Hell for Leather (Black Knights Inc. #6)(20)
But then it was gone. Just like that—finger-snap—and she was left to wonder if she’d really seen anything unusual at all. Perhaps the fear and fatigue, not to mention the crack to the cranium she’d received, were causing her to imagine things.
“I just—” Her voice sounded like she’d been swallowing broken beer bottles. “I just wanted to th-thank you for…everything.”
He shook his head, causing a dark lock to fall over his brow, his expression now firmly entrenched in the Mask of Inscrutability category. “Darlin’,” he said in that deep, smoky voice of his, “no thanks are needed. Helpin’ out in times of trouble is what friends are for.”
What friends are for…
“A-are we friends, Mac?” she ventured, her mouth so dry she was almost tempted to take another sip of the goop that passed as coffee.
“Of course we’re friends, darlin’,” he drawled again.
“Lovin’! Touchin’! Squeeezin’!” Ozzie belted out in a surprisingly clear tenor, instantly breaking whatever spell she’d been under, severing the tie that had held their gazes locked together.
“Goddamnit, Ozzie!” Zoelner yelled. “If you don’t turn off that Journey shit in two seconds I’m going to lose my mind.”
“No way, man,” Ozzie retorted, never taking his eyes from his computer screen and never breaking the rhythm of his fingers dancing across the keyboard at lightning speed. “Steve Perry sings from the heart and the hair. You’d do well to appreciate that.”
“I’ll give you something to appreciate,” Zoelner shot back. “How about my boot up your ass? I can’t think straight with that crap on and you wailing like a goat being groomed with a cheese grater.”
“First of all,” Ozzie said, “I’ve been told I have a lovely singing voice.”
“You can’t believe the compliments your mother gives you,” Zoelner countered.
“And secondly,” Ozzie continued as if Zoelner hadn’t spoken, “you need to think straight to run a simple scan of military archives? Pssht! And they try to make us believe that all you government spooks are the cream of the crop. What a crock of—”
“Okay, boys,” Becky interjected, yanking a purple Dum Dum from her mouth. “Put away the rulers and button up your flies, because I’m finding jack shit on the city surveillance cams. We’ve run into a brick wall with the mystery man in Timberlands. The scoreboard says we’re down by one, so we don’t have time to sit around while you two figure out whose giggle-stick is the biggest.”
Giggle-stick? Delilah felt her lips twitch.
Then, “Sweet lord of the rings!” Ozzie whooped, shooting a fist in the air. “Un-bunch those panties, Becky my dear, because now we’re cooking with gas!” He shoved a finger at his computer screen.
Becky slid her rolling chair next to his—one loose wheel clattered against the hard concrete floor—and leaned in close to his monitor. Turning, Becky pinned Delilah with an excited stare. “Does the name Charles Sander ring a bell?”
***
Delilah trembled at Becky’s question, and Mac instinctively squeezed her tighter to his side. Then he was reminded that, sure as shit, touching her was like taking a hit of crack—and let’s not even get into what the feel of her soft, warm lips or her hot, moist breath was like. Because holy shit fire! That innocent little kiss? He didn’t know it was possible to get so hard so fast. And all of this, all the touching and the friendly kissing was getting out of hand, making him forget himself.
Get it together, *.
And, yessir. That was a sage bit of advice if ever there was some. Time to take it. Like, now.
He jerked his arm out from around her back so quickly that Steady whacked him upside the head. “Be still, chorra. Or else it’ll look Dr. Frankenstein himself took a needle and thread to you.”
Okay, so that was one seriously unsmooth move, you stupid, horny dillhole, Mac chided himself while simultaneously rubbing his sore head and lifting a warning brow at Steady who, like always, chose to ignore the killing gleam in his eye.
Luckily, when he turned back, it was to find Delilah hadn’t noticed his total douche-canoe maneuver. Her gorgeous green eyes were glued to Becky like the blonde was made of cane molasses.
“Charlie Sander. I—I don’t remember if that’s him or not,” she said, her breathy voice unusually hoarse, as if she’d swallowed all the gravel on the old ranch road that led to his boyhood home.
Christ…that sound just…well, it just got to him. He was tempted once more to place a comforting arm around her shoulders. After all, she was so incredibly soft. So amazingly warm. So…so much woman—and, yeah, sick, twisted, shitheel that he was, he was referring to her boobs. Her lush, delicious, overly abundant boobs. And having her in his arms just now, and earlier, out in the courtyard, had felt…something. Something a far cry closer to right than he in any way, shape, or form wanted to admit.
Are you really stupid enough to let history repeat itself?
The question was either posed by the universe or his own subconscious. Of course, where the query originated didn’t amount to a hill of beans, because either way, the answer was the same.
No. No, he was not stupid enough to let history repeat itself. Because the truth was, no matter how good or how right she felt in his arms, That Woman was nothing but walking trouble and heartache.