Unfortunately, his witty rebuttal didn’t quite have the oomph he was going for because it was muffled 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 damn 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 passed out face-first on the sofa.
“Fuck me?” Geralt asked incredulously, his big, ruddy face wrinkling. “No, thank you. I don’t go in for dick 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 hell aren’t you mannin’ the gate? Did those goddamned reporters out there do somethin’?”
“Those goddamned reporters hightailed it home when this god-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 massive chest, scowling fiercely. “Either your damned 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 ass 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 hell was he contemplating the color of Geralt’s eyebrows? Holy shit 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 ass. 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 breasts, 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 ass. And her T-shirt? Well, to put it simply, the damned 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 goddamned 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 God,” 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 boobs 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 boobs.
Goddamnit Mac, stop being such a shit-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.”