"Lightning?" She couldn't believe it. Boats weren't often struck, but when they were, it was usually catastrophic to the electronics on board.

"The navigation system?" she asked, and he moved slightly to the left so she could see the electrical panels on the console. The dark electrical panels. Not one light glowed on the entire vessel when she glanced around.

"The radio is shot, too," he informed her, raising his voice above the driving sound of the rain on the roof. "And I'm a.s.suming..." He peeled up the Velcro on the pocket of his swim trunks and pulled out his iPhone. Pressing the power b.u.t.ton, she didn't need to see the darkened screen to know the cell phone was a dead stick. The information was written all over Billy's scowling face. "We're on our own here," he muttered. Which was true. Because her phone was shoved in an evidence locker somewhere back in Chicago.

And though her mind should've been filled with all sorts of logistics-like the tricky business of navigating the boat without the electronics, like the danger of riding out the storm when the waves and wind seemed to be getting worse and worse-she instead found herself occupied with one and only one thought. This was the fifth time she'd almost died in less than three months, and if things kept going like this, chances were pretty good she might not survive the sixth.

And she'd never told Billy she loved him.

It seemed such an easy thing to say, such an easy thing to admit, so why hadn't she? Was she still, deep down, that cowardly eighteen-year-old? Was she still- "Hey." He pulled her into his arms, pressing her against his warm, wet chest, palming the back of her head. When she sucked a breath in through her nose-a deep breath that brought the crisp smell of lake water combined with the burnt rubber aroma of fried electrical wire casings-she realized her lips were trembling and hot, salty tears were pouring over her lower lids. "It's all right, now. We're going to be all right. I know you've been through h.e.l.l, sweetheart. I know it must seem like the world is out to get you. But you just need to hold on for a little while longer, okay? Just hold on for a little while longer, and I promise you-"

"I've been holding on by sheer force of will these last f-few days," she whispered against his shoulder. "H-holding myself together, so you'd see I'm not that same cowardly girl from twelve years ago."

"Eve-"

"But I can't h-hold myself together anymore." She talked over him, her voice rising with every word out of her mouth. Now that she'd started, she couldn't stop. "And I c-can't hold it in anymore. I love you, Billy. I've always loved you. And it's okay if you don't love me back. Because if these last few days have taught me anything, it's that I don't want to live with regrets anymore. And I regret not telling you right from the very start that I still love you. And I will always love you." She felt him still against her. The hands that'd been rubbing up and down her back stopped on her shoulders. "And it's a love with no strings attached. No expectations. Just a one-way love. F-freely given."

That's what she said. And she meant it when she said it. She really did. But, naturally, there was a part of her, a really big, really hopeful part of her, that wanted Billy to reiterate her words, to return her love. So when he gently pushed back, his brown eyes searching her face, his expression somewhere between anguish and sadness, a monster wave of grief threatened to overwhelm her as all that hope was washed away like the water washing over the hull of Summer Lovin'.

"Eve, I-"

"Shh." She pressed a cold finger over his lips. "You don't have to say anything."

"But, I-" Just then, the boat was pulled off course by the power of the current, the mainsail lost the wind, and the vessel rolled violently.

Cursing, Billy turned to grab the wheel.

She watched the muscles in his back and shoulders bunch as he wrestled the vessel back into the face of the storm, as the mainsail once again snapped tight. Then she blew out a shaky breath and thought, It's done.

She'd gone all in. Put all her chips on the table. Played her last hand. Unfortunately, this time, the cards hadn't gone her way. Not that she should be surprised, really. The cards hadn't gone her way in a very long time.

But at least you had last night, a voice whispered through her head. And at least you finally told him the truth...

Yes. She could find comfort in those things, she supposed. She could find comfort in them because they were the only things she still had left to hold on to...

Chapter Twenty-four.

Red Delilah's Biker Bar, Second Floor Apartment 8:34 a.m.

The notes of Neil Young's "Unknown Legend" woke Delilah from a deep sleep, and she fumbled for her cell phone on the cherrywood nightstand. She'd been too exhausted to scrub off her mascara in the shower last night, and in the intervening hours between then and now, it'd turned into some sort of industrial-strength adhesive. She had to use her thumb and forefinger to pry her left eyelid open. Blearily reading the number on her phone's screen, for a moment she forgot why Brenda, the office a.s.sistant extraordinaire at McClovern and Brown, would be calling her. Then, everything came back in a rush.

