“Hear me out.” He patted the air in a conciliatory fashion, thanking his lucky stars he was only dealing with two of the eight women who were attached to his teammates.
“Oh, goodie.” Becky rolled her eyes. “He’s about to start man-splaining, using his ever-lovin’ man logic to validate this idiotic idea. But don’t let him sway you, Michelle. This situation he’s created is a frickin’ problem.”
Blond, bossy, and no bigger than a minute, Becky was the original owner of the motorcycle shop that had become Black Knights Inc. She was the artist responsible for the fantastical bikes they made and the one who ultimately provided their cover. Ozzie loved her to pieces. Usually.
“Problem is just another word for challenge,” he assured her, grabbing Christian’s arm when the Brit began backpedaling. “Stay right where you are,” he demanded. The air inside the shop smelled pretty much the way it always did, eau de rubbing compound, burning metal, and strong coffee. But if he wasn’t mistaken, there was now a tinge of napalm wafting toward him from the direction of the women. If he was about to get his ass fried, he didn’t want to be the only crispy critter in the room.
Misery loves company, right?
“Piss off, knobhead.” Christian jerked his arm free.
“You.” Becky pointed to Christian. “Those curse words sound kinda pretty in that accent, but they’re still curse words. Don’t forget there are children upstairs.” Ozzie found it hysterical that the woman who could out-cuss all of them turned into a profanity Nazi anytime the little ones were around. “Also,” she continued, “go stand by the base of the stairs and make sure our conversation isn’t being overheard by…you know who.”
After watching Christian happily retreat to the stairs, Ozzie turned back in time to see Becky’s eyes blasting into him like photon torpedoes.
“And you,” she said. “Please explain what she”—she shoved a finger toward the ceiling—“is doing here and why we had to run around like frickin’ chickens with our frickin’ heads cut off trying to make sure this place was…” She stopped herself and seemed to search for the right words. Her voice was barely a whisper when she finished with, “…fit for company.”
Ozzie knew that meant locking doors, shutting down computers, and squirreling away evidence that BKI was anything other than a motorcycle shop. Not that it would have taken much. He and the rest of the Knights kept the place in company-ready condition, since one of the little ones, Jake and Michelle’s son, Franklin, was now old enough to start asking questions. Keeping BKI clandestine meant keeping it kid friendly. Which, in turn, meant it was naturally reporter friendly.
He could have pointed this out to Becky. He decided it was in his best interest to keep his mouth shut.
Apparently that wasn’t what Becky wanted from him. She glowered so fiercely, her mud mask cracked. “Speak!” she demanded.
“There really wasn’t much choice.” Ozzie quickly outlined the events of the night. And just in case Becky and Michelle weren’t convinced, he finished with, “From all I’ve heard, those Basilisk bastards are bad news. Evil men. And you both know as well as I do that the only thing that’s necessary for evil men to triumph is for good men to stand by and do nothing. I wasn’t about to stand by. Are you both saying that you’d just stand by?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Becky rolled her eyes. “I bet your ass is jealous of all the crap that just came out of your mouth.”
“He’s doing his best to be a tube steak tonight, isn’t he?” Michelle spoke for the first time, eyeing him consideringly. Not only was Michelle Boss’s sister and Snake’s wife, but she was the mother of two darling little boys. She was kind and soft-spoken—usually—and she was not supposed to use terms like tube steak!
Ozzie felt his hackles stand stick straight. “So what’s the plan then, ladies? For me to stand here and take it on the chin until you finally insult me to death?”
“We’re trying to see this from your point of view,” Becky insisted, adjusting the collar on her striped cotton pajamas. Given the lateness of the hour when he called to inform them he would be bringing company home for the night, it was no surprise he’d caught them in various states of dishabille.
“We’re trying to see this from your point of view, but we can’t get our heads that far up our asses,” Emily Scott, BKI’s new secretary, quipped as she appeared from one of the offices. Looking at the lithe brunette, one would never know she was a tough, streetwise Chicago gal who had worked as the assistant to one of the most powerful men inside the CIA. Her girl-next-door looks were currently compounded by fuzzy slippers, silk sleep pants, and an oversized sweatshirt.
“Ba-da-bum!” Becky mimicked a drum solo.
Emily and Becky, whom Ozzie was pretty sure were sisters from another mister, exchanged a high five as Emily took a seat at the conference table.
And now it’s three on one. Perfect. Kill me now.
He decided it was time to change the setting on his charm ray gun from stun to kill. Donning his best puppy-dog expression, he hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and allowed his shoulders to slouch. “She’s in trouble,” he insisted. “And I…I care about her.” It was meant to garner sympathy, but the minute he said it aloud, he realized it was true. He did care about Samantha. A lot.
Holy shit.
Suddenly, he understood his vehemence at the police station when Samantha offered herself as bait. That something he had felt in the moment, that something that had been deep and substantial and scary as hell, was back in full force. He wasn’t just fond of Samantha. He didn’t just lust after her. He…adored her. Everything about her—from her natural nosiness to her sharp mind and her quick quips.
The epiphany must have registered on his face, because when he glanced at the group, his heart pounding in his chest, he found every eye glued to him. Like, glued to him. As if they had the ability to Vulcan mind meld with him and could see all his inner workings.
A bolt of lightning blazed overhead, flashing through the leaded-glass windows like a strobe light. A crack of thunder followed an instant later.
He braced for the fallout. Samantha was a reporter, after all. In the Black Knights’ line of work, that word was found under the Family Feud category of Things You Don’t Want to Find Stuck to the Bottom of Your Shoe. But to his surprise, the fallout never came. Instead, the women just got quiet.
Very quiet. Uncomfortably quiet.
He tugged on his collar, shuffled his feet, and felt a bout of indigestion stirring.
Finally, Becky said, “Care about her, huh?”
