Julie Walker - Hell for Leather

“Mac!” she screamed, bucking in his embrace, her hands still tied behind her back.

Later she would marvel at Mac’s speed, at the battle-honed reflexes that allowed him to raise his gun, aim, and fire all in a split second. But right then she was too busy wincing at the deafening roar of his Glock, at the bright flash as the bullet left the muzzle, at the hot spray of blood that landed on her arm and leg when the terrorist’s skull exploded like an overripe melon.

No one moved for a beat. The shock of it all overwhelming. Then Mac recovered and yelled over his shoulder, “Somebody bring in a stretcher!” before gathering her shaking form close once again, murmuring, “Shh, now, darlin’. I gotcha. It’s all over…”

* * *

Northwestern Memorial Hospital

Chicago, Illinois

Delilah turned from her uncle’s bedside and gifted Mac with an ear-to-ear smile. He felt the jaws of a trap—one that was both deadly and strangely alluring—closing around him.

In the forty-eight hours since the spooks choppered them to a farmer’s field just outside the city, then loaded them into an SUV for a quick ride to the hospital, Mac had had to tell the story of the “backwoods car wreck” that caused Theo and Delilah’s injuries a total of one time…to the attending ER physician when they first arrived. That’s it. Just the once. Explanation…swallowed whole. It was almost as if he heard an audible gulp.

And even though he was a bona fide covert operator, living all that cloak and dagger stuff day-in and day-out, there were times, like this one, that even he felt the need to shake his head at the…uh…surreal-ness? Was that even a word?…of it all. Because, no one, not the nurses or the doctors or, hell, even the night janitor had the first clue that the real reason Delilah had a concussion, bruising, and scrapes, and Theo had a broken leg, lacerations, and contusions, was because a group of terrorists bent on securing nuclear warheads had kidnapped and interrogated the pair inside of a…wait for it…freakin’ cave.

But, seriously, why would they suspect it? Even for Mac it was damn near unbelievable. The stuff of poorly written, overly dramatic spy novels, and—

“Mac?” Delilah jerked him from his thoughts. “Are you okay?”

Okay? No. Hell, no, he was not okay. Not even close to being okay. Because in the last forty-eight hours, as he watched her stoically suffer pokes and prods from the medical staff, as he watched her answer a gazillion questions from the civilian-clad CIA agent sent in to debrief her, as he watched her refuse to leave her uncle’s bedside, he’d come to the awful conclusion that he’d not only fallen a little bit…but a lot in love with her. As in, all the way. Ass-over-tea-kettle.

Delilah Fairchild, with her smile and charm, with her bravery and grit, had stolen his goddamned heart. Like a thief in the night. Or maybe it was more like a thief in the day. Because she’d made no bones about her pursuit of him. Not even at the very beginning. So, yessir, the fact that he’d reneged on his pledge to himself was nobody’s fault but his own.

Which pissed him off. And…scared him to death.

Goddamn history…why did it have to go and repeat itself?

“Mac?” Delilah said again. “You’re starting to scare me. What is it? Is Fido—”

“No, no,” he assured her, shaking himself out of his own head. “Fido’s fine. In fact, Steady said the vet will release him tomorrow mornin’. We can make sure someone transports him up here. If you’d like, he can be at the bar waitin’ when you bring Theo home.” He motioned with his chin toward the softly snoring old man.

And there it was again. That goddamn smile. The one that said he hung the moon and had the ability to jump over it. It was a problem, that smile. It made him want to throw caution to the wind.

“I’d like that very much,” she said, pushing to a stand.

He gulped as she strolled toward him. She was wearing her standard daily get-up of painted-on jeans and a soft, body-hugging T-shirt. And that sensual, hip-swaying gait of hers? Well, there should be some kind of law against it. It was just too mesmerizing, reminding him of all they’d done together not so very long ago, taunting him with the things he’d never allow himself to do again. And it was no surprise when Little Mac, the prick—ha!—took notice of her approach. He had to adjust his stance.

“Were you able to get the bikes transported up?” she asked, stopping barely a foot from him. Close enough so that he could smell the spicy sweetness of her. Close enough so that he could see the golden flecks in the centers of her pretty green eyes. He loved those little bits of yellow, like the first autumn leaves turning on a tree.

Oh, for the love of… And now what am I? A freakin’ poet?

He nodded. It was all he could manage with his tongue threatening to hang out like a dog’s. She was so beautiful. Too beautiful.

“Good.” She nodded. “Thank you for that.”

“No problem,” he somehow managed to say while keeping his tongue clamped firmly between his teeth.

“Mac?” She tilted her head, her sleek auburn brows angling down. He loved it when they did that. The smooth arches curling at the innermost edges, a delightful little wrinkle forming between them. Good God, and now you’re going on about her eyebrows? He really was in sad, sad shape. And that…well…he wasn’t too proud to say, made him feel the need to vamoose himself, like, yesterday. The soles of his feet were actually itching to send him running far and fast and…farther away from her. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

No, goddamnit! He was not okay! Because somehow he’d allowed himself to fall, despite everything, despite knowing better. And he was a damned fool. A glutton for punishment. Doomed to follow the path of—

He shook the half-formed thought from his head. “Did you, uh, think any more about that offer to work on the Winterfield case?” And, yeah, that was good. Work. He should be focusing on work.

