“Mmm.” Delilah wrapped an arm around Mac’s waist. “Isn’t it fun arguing and annoying each other? Adds spice, doesn’t it?”
Emily assumed Delilah was talking to her, but Mac answered, “So much spice.”
Mac stared at Delilah with such blatant hunger that Emily was forced to roll her eyes. “Gag me.” Deciding the conversation had gone crazily off course, she tried to steer them back on track. “The woes I’m talking about have to do with the stalemate in our mission to uncover Spider’s true identity and the fact that it’s making everyone around this place snarky, short-tempered, and complete pains in my ass. Ever tried to manage an office overrun with a bunch of hardass dudes who possess too much testosterone?”
Delilah’s expression turned compassionate. “Can’t say that I have. But aren’t we supposed to hear back from Samantha’s contact soon?”
Samantha Tate was a go-getter journalist for the Chicago Tribune, Ozzie’s fiancée, and their last hope to nail down Spider’s identity. She was friends with a fellow investigative reporter in England. He’d been away, covering the ongoing crisis in Syria for the last month, but he was finally back on British soil. Samantha had tapped him to try to hunt down who had given Christian’s name to his colleagues.
“Tomorrow at the earliest.” Emily nodded. “End of the week at the latest. Plenty of time for the men in this place to drive me completely insane.”
“Poor you,” Delilah commiserated. “But maybe it’ll help take your mind off things if you head out front. I hear there’s a show going on.”
Emily wrinkled her brow. “Show? What kind of show?”
Before Delilah could answer, BKI’s overweight, notch-eared tomcat, Peanut, slunk into the kitchen with the sort of nose-in-the-air arrogance that could only be pulled off by a feline. The cat taunted Fido by strolling past the dog with his crooked tail high in the air. Fido, being a big, dumb mutt, took the bait and sniffed Peanut’s butt. In turn, the tomcat hissed and swiped at Fido’s nose with a clawed paw.
Then it was on. The pair broke into a chase around the kitchen island, complete with happy barks on Fido’s part and irritated yowls on Peanut’s part. Emily’s headache ratcheted up another notch.
“That’s my cue.” She grabbed her drink and headed out of the kitchen, leaving Delilah and Mac to deal with the canine-feline catastrophe that was underway.
Exiting the long hall leading from the kitchen into the custom motorcycle shop, Emily noticed that one of the big, rolling garage doors was open. Delilah had piqued her curiosity, so she headed toward it, past the bike lifts, the tool chests, and the line of gleaming custom choppers. The air inside the shop smelled of grease, hot metal, and strong coffee, but the warm spring breeze beckoned her outside.
High in the afternoon sky, the sun cast short shadows across the front expanse of the property. Black Knights Inc. was set on half a city block, surrounded by a ten-foot brick wall and populated with the old foreman’s cottage out front, the large factory building in the center, and a bunch of recently added outbuildings around the back.
It was quite something, actually. The place. The people. All living and working undercover in the heart of the Windy City. Emily felt a sense of home, a sense of belonging, and couldn’t help but thank Christian for making sure nothing that’d happened between them had jeopardized that for her.
He was a man of his word. A man of honor, courage, loyalty, and strength. She couldn’t deny the presence of all those bright, sparkly feelings whenever she thought of him. Whenever she—
Oh, for the love of Frank Thomas!
She was going to kill Delilah.
A show? Seriously?
Emily wasn’t seeing a show. She was seeing an ovary-exploding, panty-slicking display the likes of which should be outlawed. She was sorely tempted to call the local police to put an end to it. You know, for the safety of women’s reproductive organs and underwear the world over.
Christian was washing his Porsche. A bucket of soap sat on the ground. A big sponge dripped suds in his hand. The lazy yellow sun glinted off his dark hair and bare shoulders.
That’s right. Bare shoulders.
Christian Watson wasn’t just washing his car. Christian Watson was washing his car…shirtless.
