In Rides Trouble (Black Knights Inc. #2)(37)

A heavy muscle ticked in his jaw, but he managed a terse nod.

“I uh, I need to talk to you after I get out of the shower,” she told him, resisting the urge to lower her head and shuffle her feet. Instead, she forced herself to hold his gaze, hoping he’d see the regret in her eyes.

Another brusque nod was all the response she received.

Okay. So, obviously he was biting his tongue lest he give her the verbal lashing she so richly deserved.

She felt miserable about her part in that whole scene down in the Patton’s sick bay but…geez, the least he could do was say something so she’d know how much groveling was required. Because right now all she could come up with was, Uh, sorry I was on the verge of raping you, man. And no matter how many times she turned that sentence over in her head, it just didn’t have quite the right ring.





Chapter Nine


Frank stood outside the cheery red door of the restored brownstone on North Sedgwick and experienced none of the comfort he usually gained from being there.

But God knew he couldn’t stay back at the compound…

When Becky said she wanted to talk to him after her shower, the only word that registered was shower, and his brain had conjured a quick slideshow of erotic images. All of which had included her, gloriously naked, sweet breasts lifted as she raised her slender arms above her head to sluice the water from her long hair. The mental picture of warm, glistening droplets running over her taut belly and sleek hips was so clear that his mouth had watered like one of Pavlov’s damn dogs, and he’d known he was too exhausted to resist the temptation she embodied.

So he’d done the cowardly thing and run here.

He rested his forehead against the cool, wooden surface of the door—the door he painstakingly painted three springs before—and called himself one hundred kinds of prick for what he allowed to happen on the Patton and what he wanted to happen over and over again. It went against every fiber of his being, against the very nature of the man he was always convinced he was.

And, worst of all, it was a…betrayal—there was just no other word for it—of the woman who lived behind this door.

A cool October wind whistled in off Lake Michigan. Its icy fingers slipped under the collar of his motorcycle jacket, pulling him from his futile thoughts.

Yeah, no matter how many times he turned it over in his mind, there was no way for him to shift the blame for what happened to somebody else.

The fault was all his, which was just fan-f*cking-tastic.

Allowing himself one last florid string of curses, he pushed away from the door, pressed the little brass bell, and listened to the happy chime. Its tinkling peal was quickly followed by the squeal of a toddler.

The door swung open to reveal the cherubic face of the three-year-old boy who was Frank’s most precious treasure.

“You’s back!” little Franklin declared gleefully, clapping his dimpled hands together even as he tried to clamber up Frank’s leg.

Frank managed to secure the wiggling little bundle of energy in his good arm, hoisting him up against his chest. The smell of peanut butter, crayons, and warm little boy filled his nose and made his heart ache.

“Franklin,” Shell admonished as she came through the kitchen door, wiping her hands on her apron and looking so beautiful Frank’s aching heart swelled with pride, “the correct words to use are you’re back, not you’s back. And how many times have I told you not to open the door without me?”

Franklin ignored her as he pushed back in Frank’s arm, his storm-cloud gray eyes scanning Frank’s scarred face.

“He’s back,” he told his mother seriously, “and he’s got boo-boos.”

Franklin tried to pull the bandage away from Frank’s forehead to get a peek underneath and must’ve been somewhat successful because he quickly followed that up with, “Ooooh, he’s got bwud.”

Franklin placed a sticky hand on each of Frank’s cheeks and regarded him intently. “Does it hurt?” he asked, his eyes wide with worry.

“It did when it happened, but not now,” Frank assured him.

Franklin nodded sagely before wriggling to be let down. Since the initial excitement of his arrival wore off and the mystery of his injuries had been thoroughly examined, the little boy was anxious to get back to whatever he was doing, which, by the looks of the colorful balls of clay on the coffee table, was the construction of a Play-Doh menagerie.

Frank lowered him to the floor and swallowed the sudden lump in his throat as he watched the little guy run back to his play on short, sturdy, denim-clad legs.

“How’s it possible he’s grown an inch since I saw him a week ago?” he asked.

“Because he takes after you,” Shell said as she walked over and placed a cool hand on each of his cheeks—like mother, like son. She quickly scanned his face, the worry in her own obvious.

“Well, I’m glad you’re home in mostly one piece,” she observed, and he suddenly wanted to cry. She started pulling him toward the warm, delicious-smelling kitchen. “As it happens, I’m making your favorite.”

Of course, she was…“How’d you know I was coming?”

“I saw the news coverage. The interview of that cute motorcycle designer you have working for you.”

Dear, sweet kee-rist, talk about a dagger through the heart.