Of course, he went and ruined it all, ruined all her softer feelings toward him, when he cocked his head and said, “Are you tryin’ to pull my heart strings? Because I have to tell you, they’re not really attached to anything. And I’m not gonna let you use the excuse of what you’ve been through today to try to finagle me into climbin’ in bed with you.”
And, yes. That would be her jaw hanging down to her chest. She snapped it shut so hard her teeth clacked. Disappointment, then anger, had her lips thinning into a tight line, and all of her exhaustion disappeared in a flash. “That’s not what I was doing,” she ground out, horrified when tears of humiliation and rejection burned at the back of her throat.
“No?” He lifted one infuriating brow.
“No,” she declared, her cheeks burning despite the soft puff of cool evening air that tried, without much success, to ruffle her tangled, matted hair. “I just wanted a friend. Do you know what that is, Mac? A friend?” Her upper lip curled. “As in, a person who’s there for me when someone I care about dies?” And then, because she had the tendency to become petty and biting when she’d been intentionally and cruelly dissed—no, she wasn’t proud of it, but neither could she seem to help it—she added, “Besides, I thought you were gay.”
His dimpled chin jerked back, and for a moment she thought she could see his thoughts spinning almost visibly behind his bright blue eyes. Then he smiled. Yes, smiled. The bastard had the audacity to smile at her. And damnit, Mac’s smile could melt the polar ice caps. But it wasn’t going to melt her ire. No. N-O. Hell no. He’d just been a complete ass to her. And she wasn’t about to let him get away with that just because he had a nice smile. A blindingly wonderful smile.
“Just what is it about me, besides the fact that I might be the only man on the planet who doesn’t want to sleep with you, that would lead you to believe I’m gay?” he asked.
“Honey,” she cocked a hip and batted her lashes sarcastically, “after Brokeback Mountain I don’t take anything for granted. And the truth is, you’re not wearing a ring, you’re always surrounded by men, and I’ve never seen you take a woman home from my bar. So,” she shrugged, making a nasty face, “ipso facto, you can’t blame me for thinking you might be rockin’ the rainbow.”
“I’m not gay,” he growled, his smile disappearing as quickly as it’d appeared.
“And I’m not trying to sleep with you, you miserable prick,” she shot back, glaring at him so hard it was a wonder he wasn’t catapulted off his bike. “Holy shit, why don’t you get over yourself already?”
He licked his lips and, damnit, damnit, damnit, the dart of his tongue momentarily distracted her. But not so much as his next words…
“I’m sorry.”
Uh-huh. Just like that. No defensiveness. No counterattack. Just an apology. Straight up and to the point. And what had she said about quiet, stoic, still-waters-running-deep men like him being cocaine to her?
Shit. She wanted to hold on to her anger. She really did. It made the grief and the remorse she was feeling less sharp, the memories less soul-crushingly painful. But despite herself, despite her desire to the contrary, all her fury seeped out of her like flat beer down the drain on the bar’s sink.
“Seriously,” he added. “I am sorry. I just thought,” he motioned with a hand toward the taped-up front door, “you know, after all the flirtin’ and propositioning, after you sayin’ that thing about a warm bed, that you were tryin’ to—”
“Okay, I get it,” she cut him off. “Whatever. I just—”
“Delilah,” he interrupted her. “I can’t let you stay at the shop. I really wish I could, but I can’t.” He dipped his chin. “Do you get me? I can’t.”
Can’t. It wasn’t a word that carried much weight with her. He could if he wanted to. He could. It wasn’t like there was an invisible force field around the place that prohibited the entrance of outsiders. It wasn’t like the compound was some sort of top secret military installation like Area 51, where he’d be forced to kill her after showing her around. He wouldn’t take her back to the chopper shop. Wouldn’t. For whatever reason. Not couldn’t.
“Fine. Whatever. Listen, you’re off the hook, okay? I’ll be okay here tonight.”
“Delilah, I—”
“And you know what?” An idea suddenly occurred to her. Another epiphany. She hoped this one worked out better than the last had. “I’ll even do you one better.”
Again that dark brow climbed up his forehead. It was an infuriating brow. “What’s that?” he asked hesitantly. And instead of ignoring the note of skepticism in his voice, she allowed it to fuel her ire.
“I’m going to use my contacts at the McClovern and Brown law firm to determine just how much hot water this Keystone Property Development company is in. Maybe there’s something in the company’s records that’ll help determine which one of those men, Blake Parish or Patrick Edens, has more incentive to see Eve dead.”
And that would kill two birds with one stone. It’d allow her mind to focus on something other the horror of this god-awful, fantastically craptastic day, and it’d help her feel like she was doing her part to bring Buzzard’s murderer to justice. Booyah! If she’d had a football in her hand, she’d have spiked it into the dusty pavement of the parking lot.
She didn’t need to go home with Mac. She didn’t need to hide behind the wide shoulders of some man. Hell no! She was Delilah Fairchild! The ass-kicking, Harley-riding, shotgun-toting, beer-slinger-from-hell! …And also, she was Delilah Fairchild, the certified forensic accountant who moonlighted—when she needed the extra cash—for one of Chicago’s top firms.
For a good, long moment—during which time she offered Mac a smile like a cat might offer a canary—he just sat there blinking at her. He opened his mouth once. Closed it. Opened it again, and asked, “McClovern and Brown?”
With more than an ounce or two of pride—okay, so maybe her ego wasn’t so well-adjusted or perfectly proportioned, after all—she told him about her advanced degrees and her second job. Then she finished with, “What? Did you think I’d worked in this bar my entire life?”
“Well, I—” He stopped. Shook his head. Stared at her for a little while longer, then said, “But if you’re a CFA, what are you doing bartending?”
Well for one thing, she loved it. And for another thing, she loved it. And finally…well…she loved it. It was just that simple. Of course, what she said to him was, “Oh, I don’t know, Mac. Maybe I’m doing the same thing you’re doing. You are an FBI agent currently working as a motorcycle mechanic, are you not?” She tilted her head, batting her lashes. She didn’t need to say, gotcha! She made sure the sentiment was plastered all over her face.
A vein pulsed in his forehead, and the little devil he always managed to bring out in her rejoiced that she’d gotten the best of him. Then he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in the thick column of his throat, and crossed his powerful arms, stretching the leather of his summer weight motorcycle jacket as he leaned back on the seat. “You really think you can discover anything the police can’t?” he finally asked, after another long sit-’n’-stare session.
She shrugged. “I won’t know until I try.” She didn’t dare look back at the taped-up door—she didn’t want to lose all the bravado she’d just acquired—as she motioned toward it. “It’s not like there’s much else I can do right now.”