The muscles in his tattooed arms flexed and bunched as he scrubbed at the hood of the Porsche. Tiny droplets of water—or sweat—clung to his pecs. And his six-pack abs accordioned as he stretched across the vehicle to scrub at a recalcitrant spot.
Emily realized two things simultaneously. One, she wasn’t alone in enjoying “the show.” Two, her mouth was hanging open. Both things became apparent when Becky, BKI’s head mechanic and motorcycle designer, and the woman who kept all their covers intact, said, “I think you dropped something, Em. It looks a lot like your jaw.”
Emily snapped her teeth shut and turned to see Becky and Penni leaning up against the side of the shop, eyeing Christian with undisguised appreciation. Becky was in her usual coveralls, a grease smudge on her cheek, the ends of her long, blond ponytail dark because she’d inadvertently dragged it through a patch of oil. And Penni, a former Secret Service agent and current wife to BKI badass Dan “The Man” Currington, was bouncing her baby girl on her hip and not attempting to hide her smirk.
Emily mumbled something unkind about both women even as she joined them. Christian didn’t bother pretending she wasn’t there. When she settled back against the shop’s brick exterior, fortifying herself with another swig of old-fashioned, he lifted his head and gave her a wink. The smile that accompanied that wink was slightly mischievous—and completely lecherous. It did naughty things to her, making her tingle in places that had no business tingling now that she’d been forced to put the kibosh on their—
“Is it just me,” Penni said conversationally, “or should that man immediately be inducted into the Hall of Fine?”
“It isn’t just you,” Becky was quick to concur. “Who knew all that”—she motioned toward Christian with one grease-stained hand—“was hiding under those designer clothes?” Turning to Emily, she took a grape-flavored Dum Dum lollipop from her pocket and pointed the treat at Emily’s nose. “So what do you reckon? Are we looking at a case of the body snatchers or is he a replicant?”
“Huh?” Emily frowned, trying—and failing—to rip her eyes away from Christian.
“The guy wouldn’t wear short sleeves a month ago, and now he’s going shirtless. So what gives?”
A campaign of emotional persuasion and physical seduction, Emily thought, calling Christian every dirty name in the book because, truth was, his plan was working.
“Being in love with her has changed him,” Penni mused. “He’s less repressed. More willing to let his hair down.”
“And take his shirt off,” Becky added with a chuckle.
“Praise Jesus.” Penni nodded.
“Amen.”
Emily attempted to burn their eyebrows off with her scowl. “Don’t you two have husbands you should be ogling instead of Christian?”
Becky grinned. “Why, Emily, that sounded a little jealous.”
“Definitely jealous,” Penni agreed.
“Ugh!” Emily tossed a hand in the air. “Why does everyone keep saying that? Did you all have a meeting or something? Did you get together to come up with ways to drive me bugfucking crazy?”
“Language, please.” Penni covered little Cora May’s ears.
Emily frowned at the baby, but kept it to herself that Cora May was too young to know a bug from a bunny or a bad word from a battle cry.
“And a word of advice,” Penni added, pushing away from the wall. As she passed Emily to head back inside the shop, she leaned close and whispered, “Not for nothing”—her Brooklyn accent made it sound more like not for nuttin’—“but it’s easier to give in. They always win in the end anyway. Fighting only prolongs the inevitable and makes
you miserable in the interim.”
Emily scowled at her retreating back before turning to tell Becky that Penni didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. Unfortunately, Becky beat her to the punch by saying, “She’s right, you know.” Then Becky also breezed past Emily and ducked into the shop.
Okay, it was official. This was the day from hell and—
Emily nearly swallowed her tongue when Christian suddenly appeared in front of her. Had he gotten taller? Broader? He blocked out the sun, and the heat of him reached for her like sensual, invisible hands.
Plucking one of the cherries from her glass, he popped it into his mouth. Watching him eat it would have been a huge turn-on if she was allowing herself to think of him in sexual terms. Which she wasn’t. She wasn’t! Case closed.
