She swung her gaze back across the conference table, reading the calm certainty in Billy’s eyes.
“Wow,” she shook her head. “And here I thought I had it bad. Sounds like this poor Violet Whats-Her-Name was the reason Murphy wrote his law. Somehow that makes me feel marginally better about everything I’ve been going through.” Then Mac’s words sunk in and, in the spirit of continuing to avoid having to discuss her suspicions and fears—her personal defense instructor, who’d been telling her for months she needed to “grow a set of balls and stop avoiding tense situations,” would’ve been so disappointed—she cocked her head and said, “I don’t remember you reading a lot before. In fact, you used to tease me incessantly about having my nose pressed into a book all the time, and—”
She stumbled to a stop because Billy’s eyes sharpened, like those of a hawk spotting its prey. She swallowed, her level of discomfort—because, hey, after their sordid history and Billy’s obvious disdain for her, there wasn’t a moment she wasn’t uncomfortable when he was in the room—shot through the three-story roof. And when he opened his mouth? Boy, oh boy, you better believe she had every right to feel that way. Because his words were saber strikes, slicing into her already sadly lacking confidence, and making her regret not only her cowardice at not addressing the main issue head-on, but also in coming out to BKI at all. “And I don’t remember you being a scooter-riding divorcee with a taste for skimpy dresses, fancy parties, and rich men,” he snarled. “I guess things change, huh?”
Holy shit fire.
Mac glanced back and forth between Bill and Eve, and the tension vibrating in the air caused the hairs on his arms and neck to lift. He ran a hand over the back of his head and opened his mouth to try to defuse the situation just as the rear door to the shop banged open and Ace yelled, “Hey, Lucy! I’m home!”
“Up here!” Mac called down, unaccountably glad for the distraction because, damn, these two were twitchier around each other than a couple of rattlesnakes. And all the not-so-subtle animosity flowing back and forth between them was making him feel twitchy.
He hated feeling twitchy.
Ace’s boots clomped up the metal stairs. “And like Big Gay Al,” he continued, oblivious to the electric atmosphere sizzling around the place that was threatening to singe everyone’s eyebrows off, “I’ve brought along some chocolate salty balls from that new chocolate shop across the street and, I must say, they are fantast…Oh, Eve,” Ace smiled when he topped the stairs, “what brings you out to our fine establishment this sunny Saturday afternoon?”
“It’s Chef,” Eve said, her voice a little shaky, no doubt from having withstood the poison-tipped barbs Wild Bill had just thrown her way.
Mac didn’t know what the history was with these two, but it was obviously ugly and painful, and it made him intensely thankful to have learned early on the lesson about that crazy little thing called love when it was combined with a beautiful woman. And Eve was certainly beautiful. Prettier than a speckled pup, as Mac’s dearly departed, born-and-bred-Texan father would say. But given her raven hair, clear blue eyes, and milky skin, Mac was more inclined to agree with Bill’s assessment that she looked more like one of those expensive china dolls than any pup, speckled or not.
“What did you say, love?” Ace asked, setting the box of chocolate truffles on the conference table and glancing around the group. He picked up on the strained emotions and frowned.
“It’s Chef on South Park who makes the chocolate salty balls, not Big Gay Al,” Eve said, her voice only marginally stronger.
“I knew there was a reason I loved you besides your smashing fashion sense and front-row tickets to all the best shows,” Ace chuckled, bending to smack a kiss on her cheek before pulling out the chair beside hers. Lowering his lanky frame into it, he hooked an arm around her shoulders. “Anyone who can appreciate the vulgarity and offensiveness of South Park is A-okay in my book.” The guy gave her a hard squeeze and, from the corner of Mac’s eye, he thought he saw Bill shift uncomfortably. Turning to lift a brow, he discovered that, sure as shit, the muscle in Bill’s jaw was ticking fast enough to beat the band.
Dude, what the hell do you think? That Ace is suddenly gonna stop likin’ long and hard and start likin’ soft and wet?
Jesus. And once again Mac congratulated himself on having the good sense to avoid these types of sticky situations. Quickly, he filled Ace in on Eve’s belief that someone was out to harm her. This also gave Bill a moment to get his sorry self under control—and the fact that he needed to get his sorry self under control was just too weird because usually, even in the middle of an all-out shit-storm, Wild Bill Reichert was cool as a cucumber.
“But who in the world would want to hurt you, love?” Ace asked, giving her another squeeze. This time Bill actually growled.
Mac rolled in his lips, glancing pointedly at the man, the look he gave was all about the pull your shit together. When Bill ignored him, Mac kicked him under the table and was rewarded with a look that promised retribution. Ace, unaware of the little scuffle, continued, “Do you have any suspicions?”
“That’s the thing,” Eve said, voice steadier now. Obviously she was unaware that Bill was a ticking time bomb, and with every one of Ace’s squeezes, kisses, and endearments, he was getting closer and closer to blowing sky high. “There’s only one person who comes to mind. But I don’t think he’s capable of violence.”
“What do you mean?” Bill demanded, sitting up straighter, his expression just this side of a death-squad. Oh, my God. You’ve got it bad, my friend. Mac mentally shook his head. “Who the hell comes to mind?”
“Dale Pennyworth,” Eve muttered, a sharp V forming between her sleek, black eyebrows. “He was my stalker.”
Chapter Two
Stalker.
The room did a fast tilt, and Bill grabbed onto the edge of the conference table to steady himself. “You have a stalker? Why in God’s name didn’t you mention that in the beginning?”
“Had a stalker,” Eve emphasized, eyes flashing, chin raised. “Had. I haven’t seen Dale nor had any contact with him in over a year. And, like I said, I don’t think he’s a violent man. Crazy and a little bit obsessive, but not violent.”
Was she nuts or just naïve? Because stalking very rarely ended with a bouquet of flowers and a touching good-bye letter.
“I hate to break it to you, sweetheart,” he said, and then felt like biting his lip when her nostrils flared delicately. He’d used that endearment with her years ago, and to pull it out now caused memories to burn as harsh and fresh as the bile climbing up the back of his throat. In an instant, a kaleidoscope of images skittered across his brain. The way she used to look at him, with such faith and conviction and…adoration glowing in her wide, blue eyes. The way she used to touch him, tentatively and curiously and so freakin’ sexily that he’d been hard-pressed not to throw her down on a horizontal surface every chance he got. The way she used to…Damnit. With a hard shove, he stuffed everything back into a mental closet and slammed the door shut before continuing, “But stalkers aren’t known to just give up and go about their business. Once you’re someone’s obsession, you remain someone’s obsession.”