The shoot-out in the bar. Buzzard's death. That scene with Eve's father and ex-husband. The long minutes inside an interrogation room reliving it all. The coffee shop. Mac's refusal to take her to the chopper shop. And, finally, her decision to use her contacts at McClovern and Brown to see if she could find out anything about Keystone Property Development.

She'd shot off an email to Brenda last night before crawling into bed to cry herself silly-perhaps, along with her crusty mascara, her dried tears had a little to do with the whole eye-goop-glue thing she had going. Then, shockingly, because she hadn't really thought she would or could, she'd fallen into an exhausted, nearly catatonic sleep.

Unfortunately, instead of feeling better this morning, she just felt worse. Her limbs weighed a cool thousand pounds each. Her head was one giant throbbing ache. Her right nostril was completely clogged with...something she didn't want to think about. And, to top it all off, she'd forgotten to brush her teeth before bed. So now, her mouth tasted like a combo of used kitty litter and fresh road kill. Blech...

"Heh-" Okay, used kitty litter and fresh road kill all wrapped up in cotton, because she had to swallow twice, her dry throat sticking both times, before she could talk without sounding like Joe c.o.c.ker. "Hey, Brenda. That was quick." She blinked at the glowing red numbers on her digital alarm clock.

"When I got your email last night, I decided to head to the office early this morning. Personal business, eh?" Brenda's voice sounded perky, as always. And Delilah could not understand people who were cheerful in the morning. It's like they were aliens that came down from planet Bright Eyed and Bushy Tailed. "That sounds interesting. Although," Brenda's tone darkened, "if you're thinking of investing with these guys or something, I'd think twice. They're in it up to their eyeb.a.l.l.s."

"No, no," Delilah a.s.sured the woman. "It's not that. It's-" And then she stopped herself. Because how the h.e.l.l was she supposed to explain all of yesterday in two sentences? Which was really about the uppermost limit of any conversational energy she had in her. So, she finished lamely with, "It-it's something else."

"Mmm," Brenda purred. "More and more intriguing. Color me curious."

"I'll tell you all about it," Delilah promised, because she really did like Brenda despite the whole evil-alien-morning-person shtick. "But right now, I need to know what you found."

"The usual," Brenda said. "Three rich guys go into a highly speculative business together and then lose their pants."

"Wait..." Delilah sat up in the bed, throwing the autumnal-colored comforter aside and realizing she'd put her polka dot pajama bottoms on both inside out and backward. Maybe it was a good thing Mac hadn't let her go home with him. She'd obviously been a wreck last night, not fit for company. "Three rich guys? I thought the business was founded by two men, Patrick Edens and Blake Parish."

"Nope," Brenda said just as Delilah caught sight of her reflection in her dresser mirror. Sonofa- She looked like she was the fresh road kill. Lifting a hand, she tried unsuccessfully to pat some of her hair into place. "There was a third guy, a minor partner, and a silent one at that. I can't remember his name, but it's in the files I emailed you. I think it's spelled out somewhere in the articles of incorporation."

Another partner? Perhaps another man who'd have reason to see Eve dead? Delilah's hand halted mid-pat then she lowered it shakily to her throat.

"Brenda," her heart was a hammer in her chest, "I've got to go. But I owe you. Big time. Next time you come into the bar-" the bar where Buzzard had died, the bar she needed to get back up and running, the bar she wasn't going to think about right now, "-drinks are on me. All night."

"Deal," Brenda said, adding, "and toodles," before clicking off.

Delilah opened up her email account straight from her phone. Quickly scrolling through the files Brenda sent her, she stopped on the one t.i.tled "Articles of Incorporation." Her brain buzzing with curiosity and a weird sense of dread, she opened the doc.u.ment. One name jumped off the page.

"Oh, s.h.i.t," she breathed, the room around her dissolving into a blur as she stared down at the email for one heartbeat, then two.

Then she shook herself, shook off the momentary shock, and dialed Information. After impatiently going through the rigmarole of saying what city and state she was in and which business's phone number she was looking for, she listened as the connection was made. A series of rings sounded. "Come on, Mac," she growled. "Pick up the d.a.m.ned phone."