“What were those two going on about?” he asked, tilting his head toward the open garage door.
The wonder that is your glorious self, she thought sourly. Aloud she said, “Nothing important.”
He did that humming thing, and it hit her directly in the uterus. Damnit!
“Well, I’m off to make myself another drink.” She pushed away from the brick wall.
He glanced down at her glass. “Isn’t it quite early to be getting pissed?”
“Two things.” She held up one finger. “One, don’t judge me.” Up went a second finger. “And two, it’s medicinal. I have a headache.”
“You know…” He leaned in close, putting a hand against the wall beside her head. “I’ve heard hot, sweaty sex is a miracle cure for headaches. Something about the endorphins it releases.”
An image of him tying her to his bed, then looming above her all huge and dominant, had her breath sawing from her lungs. Despite her silent admonishments to them, her nipples tightened.
Christian seemed to know the effect his words had on her because… Yep. There it was. That self-satisfied grin.
He was too close. He smelled too good. She had to get away from him, like, now. Five minutes ago.
“For crying out loud.” She ducked under his arm. “Get over yourself. And while you’re at it, put on a damn shirt!”
His deep chuckle followed Emily into the shop, where she pressed herself against the wall and realized she was shaking with need, with hunger, with the urge to give in to him and all those bright, sparkly feelings.
“Still trying to convince yourself you’re not in love with Christian?” Boss asked, coming down the metal stairs from the second floor. He had a face only a mother—and Becky—could love. It was big and square and puckered with scars. Even so, his thick, dark hair and piercing gray eyes somehow combined to make him oddly handsome.
“I’m not in love with him.” Emily wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince. Herself or Boss.
Boss didn’t argue, simply shook his head and turned down the hallway that led to the kitchen.
“I’m not!” she yelled at his broad back.
All she received in reply was the wave of his hand.
Letting her head fall back against the wall, Emily battled her headache and all the mixed-up, jumbled-up, crazy-making feelings banging around inside her. “I’m not,” she whispered to herself, wincing because, even to her own ears, it sounded like a lie.
Chapter 24
The pitter-patter of little feet…
It wasn’t the first night Christian had heard Emily shuffle up to his door. But it was the first night he wasn’t going to wait around, heart in his throat, for her to knock.
It’d been hell—but also quite fun—to watch her struggle to resist him these past four weeks. Every teasing remark or quiet conversation only had him wanting more. Every gentle touch or fleeting caress had him fighting the urge to yank her into his arms and kiss her until she begged him never to stop. Every longing, hungry look she shot him—and there were quite a few—had him curling his hands into fists to keep from yelling at her, “You know you want me! You know you love me! Quit fighting and just give in, you daft, dear, damnably infuriating woman!”
But he’d surprised himself by showing the patience of Job. In fact, his restraint up to this point was worthy of a medal. Unfortunately for Emily, tonight he’d reached his wit’s end.
Time to press the issue, he thought, a feeling of anticipation tightening his chest. Time to give her the nudge she needs.
Quietly, he tossed aside his covers, tugged on a pair of jeans, and walked to his bedroom door. He was still doing up the buttons on his fly when he opened the door and found her standing at his threshold in the dark hallway. When she sucked in a startled breath, he was beyond delighted.
The lamp burning on his bedside table gave off enough light to show her eyes quickly tracing over his naked torso and lingering on the trail of hair that started below his belly button. When she unconsciously licked her lips, his cock—which was always an overeager prat when it came to her—jerked with interest.
“Fancy coming in for a bit?” He held the door wide.
She darted a look into his room, saw his king-size bed with the rumpled sheets, and blushed to the roots of her hair.
Nodding, she then quickly shook her head. “No, I…” She swallowed. “I was just…”
He lifted a brow, loving that she was discombobulated. “You were just…what?”
Her eyebrows slammed into a scowl. “So you’re going to spend the rest of your life shirtless, is that it?”
