In Rides Trouble (Black Knights Inc. #2)(55)

After a long moment, he licked his lips and asked, his deep voice even deeper than usual, “You’re not in love with Angel?”

“Of course not. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s carrying a flame for someone back home and…What? What’s that look for?” His square jaw jerked back on his neck like she’d punched him, his storm-cloud eyes intently searching her face.

“But…but the way you two have been acting, I thought—”

She held up a hand, stopping him. “And how have we been acting? Like friends? Like colleagues?”

“Like lovers,” he growled.

Okay, it was definitely time to call bullshit.

“Whatever, Frank. I haven’t treated Angel any differently than I’ve treated the other guys. Think about it.”

“I saw you two cuddling on the couch.”

“Cuddling is a bit dramatic, don’t you think? It was more like I fell asleep on the poor guy, and he was nice enough not to disturb me even though I was snoring and slobbering all over the front of his shirt.”

“But…” He shook his head, trying his level best not to believe her. God only knew why, because she sure as heck didn’t. “But you two have been inseparable since you got back.”

“Uh, yeah. Because we’ve been racing to finalize the plans for his bike, since you just hit me up for another custom job. Surely you remember all the hours you and I spent coming up with the design for Boss Hog?”

Geez, she sure remembered them. They’d been the best hours of her life, immediately followed by some of the worst. Because most evenings, after they’d worked all day together, side by side, he’d taken himself up to Lincoln Park. To Chesty McGivesItUp.

Grrr.

“I remember precisely what it was like to work so closely with you, Becky. And the two of us certainly weren’t laughing and joking around like you and Angel have been doing.”

The man was an idiot.

“That’s because things are different between us, you big, stupid dill-hole! They always have been!”

He opened his mouth to say something when the front door of the bar opened and Samantha Tate, Chicago’s newest, brightest, most persistent reporter stepped inside.

Oh, sweet Lord, not now. Becky rolled her eyes and groaned.

The woman had left her about a zillion messages, all of which she’d studiously ignored. Because Samantha Tate wasn’t after another quote for her paper on the whole piracy incident. Of that, Becky was absolutely sure. Although just exactly what the reporter was after was still murky.

And when it came to interaction with the press, she absolutely hated murky. Scratch that. It was more like when it came to the press, she absolutely hated interaction.

The woman made a beeline for Becky.

Well, this is just frickin’ frackin’ great!

For the first time in over three years, she and Frank were talking, really talking, and then the one thing guaranteed to make the big, bad, I-ain’t-scared-of-nothin’ Frank Knight take off with his tail tucked between his legs came marching through the door.

Given the clandestine nature of his profession was at direct odds with freedom of the press, she wasn’t surprised when he hopped from the barstool and carefully strolled away, leaving her to deal with the reporter on her own.

“What do you want, Miss Tate?” she growled before the journalist could take a seat.

“A follow-up,” the woman replied, slinging a hot-pink crocodile carry-all onto the bar and motioning for Delilah as she appropriated the barstool Frank had just abandoned.

“Not gonna happen,” Becky shook her head. “In case you haven’t gotten the hint, I’ve given all the interviews I’m going to give. Told my story as many times as I’m going to tell it and—”

“That press conference the day you returned, and the few phone interviews you’ve given since, aren’t going to satisfy the public’s thirst for more detail about your harrowing experience,” the reporter declared firmly before turning to Delilah. “I’ll take a martini, extra dirty, two olives.”

“And I’ll take the check, Delilah,” Becky announced. “Add her drink to it.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I guess it’s the least you could do after refusing to return my phone calls.”

“Like I said, I’m all interviewed out.”

“Mmm.” The reported nodded slowly, then slid Becky a calculated look that had the hairs on the back of her neck twanging a warning. “So how’d your employee get hurt?”

“What?”

“That big, brutal-looking guy that was just sitting here.” She motioned with her chin over to where Frank had joined the rest of the Knights by the jukebox. “He’s one of your employees, isn’t he? So how’d he get hurt?”

“None of your damned business.” If ambition had a scent, it would be called eau de Samantha Tate. Becky just hoped like hell the breaking story that boosted Miss Tate to the top wasn’t the discovery of a covert group of government contractors operating out of good ol’ Chi-Town.

“Why the hostility?” the reporter asked, feigning injury. “It was just an innocent question.”

“I’ve learned no question is innocent when posed by the press.”