No such luck. She was forwarded to a voice mail explaining that if she was interested in speaking to someone about a custom bike, she should email them at blah, blah, blah.

"d.a.m.nit!" She stabbed a finger onto her phone's screen, catapulting herself from bed and stumbling over to the dresser. Hopping out of her PJs, she wrenched open a drawer, dragged on a pair of jeans, shrugged into a sports bra, and pulled an old KISS T-shirt over her head. Slipping her feet-sans socks-into a grungy pair of red Converse sneakers, she hesitated in front of the mirror, contemplating whether to take the time to wash her face and comb her hair.

Whatever, she decided, waving a hand at her reflection before grabbing her purse and her keys. She wrenched open the back door only to run face-first into a curtain of driving rain. Cursing, she instinctively threw an arm over her head. But then she realized she was trying to protect...what? Her crazy, uncombed hair? Muttering obscenities to herself, she lowered her arm and raced down the metal stairway. Splashing through the puddles of water that'd gathered in the alley and the bar's tiny parking lot, she skidded to a stop at the corner, hand lifted in an attempt to hail a taxi.

And, praise be to the higher powers, if her rain-logged eyeb.a.l.l.s weren't deceiving her, that was a red cab with a busted tailpipe pulling up to the curb. A mammoth bolt of lightning ripped open the sky, and a gust of wind blasted down the street between the buildings. Delilah's drenched hair plastered itself against her face as she heaved open the taxi's door. Sliding into the faux-leather seat, she gave the cabbie the address for Black Knights Inc. and finished with, "And there's an extra twenty in it for you if you get me there in under ten minutes."

Black Knights Inc. Headquarters 8:55 a.m.

"Yo, a.s.shole. Get up."

Mac growled into the cushion of the shop's leather sofa, his face occupying the spot usually reserved for someone's a.s.s. But he wasn't going to think about that. Not until after he'd had his first cup of coffee. And certainly not until after he'd gifted whichever Connelly brother was barking orders at him with a witty reb.u.t.tal that began with the word "f.u.c.k" and ended with the word "you."

Unfortunately, his witty reb.u.t.tal didn't quite have the oomph he was going for because it was m.u.f.fled by the couch cushion. He flipped over to see Geralt Connelly scowling down at him. The Connelly brothers were the quartet of red-haired, freckled, built-like-linebacker native Chicagoans who took turns manning BKI's front gate. They were Irish Catholic to the core, rowdy as children, a slap-stick act when they all got together, and Mac usually liked them immensely. That is, when they weren't waking him up...he checked his watch...just three hours after he'd managed to finally fall asleep.

After he arrived home last night, thoughts of Delilah, thoughts of how he should've been kinder to her, should've stayed with her, had swirled around and around in his head until he'd d.a.m.n near driven himself crazy. So, he'd worked on his cycle, cleaning the fuel lines, replacing the oil, polishing the chrome, until the wee hours of the morning when the previous day finally caught up with him and he pa.s.sed out face-first on the sofa.

"f.u.c.k me?" Geralt asked incredulously, his big, ruddy face wrinkling. "No, thank you. I don't go in for d.i.c.k gymnastics."

"Come on now," Mac snorted a laugh. "I'm not even sure I know what that means."

"You know exactly what it means," Geralt replied in his thick Chicago accent. "Besides," the man reached up to scrub a huge mitt over his buzzed, carrot-top head. "I like redheads. In fact, I'm an easy mark for redheads. Especially busty ones."

Mac narrowed his eyes, pushing up into a sitting position. "And you're tellin' me this because..." He made a rolling motion with his hand, until it occurred to him that Geralt wasn't at his post. "Why the h.e.l.l aren't you mannin' the gate? Did those G.o.dd.a.m.ned reporters out there do somethin'?"

"Those G.o.dd.a.m.ned reporters hightailed it home when this G.o.d-awful storm broke," Geralt said as a crash of lightning sizzled overhead. The resulting boom of thunder rattled the tall, leaded windows of the shop, and Mac suddenly realized the dull roar he'd been hearing wasn't a result of his own headache, but was, in fact, the sound of a deluge pounding on the roof of the warehouse. "And I'm not manning the gate because I couldn't get ahold of you." Geralt folded his arms over his ma.s.sive chest, scowling fiercely. "Either your d.a.m.ned phone is off, or it's out of juice."

