“Ah, Christian’s not gay,” Ozzie assured her, ignoring his body’s interest at her nearness and focusing on the lively banter she had come to expect from him. “He’s just really pretty. But I can see how you’d make that mistake, what with the hair product and the tailored clothes.”
Christian grunted.
Samantha nodded, waved her hand through the air, and was on to the next subject. “Well, gents, it’s official. The zombie apocalypse has started. On my beat today, I covered a police-on-police shooting, a ten-car pileup on the Kennedy Expressway, an outbreak of salmonella brought on by a restaurant knowingly serving tainted sushi, and a string of B and E’s where the perps turned out to be two thirteen-year-olds who claimed to be in love”—she rolled her eyes at this—“and fancied themselves the modern-day Bonnie and Clyde.” She signaled Delilah. “Make Momma one of your specialties, would you, please? Extra dirty with three olives.” Then she turned back to Ozzie and Christian. “But you two have nothing to worry about. Zombies eat brains, so you’ll both be fine.”
See. Verbal flash paper. Crackle! Poof! Ahhhhh! Ozzie felt a smile—a real smile—tug at his lips.
Christian harrumphed. “I shouldn’t think you know me well enough to judge my mental acuity.”
“Maybe not. But you have to be a little lacking in the IQ department to willingly pal around with this one.” Samantha hooked a thumb toward Ozzie. The sparkle in her dark eyes was positively mercenary.
“That’s a bit like the pilot calling the hippie high, yeah?” Christian raised a brow.
“Oh, you think I want to spend time with Mad Scientist Hair here?” Samantha pretended incredulity. “No, no. I feel sorry for him. I mean, who wouldn’t? Just look at him.”
Ozzie made a face and gifted her with a terse hand gesture that used his third digit.
“Spoken like a true scholar,” she said.
A crack of laughter blasted out of him. And when Samantha turned to thank Delilah for the martini, he took the opportunity to study her profile.
She was beautiful. Her brown eyes glowed with intelligence, and she had one of those faces that drew you in. No one feature stood out as terribly arresting or unique, but all her features fit together to make an enchanting whole.
And then there was the gap between her two front teeth. It was small. Just a sliver of space. But it was totally, wonderfully her.
Samantha tipped back her martini glass and took a giant sip, eagerly sucking down the gin and olive brine like it was a gift from on high. When she lowered her glass, she wiped the back of her hand over her mouth and let loose with a dainty, feminine-sounding burp. “I am woman. Hear me drink.”
Another bark of genuine laughter shot out of him, and all he could think was… God, that feels so good. Most of his jocularity was forced these days. But when she was around, he felt…more like his old self.
Then it occurred to him. Samantha Tate, the woman he and the rest of the Black Knights had avoided for years, the woman he should probably still be avoiding, had somehow wormed her way into his life, under his skin, and in so doing had become…his friend.
Who’d a thunk it?
* * *
How was it possible she could not only like but lust after a complete sociopath? A lying, gunrunning piece of shit?
That’s taking a penchant for bad boys to a whole new level, don’t you think?
Problem was, the Ozzie she’d gotten to know didn’t seem like a bad boy. In fact, she’d come to believe that everything she suspected about BKI was dead wrong. After years of dodging her, a few months ago, the Black Knights had finally invited her on a tour of their shop. Ozzie had been her guide, and he had managed to convince her that the brusque men of BKI weren’t hiding anything nefarious and that the big compound with its various outbuildings and huge factory warehouse was exactly what it was purported to be, a top-of-the-line custom bike-building shop that catered to an elite crowd of motorcycle enthusiasts who didn’t just want a form of transportation but a piece of rolling art. He’d won her over with his smile, his razor-sharp mind, and his geeky penchant for all things Star Trek and eighties.
Her mind flashed back to a day six weeks earlier. Winter had finally released its icy grip on the city, and the first true promise of spring had hung in the air. Ozzie had phoned her at work, telling her it was the perfect day for a motorcycle ride and begging her to come for one. As soon as she’d typed up the last of her assignments, she had run out the front door of the Tribune Tower to find him idling by the curb on his big purple-and-green custom Harley.
The bike was a wonder of chrome and steel and whimsical paint.
The man was a wonder of muscle and strength and funny quips.
They had ridden along Lake Shore Drive for hours, watching the sun turn the waves on Lake Michigan to burnished gold. And she had fallen for him then. Just a little. Fallen for how easy he was to talk to. Fallen for how fun he was to be around. Fallen for the simple joy he brought to her heart.
But it’s all a lie!
A big, fat, stinking lie. And she didn’t know whether to scream with disappointment or scratch his gorgeous, criminal eyes right out of his gorgeous, criminal head. Keeping up pretenses, acting like nothing had happened earlier, like she didn’t know the truth, was taking everything she had.
Beneath the bar, her knees shook. The gin, which usually gave her a warm, rosy glow, soured in her stomach. And emblazoned on the backs of her eyelids every time she blinked was the look of frightened sincerity in Marcel’s eyes when he told her who the Black Apostles, Chicago’s most notorious South Side gang, were buying their guns from.
Play it cool, Sammie, she coached herself.
Yeah, right. Easier said than done when she was sitting beside two arms dealers. But if she had any hope of blowing the lid off Black Knights Inc., of getting the evidence she needed for Legal to sign off on the investigative story she would write, she had to maintain the status quo. And lest she make Ozzie suspicious, she had to keep on keeping on as if she didn’t know what he was.
