Delilah opened up her email account straight from her phone. Quickly scrolling through the files Brenda sent her, she stopped on the one titled “Articles of Incorporation.” Her brain buzzing with curiosity and a weird sense of dread, she opened the document. One name jumped off the page.

“Oh, shit,” she breathed, the room around her dissolving into a blur as she stared down at the email for one heartbeat, then two.

Then she shook herself, shook off the momentary shock, and dialed Information. After impatiently going through the rigmarole of saying what city and state she was in and which business’s phone number she was looking for, she listened as the connection was made. A series of rings sounded. “Come on, Mac,” she growled. “Pick up the damned phone.”

No such luck. She was forwarded to a voice mail explaining that if she was interested in speaking to someone about a custom bike, she should email them at blah, blah, blah.

“Damnit!” She stabbed a finger onto her phone’s screen, catapulting herself from bed and stumbling over to the dresser. Hopping out of her PJs, she wrenched open a drawer, dragged on a pair of jeans, shrugged into a sports bra, and pulled an old KISS T-shirt over her head. Slipping her feet—sans socks—into a grungy pair of red Converse sneakers, she hesitated in front of the mirror, contemplating whether to take the time to wash her face and comb her hair.

Whatever, she decided, waving a hand at her reflection before grabbing her purse and her keys. She wrenched open the back door only to run face-first into a curtain of driving rain. Cursing, she instinctively threw an arm over her head. But then she realized she was trying to protect…what? Her crazy, uncombed hair? Muttering obscenities to herself, she lowered her arm and raced down the metal stairway. Splashing through the puddles of water that’d gathered in the alley and the bar’s tiny parking lot, she skidded to a stop at the corner, hand lifted in an attempt to hail a taxi.

And, praise be to the higher powers, if her rain-logged eyeballs weren’t deceiving her, that was a red cab with a busted tailpipe pulling up to the curb. A mammoth bolt of lightning ripped open the sky, and a gust of wind blasted down the street between the buildings. Delilah’s drenched hair plastered itself against her face as she heaved open the taxi’s door. Sliding into the faux-leather seat, she gave the cabbie the address for Black Knights Inc. and finished with, “And there’s an extra twenty in it for you if you get me there in under ten minutes.”

* * *

Black Knights Inc. Headquarters

8:55 a.m.

“Yo, asshole. Get up.”

Mac growled into the cushion of the shop’s leather sofa, his face occupying the spot usually reserved for someone’s ass. But he wasn’t going to think about that. Not until after he’d had his first cup of coffee. And certainly not until after he’d gifted whichever Connelly brother was barking orders at him with a witty rebuttal that began with the word “fuck” and ended with the word “you.”

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.”

“But Chief Washington said—”

“Chief Washington said his initial investigation was cursory at best.”

Bill and the rest of the Knights claimed Mac had Spidey sense. He wasn’t sure about that. But something inside him, something chilling, snaked up his spine, filling his brain with an icy blast of foreboding. And then he knew…

“Jeremy Buchanan,” he muttered, the hairs on his arms standing straight as if in warning of another lightning strike. But the angry sky remained gray and unlit by electricity.

“Bingo.” Delilah’s green eyes were circled by mascara, but it did nothing to camouflage the fear in them. “And he knows where they’re headed…”

* * *

“Give me your phone,” Mac demanded, holding out his wide palm.

“Wh-what?” Delilah sputtered, looking down at his hand in confusion. “Didn’t you just hear me say—”

“I heard you.” The vein in Mac’s temple pulsed, and his blue eyes glinted like the vodka bottles she kept on the third shelf back at her bar. The wind whipped his dark hair around his head. “Which is why I need your phone to call Bill. Mine’s dead.”

“Oh!” She dug into her purse. Now, where’s my damned phone when I…aha!

She’d barely pulled her iPhone past her purse’s top zipper before Mac snatched it out of her hand, thumbing it on and punching in a series of numbers with a rough finger. He held the device to his ear while she held her breath and waited. A second slid by, then another and another until Mac cursed, bellowing into the receiver, “Goddamnit, Will Bill! I hope you check your messages, because Jeremy Buchanan is mixed up in that mess with Eve’s father and ex-husband, and he knows you’re heading to Ludington. Call me!”

He jabbed a finger onto her phone’s power button before handing it back at her. She curled her fingers around the device, holding it against her pounding chest, searching his impenetrable expression. “That’s it?” she demanded. “We just sit here and hope he gets that message? What if he lost his phone? Or what if he—”