Hell for Leather (Black Knights Inc. #6)(8)

She thought she saw him nod, just a quick jerk of his dimpled chin. Then again, perhaps the dim light of the street was playing tricks on her, because the words he growled were, “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

She opened her mouth, but she was stopped from pressing her case further because suddenly and unceremoniously Mac grabbed her wrist and yanked her out from under Zoelner’s arm. Then, before she could utter a squeak of protest or, more likely, slug him on the shoulder for manhandling her, he hustled her up the steps until they were standing in front of the brownstone’s wide wooden door.

“Geez,” she huffed, rubbing her wrist. Although, in all honesty, she didn’t really mind his manhandling. Because his manhandling meant that he was touching her. And the feel of his calloused palm was—

Holy shit! Seriously, Delilah? How pathetic can you be? How many times does the guy have to tell you “no” before you’ll get the hint? And how screwed up are you to be mooning like some lovesick teenager when Uncle Theo is freakin’ MIA?

The answers to those questions were simple. In order, they were: one, very pathetic; two, apparently at least one more time; and three, pretty darned screwed up. Then all thought flew from her head when Mac used the keys to unlock the front door and the smell of sawdust mixed with cigar smoke immediately assaulted her nostrils. Those two scents would always remind her of her uncle. And, just like that, she lost hold of the tenuous thread she’d managed to keep tied around her emotions.

Her chin began to wobble.

Never a good sign…

And her nose began to burn.

An even more petrifying harbinger of things to come…

No, no, no. Don’t do it. Don’t you cry like a weak-kneed ninny.

But it was too late. The waterworks broke past the levee and now there was no stopping them.

At least that’s what she thought.

Then she felt Mac reach down and lace his thick, warm fingers through hers…

***

Mac was still drunk.

It was the only way to explain why he’d unceremoniously yanked Delilah from Zoelner’s embrace in order to satisfy the demands of the green-eyed monster that roared to life inside him the moment the former CIA agent threw an arm around her shoulders. Because there was no doubt whatsoever that he shouldn’t care one whit whether or not another man was comforting her…touching her. Not after he’d spent most of his life avoiding women like her. And certainly not after he’d spent the last handful of years avoiding her in particular.

The fact that he did care had to mean that, yessiree, he was still drunker than ol’ Cooter Brown. And that would also explain why, when he saw her little chin start to wiggle, he went against the grain and all his good sense and grabbed her hand.

Then again, maybe he was giving too much credit to the booze for that last move because, truth was, he’d always been an easy mark for a pretty little gal with tears standing in her eyes.

And Delilah’s tears?

Man-oh-man! They were particularly gut-wrenching because usually she was the kind of woman who, as his father used to say, wouldn’t think twice before charging hell with a bucket of ice water. Although, when he glanced down, it was to find her eyes dry as bones and wide as pie plates.

No doubt her shock was due in large part to the fact that he was actually, factually, willingly touching her. Especially since it was no big secret he’d spent a good amount of the time they’d known each other endeavoring to do exactly the opposite.

See, the problem was, he’d always kind of figured touching Delilah was similar to taking a hit of crack cocaine. Once was enough to get a guy good and hooked for life. And when he felt her cool, slim fingers hesitantly close around his, when the softness of her breath tickled his chin because she was gaping up at him, succulent mouth open in a little O of surprise? Well, you can bet your bottom dollar Little Mac took notice. And Big Mac? Well, he knew he’d been right all along…

He may have stopped the tears that had threatened to spill down Delilah’s cheeks, but he also just took that first hit of crack.

Mistake, *. Huge mistake!

Dropping her hand like the thing was a molten-hot cattle prod, he cleared his throat and turned to find Zoelner standing directly behind them. The guy was wearing an infuriatingly sly smirk as he lifted his Styrofoam cup to noisily slurp at the last of what had to be disgustingly lukewarm coffee.

Mac narrowed his eyes and pinned him with a look that clearly stated, Whatever it is you’re thinking of sayin’, you better check it at the back of your teeth lest you find those teeth shoved straight down your throat.

But either Zoelner was still too sloshed to recognize the unspoken threat in his eyes, or, more likely, he just didn’t give a rat’s ass, because his sly smirk morphed into a devilish grin right before he opened his mouth. Luckily, Mac was saved from feeding Zoelner a five-finger sandwich—obviously men should never be allowed to drink; it caused them to revert to their lowest common denominator: i.e., freshman year of college—when Delilah cleared her throat and said, “Let’s do this, shall we?”

Stepping over the threshold, she flipped a switch. Instantly, the room was washed in bright light from the single bare bulb hanging from a socket in the center of the ceiling, and Mac realized what it was he’d been smelling…

Sawdust.

It covered the large space in a fine powder, dusting the drop cloths lying over the bare wood floors, blanketing the power tools stacked here and there, and standing a centimeter thick on the sawhorses set up in the center of the room.