Mac dug in his hip pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and realized he was dealing with scenario numero dos. He usually plugged his phone into the charger on his nightstand before catching some Zs. Not the case last night.

He cursed, frowning up at Geralt. "So what did you need?" But as soon as he asked the question, Geralt's comment about being an easy mark for redheads, especially busty ones, had trepidation biting him in the a.s.s like his father's cranky old ranch dog used to do.

And, yeah, just as he suspected..."The always lovely and terribly overripe Delilah Fairchild is here," Geralt announced gleefully, wiggling his nearly nonexistent eyebrows. Okay, so the dude's eyebrows weren't nonexistent. They were just so blond they appeared that way and- And why the h.e.l.l was he contemplating the color of Geralt's eyebrows? Holy s.h.i.t fire, that didn't matter a hill of beans even on a good day! And this likely wasn't a good day because, first off, he'd napped with his face in a spot usually reserved for someone's a.s.s. And secondly, Delilah was here. Which meant something was wrong. Something had happened. His heart crashed against his breastbone.

Unless of course, a soft voice of reason whispered, she's here because she already has information on Keystone Property Development.

A certified forensic accountant? Who'da thunk it? Because she didn't look like any accountant he'd ever known. Not by a long shot.

"Where is she?" he asked as another flash of lightning blazed through the windows. "At the gate?"

"She came by taxi," Geralt said, frowning down at him like he was a few brain cells short of a fully functioning cerebral cortex. "And I couldn't very well leave her standing out in a thunderstorm. Although..." a devilish light entered Geralt's eyes, "...a wet T-shirt contest does sound-"

"Then where is she?" Mac cut in, wanting to hear the end of Geralt's sentence about as much as he wanted to schedule a colonoscopy.

"She's out in the courtyard," Geralt replied, now eyeing him curiously. When Mac pushed up from the sofa, Geralt stopped him from stomping toward the back door with a meaty hand on his chest. "You got a thing for her or something? Because I've known her for years, but I was thinking it might be time I try to get my swerve on, if you know what I mean. But if you've got dibs, then I-"

"No dibs," Mac informed him, though, for some reason he refused to contemplate, his blood pressure shot through the roof. He could actually feel the vein on the side of his neck pulse in warning.

"Good," Geralt said as he followed Mac down the long hallway toward the back door leading to the large, partially covered courtyard with its myriad outbuildings.

Before Mac pushed outside though, he quickly stepped to his left, glancing through one of the tall windows to see Delilah standing under the drooping, rain-heavy canopy with her arms crossed over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, chafing her biceps like she was cold. And she probably was cold. You know, considering she was completely, deliciously, ball-swellingly drenched. Her hair was plastered down around her face and sticking to her pale cheeks. Her jeans-which always looked like they were painted on-now accentuated every tiny detail of her figure, like the fact that she had the cutest and most tempting little rolls right at the top of her thighs beneath her pert a.s.s. And her T-shirt? Well, to put it simply, the d.a.m.ned thing should've been outlawed.

Wet T-shirt contest, indeed...

"If you're thinking about going back and trying to claim dibs," Geralt said from over his shoulder, "you can forget about it. You had your chance."

"I don't want your G.o.dd.a.m.ned dibs," Mac harrumphed. Though he didn't know who he was trying to convince, Geralt or himself.

"Good." Geralt dipped his chin. "Then I'm headed back to the front gate."

"Good," Mac parroted, watching the carrot-topped giant lumber back down the long hall before wrenching open the heavy metal door. He stepped outside and a gust of warm, wet wind frisked him as efficiently as a well-trained field agent.

"Oh, thank G.o.d," Delilah breathed, taking a couple of steps forward to lay a hand on his arm. Her palm burned him. Actually burned him, and he had to resist the urge to yank out of her reach.

"What is it?" he demanded, trying, really trying not to look at her b.o.o.bs in that wet T-shirt.

"It's not just Eve's father and ex-husband who are partners in Keystone Property Development." She lifted a hand to pull a lock of hair from where it'd blown across her mouth. Yessirree. Her nipples were hard. And okay, so he was looking at her b.o.o.bs.

G.o.dd.a.m.nit Mac, stop being such a s.h.i.t-heel, he groused at himself. Himself immediately answered back with, Yeah, easier said than done.

