Zoelner mimicked, doing a fairly good impression of a Texas drawl, before snorting so loudly Mac figured it was a wonder the guy didn’t swallow his tonsils. “You keep using that phrase in reference to your relationship with our oh-so-tempting bartendress. Which leads me to believe you’re completely full of shit.”

“First of all, I don’t have a relationship with our oh-so-tempting bartendress. And secondly, I believe you’re still piss drunk.”

“You might be right,” Zoelner admitted with a lopsided grin. “About the piss drunk part, anyway. But tomorrow I’ll be sober, and you’ll still be full of shit. So, there.”

And, see, that little tit-for-tat proved Mac’s theory about the lowest common denominator. He frowned, which only caused Zoelner’s grin to widen. Then the guy shrugged and glanced around the room. “Man,” he said. “Ol’ Theo sure has his work cut out for him with this place.”

And that reminded Mac of what had been bugging the holy hell out of him for the last few minutes. “How in the world do you know so much about what’s goin’ on in the lives of Delilah and her uncle anyway? I mean, a Victorian in Lakeview? Seriously?”

Zoelner slid him a look that questioned the validity of his college degree. “I know so much about what’s happening in their lives because I, you know,” he made a sarcastic gesture with his hands, “actually talk to her and stuff when I go into her bar to have a drink.”

“As opposed to?” Mac inquired.

“Grumbling and growling and giving her dirty looks all the time.”

“I don’t do that.”

Zoelner’s face flattened. “Dude,” he said, “you really have no idea just how bad you’ve got it, do you?”