He leaned against the doorjamb, crossing his arms over his chest and not missing the moment her eyes alighted on the bulge of his bicep. It was difficult not to shoot a hand of victory in the air when she gulped and seemed to have trouble meeting his gaze.
“You’re lucky I put on trousers, darling.” He made sure to thicken his accent. He knew what it did to her. “I sleep in the nude.”
Her eyes slipped to the waistband of his jeans. He didn’t need to hear her say the word commando. It was written all over her face. She gulped again, and he wondered if he’d ever heard a more gratifying sound.
My name on her lips when I make her come, he decided. That was definitely more gratifying.
It took everything he had not to pull her into his room. She was adorable in her silk sleep pants, ratty pullover, and hair going every which way. The bruises on her neck and temple had long since faded, and with them had gone his anguish over what had happened in Cornwall.
Not that he didn’t still have regrets. He always would. He wished with his whole heart that things had been different. But he’d come to accept that they hadn’t been different, and given that, he’d taken the only action he could.
“Emily?” He lifted a brow. “This is the third night I’ve heard you standing outside my door, so is there something you feel you need to tell me?”
Not that he wasn’t perfectly pleased standing there, letting her ogle him. And she was ogling. Score one for Christian! But with each passing second, it was becoming more and more impossible to keep his hands to himself.
“Huh?” She chewed on her bottom lip. “Oh right.” She nodded vigorously. “There is something I want to tell you. I’m…” She looked around as if she was searching for the answer. “I’m mad at you!”
That had his chin jerking back.
“I’m mad that you told everyone you love me and now they’re on your side. I’m mad that you’re being so”—she waved a hand in his direction—“nice and accommodating and acting like nothing has changed between us. I’m mad that you keep touching me and making me remember all that was and all that should have been, had you not gotten all delusional and started thinking you’re in love with me.”
By the time she got to the end, she was breathing hard, her small breasts rising and falling against the cotton of her pullover.
A door down the hallway opened, and Ozzie poked his head out. His mad-scientist hair was even crazier than usual. “Hey!” he hissed. “Keep it down out he
re!”
Never one to pass up an opportunity to cut Ozzie down, Christian said, “You, sir, look like a before picture.”
Trading insults was one of Ozzie and Christian’s favorite pastimes, so Christian wasn’t at all surprised when Ozzie came back with, “And you, sir, are depriving some poor village of its idiot. But that’s neither here nor there, because Samantha and I are trying to get romantic, and it’s hard when we have to listen to you two.”
Samantha appeared beside Ozzie in the open doorway. She was wearing a robe, but it was obvious by the beard burn on her cheeks and chin that Ozzie wasn’t kidding about the “getting romantic” part.
“Yeah!” She scowled at Christian and Emily. “What he said!”
Without another word, they ducked back into their room and slammed the door.
When Christian returned his attention to Emily, he found her blinking rapidly. Her blush had deepened to crimson, making the beauty mark on her cheek stand out in sharp relief.
“That’s it. In you go.” He grabbed her arm and tugged her into his room.
Squeaking her protest, she dug in her heels. Considering he outweighed her by about six stone, the effort was laughable. Closing the door behind her, he marched her over to the chair he kept in the corner.
“Hey!” She slapped at his hands as he pressed her into the seat. “Stop manhandling me, you big bully!”
“Sit!” He pointed a finger at her pert nose. “Stay!”
“And now you’re gonna treat me like a dog?” Her South Side accent was back in full effect.
He didn’t realize how mad he was that she’d called his love of her delusional until right that minute. “I’m hardly treating you like a dog, Emily. I’m treating you like a woman who insulted the bloody hell out of me.”
“What?” She wrinkled her nose. “How did I insult you?”
“Number one”—he held up a finger—“I didn’t tell everyone here that I love you so they’d get on my side. I told them because it’s impossible to keep secrets in this place. Everyone was bound to find out we’d slept together, and I didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea and give you poppycock about it.”
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