“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 sexiest woman he’d ever seen. And that was before you got to her body. Because, damn, 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 bums 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 bullshit 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 unshelled 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, damned 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 buttons that seemed to stand out all over him like porcupine quills. So, pasting on a wide smile, she placed a hand on one cocked hip and used the other to toss her heavy hair over her shoulder. “Whoa,” she called out. “Somebody slide me a glass, will ya? Because I just spied me a tall drink of water!”
Buzzard—never one to pass 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 glass to zip down the wide plank of lacquered mahogany unencumbered 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, sexy 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 cocked 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.