Now that the “powers that be” had proof Luke Winterfield had, indeed, sold state secrets to the highest bidder, he was officially listed as a traitor to the United States of America, persona non grata extraordinaire. And POTUS himself had tasked The Company with finding the guy in his South American hideout. Considering Delilah’s unparalleled expertise in following the convoluted path of money trails and given her close ties with and personal stake in the case—much to Mac’s surprise—the CIA had actually had the good sense and foresight to try to bring her on board as an asset. Will wonders never cease?

“I did.” She nodded. He couldn’t help but notice the way it caused a lock of auburn hair to drift over her shoulder. It reminded him of how she’d looked atop the dresser in the Noel Motel, head back, breasts lifted, her long hair playing hide-and-seek with her rosy, delicious nipples. Jesus Christ! And now Little Mac, good soldier that he was, was standing at full attention. “The…um…” She glanced around to make sure no one was listening in, before leaning in close. Her sweet-smelling breath tickled his chin. “The Company is installing a secure server back at my place as we speak. As soon as I get Uncle Theo settled, I’m going to start digging.” She cocked her head. “I…I think it’ll be…sort of…cathartic, I guess would be the word.”

“Yeah.” Mac swallowed.

“Mac?” Her soft palm landed on his arm, reminding him of how it’d felt when it was wrapped firmly around his erection, tugging, stroking, bringing so much pleasure.

He couldn’t take it anymore. “I gotto go,” he blurted, causing her wonderfully piquant chin to jerk back. Piquant? Okay, and could a chin even be piquant? Or was that just his silly, fanciful, ridiculous obsession with her—and every single, itty-bitty part of her—coming out?

“O-okay?” She blinked. And, yeah. He could go on about her lashes for a while, too. About how long they were. About how he loved that the tips glinted blond in the light when she wasn’t wearing any mascara, like now. Fuck…

“There are…” He had to stop and clear his throat. Someone, at some point, had shoved a big ol’ wad of cotton down there. “Uh…things back at the shop that—”

“It’s okay, Mac.” And there it was again. That goddamned smile. He barely resisted lifting a hand to his chest in an effort to stymie the ache of his heart. “I understand. You’ve been playing nursemaid and right-hand man to the both of us,” she hooked a thumb toward her uncle, “for long enough. We’re good now. Really. Go take care of what you need to take care of.”

What he needed to take care of? He needed to take care of the idiotic, ill-timed, ill-fated love he’d developed for her. That’s what he needed to take care of.

“Delilah, I—” He stopped. Unsure of how to go on. Uncertain, even, if he should. How did he tell her all the things he felt, all the things she meant to him now and couldn’t mean to him in the future? How did he tell her about—

“What is it, Mac?”

He swallowed. Damn, were those tears burning the back of his nose? “I’ll…uh…I’ll see you later, darlin’.”

And with that, he turned tail and ran like the yellow-bellied coward he was.

Red Delilah’s Biker Bar

Three weeks later…

I’ll see you later, darlin’…

Whenever it was quiet and empty in the bar, like now, Mac’s last words echoed through Delilah’s head, taunting her.

For the first week, those five words had filled her with hope. Hope that he would walk through her door at any moment. Hope that he would take her in his arms and tell her he’d been crazy not to give her, give them, a chance. Hope that he would see that what they had was too precious and rare to let slip away before it was ever given an opportunity to really start.

But one week slid into two, and he’d done none of those things. Her hope had been replaced with disbelief. Disbelief and hurt. She couldn’t understand why he was avoiding her. That had never been part of their bargain. And if it had been, she wouldn’t have signed herself up for it. Because she’d never, never been prepared to give up everything. To give up his friendship. To give up the chance of seeing his dazzling smile or his adorably crooked nose. To give up ever hearing his slow, Texas drawl.

And then it’d occurred to her that perhaps he wasn’t avoiding her at all. That perhaps he was simply out on a mission somewhere, deep in a jungle or sweating in some desert. He was a super-secret spy-guy, right?

But she’d quickly been relieved of that little misconception when, one night after a handful of the Knights came in to enjoy some peanuts and brews, she’d oh-so-casually let slip a question to Ozzie about Mac’s “secret” whereabouts. Ozzie had frowned and informed her that there was nothing secretive about it. Mac was back at the shop, cleaning out the fuel lines on Siren.

Uh-huh. And there’d gone that little glimmer of optimism, crushed beneath Ozzie’s words as surely as Roscoe Porter—one of her most loyal patrons—crushed beer cans against his big, wrinkled forehead.

Which brought her to today. Three weeks into what she’d come to call The Great Disappearing Act. And even though the words I’ll see you later, darlin’ still accosted her from time to time, they no longer brought with them hope or disappointment or hurt. Nope. Now they just pissed her off.

What the hell is wrong with him? The man doesn’t even have the decency to—

“You’re going to slice off a finger the way you’re handling that knife,” her Uncle Theo observed. She was behind the bar, cutting up lemons and limes to be used in cocktails. When she glanced at him—he was sitting on a stool across from her, the Chicago Sun-Times in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other—she couldn’t stop the little sigh of relief that whispered from between her lips. He was healthy. And alive. And save for a little scar near his temple and the crutches he still had to use, no one looking at him would know what a harrowing ordeal he’d been through.

But she would never forget. Never forget the fear in his eyes. The tears streaming down his face. The blood. God, there’d been a lot of blood…