"There's a third partner," she said, and that got his attention. "He invested less than Parish and Edens, so I suspect that means he has diluted voting power when it comes to business decisions. But he's still a partner."

"But Chief Washington said-"

"Chief Washington said his initial investigation was cursory at best."

Bill and the rest of the Knights claimed Mac had Spidey sense. He wasn't sure about that. But something inside him, something chilling, snaked up his spine, filling his brain with an icy blast of foreboding. And then he knew...

"Jeremy Buchanan," he muttered, the hairs on his arms standing straight as if in warning of another lightning strike. But the angry sky remained gray and unlit by electricity.

"Bingo." Delilah's green eyes were circled by mascara, but it did nothing to camouflage the fear in them. "And he knows where they're headed..."

"Give me your phone," Mac demanded, holding out his wide palm.

"Wh-what?" Delilah sputtered, looking down at his hand in confusion. "Didn't you just hear me say-"

"I heard you." The vein in Mac's temple pulsed, and his blue eyes glinted like the vodka bottles she kept on the third shelf back at her bar. The wind whipped his dark hair around his head. "Which is why I need your phone to call Bill. Mine's dead."

"Oh!" She dug into her purse. Now, where's my d.a.m.ned phone when I...aha!

She'd barely pulled her iPhone past her purse's top zipper before Mac s.n.a.t.c.hed it out of her hand, thumbing it on and punching in a series of numbers with a rough finger. He held the device to his ear while she held her breath and waited. A second slid by, then another and another until Mac cursed, bellowing into the receiver, "G.o.dd.a.m.nit, Will Bill! I hope you check your messages, because Jeremy Buchanan is mixed up in that mess with Eve's father and ex-husband, and he knows you're heading to Ludington. Call me!"

He jabbed a finger onto her phone's power b.u.t.ton before handing it back at her. She curled her fingers around the device, holding it against her pounding chest, searching his impenetrable expression. "That's it?" she demanded. "We just sit here and hope he gets that message? What if he lost his phone? Or what if he-"

"Be quiet for a second," Mac said, his voice barely discernible above another boom of thunder. "I need to think."

"Well, think faster!" yelled.

He scowled at her. She scowled back. She hadn't gone through all this, through the h.e.l.l of yesterday and last night and this morning, just so he could leave a freakin' message!

"The Coast Guard!" he snapped his fingers. "They can relay a communique to Bill via the sailboat's VHF radio." He turned to open the huge metal door with Delilah hot on his heels. He quickly swung back around, and she skidded to a stop, her Converse sneakers squeaking on the slate ground-covering.

"Don't you even think about leaving me out of this," she said, lifting her chin. "I'm in it. I've been in it. I have the right to see it through."

He stepped up close to her, his voice a low rumble. "Okay," he said, and the victorious smile that started to curl her lips turned down at the corners when he continued, "But before you set foot in this building, you need to understand something. You can't breathe a word about what you see inside." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "Not one word. Not to anybody. Or you could land all of us in hot water." The expression in his eyes was wary and worried...and perhaps a little bit beseeching. "Do you understand me?"

Her lungs froze in an instant, as did her heart. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what are they doing in there?

"Do you understand me?" he asked again, reaching up to grasp her bicep and give her a little shake. "I have to know I can trust you. There's more at stake here than you realize."

She swallowed, nodding jerkily. He searched her eyes for a second longer before turning to throw open the door. Following him inside, she quickly glanced around, expecting to see...she didn't know what, especially not after that speech he'd just given her. But to her utter relief and astonishment, the place looked rather ordinary. Rather like she'd expect a custom motorcycle shop to look. The exposed brick wall lining the right side of long hall he led her down was covered with old motorcycle license plates. And when they pushed out into the main body of the shop, she saw all the usual equipment. Bike lifts. Power tools. Blow torches. A big, precision water saw. The place smelled like burned coffee, hot metal, and old oil. It smelled just as she'd imagined it would smell and- "This way," Mac motioned, turning to clomp up a set of metal stairs. She followed him, the sound of their footfalls on the treads echoing around the huge s.p.a.ce, bouncing against the brick walls painted with ma.s.sive, colorful caricatures of all the Black Knights. Yup. Nothing out of the ordinary there either. Bikers loved nothing better than to immortalize themselves in murals or in their own tattoos. Then she topped the last riser...