Hell for Leather (Black Knights Inc. #6)(96)

That wall he’d built up around his heart began to crumple beneath her words, beneath her delicate caresses. Could he do it? Was he brave enough to take the chance on her? To take the chance on them?

“Because I’ve lost a few people I’ve loved during my life,” she continued, “and this is what I know. In the end, the love we withhold, not the love we give, is what we wind up regretting. I don’t want to die with regrets, Mac. Do you?”

“No,” he told her, pulling her close, kissing the top of her head when she laid it on his shoulder. “No, I don’t want to die with regrets. And I do love you, Delilah.” Another sob shook him, cracking his voice. “I swear to God I do!”

“Shh.” She hugged him close. “I know you do, Mac. I know you do.”

He nodded, his heart full to bursting. The wall he’d built around the organ decimated by the love of one flame-haired temptress. Then a thought occurred to him and everything inside him stilled. “Zoelner told you I’m buyin’ back the ranch, right?”

“Yes.” He felt her nod.

“It’s my legacy,” he stressed. “Even if I didn’t love it, which I do, I’d still have to go back there. I’d have to take back what’s been in my family for—”

“Mac.” She pushed up on one arm to frown down at him. “I’m delighted you’re going to buy back the ranch. It’s the right thing to do. And I can’t wait to own a pair of cowgirl boots.” She bit her lip, winking. “And maybe some of those shirts with the fringe and rhinestones.”

Yeah, she thought it was romantic now, from afar. “Ranchin’ is hard,” he warned her. “And it’s lonely. You’re used to all the fun and excitement of Chicago. You’re used to fifty people a day comin’ into your bar to flirt and banter and—”

She placed a finger over his lips, clucking her tongue and shaking her head. “And there you go again. Comparing me to your mother.”

“I—” He tried to talk around her finger but was forced to stop when she used it along with her thumb to squeeze his lips together.

“I’m only going to say this once, Bryan McMillan,” she declared, her eyes impossibly green, “I’m not Jolene.” And, damnit, there went the waterworks again. “She was a shallow, foolish woman who needed constant attention and adoration from the outside because there was nothing to her on the inside. Sorry to speak ill of your mother”—she made a face—“but from what I understand, it’s true.” He nodded. She was absolutely right. It was true. “I don’t need all that.” She firmed her jaw, her expression daring him to naysay her. “I don’t need adoration or attention from the masses to feel good about myself. I feel good about myself because I’m smart and loyal, caring and kind. And I can mix up a martini that would make James Bond weep.”

It was hard to smile when she was smashing his lips together. Not a shy or a humble bone in Delilah’s body. Just one of the reasons he absolutely adored her.

Reaching up, he tugged her fingers away from his mouth. “Speakin’ of those martinis. Won’t you miss the bar? You love it there.”

She shrugged. “To tell you the truth, it’s lost its appeal since Buzzard died. I’ve been thinking for a while now, especially after the fun I had helping the CIA track down some of Agent Winterfield’s foreign deposits, that I might want to turn forensic accounting into a full-time gig. I’m sure there are telephones and Internet hookups in Texas, right?”

He nodded, tears standing in his eyes even as a smile pulled at his lips. Was it possible? Could he really have it all? The ranch? The girl?

“Don’t you get it, Mac?” she asked, shaking her head. “I just need you. Wherever we go, whatever we do, I’ll be happy because I’m with you. You are my home.”

And with those words, red-hot Delilah Fairchild stopped being That Woman. Because those words gave him the courage and strength to call her His Woman…





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Prologue


“We’re definitely changing the name.” Frank “Boss” Knight pulled the Hummer up in front of the sad little pre-fab building and glanced at the hand-painted wooden sign screwed over the front door: BECKY’S BADASS BIKE BUILDS.

“Too much alliteration for you?” Bill Reichert snickered from the passenger seat while unbuckling his seat belt and throwing open the door. The frigid winter wind whipped into the interior of the vehicle, prompting Frank to grab his black stocking cap from the dashboard and tug it over his head and ears before zipping his parka up to his chin.

If this thing actually worked out, Chicago winters were definitely going to take some getting used to. Of course, freezing temps were a small price to pay for a good, solid cover for his new defense firm. And joining Bill’s kid sister in her custom Harley chopper business, posing as mechanics and motorcycle buffs, promised to be a freakin’ phenomenal cover for all the guys he’d recruited away from the various branches of the armed services. Especially considering most of them were bulky, tattooed, and—without regulation military haircuts—just scruffy enough to pass for their own chapter of Hell’s Angels.