In Rides Trouble (Black Knights Inc. #2)(56)

“True.” Miss Tate laughed, shaking her head. “So, was he injured while rescuing you?” She took a big swig of the cloudy martini Delilah plunked down in front of her.

Uh-huh, innocent question my ass.

“Rescuing me from what?”

“The pirates.”

“Of course not. He’s one of my mechanics. What would he be doing out in the Indian Ocean?”

“What indeed?” Miss Tate lifted a smooth, infuriating brow.

“Thanks,” Becky murmured to Delilah after being handed the check. She glanced at the total and fished in her jacket pocket for her wallet, praying she had enough cash to cover the total without having to wait to run a credit card.

Thank you, St. Peter, she did.

Throwing a wad of bills on the bar, she stood.

“I don’t know what you want from me, Miss Tate. Like I said before, I’ve told my story too many times already. And I’m sure people are just as sick of hearing it as I am of telling it.”

“Something more happened on that tanker, didn’t it, Miss Reichert?” the reporter called after her. She’d already turned to head toward the door. “Something more always seems to be happening when you’re around. Tell me, why is that?”

Becky’s heart dropped down to her feet, but she managed to swing around and march back toward the bar in order to tower over the nosy journalist—only she was too short to tower so she satisfied herself with glowering instead.

“I’ve told you everything I know. Now normally, if someone wants to go on a wild-goose chase, I let them. But you’re not only wasting your time by barking up this tree, you’re also wasting my time. And yes, I know I mixed my metaphors, so just go ahead and quote me!”

Miss Tate threw her head back and laughed. “I think if things were different, you and I would be very good friends, Miss Reichert.”

“Doubtful.”

“You never know.”

“Whatever.”

“Are you used to getting the last word, Rebecca?”

“Always, Samantha.”

The woman snorted and saluted Becky with her martini glass. Becky couldn’t help it, one corner of her mouth twitched.

Shaking her head, she turned and started toward the door, only to slow her steps when she glanced into the back corner. Even though the features of man in the booth were still concealed in shadow, there was something slightly familiar about the general shape of his face, the hard ridge of his jaw and broad expanse of his forehead.

Hmm…

“Who is that?” she murmured to Frank with a jerk of her chin as he held the front door for her. The rest of the Knights had already exited Delilah’s—yep, throw a reporter in the mix, and men whose lives depended on their cover were quick to quit the scene. The rough growl of their engines firing up out on the street nearly drowned her question, but along with a superior physique, Frank also had superior hearing.

“That would be the ex-CIA agent known as Dagan Zoelner,” he replied.

Her eyebrows shot up her forehead as she turned to get a better look, only to be thwarted once again by the shadows. Dagan Zoelner had been working for the senator responsible for the brutal deaths of two of the employees of Black Knights Inc., but as soon as he’d realized the senator’s treachery, Zoelner had been instrumental in bringing the man down. And the last time she’d seen him, he’d looked like a human punching bag, having withstood a serious ass-whipping by Dan, so it was no wonder she didn’t recognize him now.

“What’s he doing here?”

“Dunno.” Frank shrugged as they stepped out of the dim bar and into the weak October sun. “Guess we’ll wait for him to tell us, huh?”

“This day has just been one surprise after another,” she observed above the racket of the rumbling motorcycles.

“You’re telling me.”

She glanced at him sharply. “Did you really think I was in love with Angel?”

“Is that so hard to believe? According to you, the guy’s drop-dead gorgeous.” The last word came out as a snarl.

“Yep, he is,” she admitted and wondered if she should go one step further and just admit the whole kit and kaboodle. Oh, what the hell. “But he’s not you, Frank.”

The man skidded to a halt so fast it was a wonder he didn’t slip a disk. When she glanced at his face, his expression was stricken.

“Don’t go there, Becky,” he ground out, his deep voice so low it was barely audible.

“Why?” she demanded, sick and tired of the games they’d played for the last few years. “I thought we were finally being honest with each other today.”

“Then believe me when I honestly tell you nothing can come of it. I can’t give you what you want.”

Why did men always think they knew what women wanted? Would they never learn? “And just exactly what is it you think I want?”

“What every woman wants. Everything!”

Ah, the ol’ I’m-not-into-commitment excuse. If she hadn’t been so mad, or sad, or whatever the hell it was she was feeling, she would’ve laughed because…well, it was so pathetically cliché.

“God, Frank. Now who’s being dense? You think just because there’s always been this…this,” she motioned between the two of them, “…this thing between us, that I’d want everything? What happened to good old-fashioned sex just for the sake of sex?”