“So this killer instinct of yours isn’t a new thing.” He was watching her through half-lidded eyes. “You’ve always had it.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“Which brings me to my next question.”
Samantha rolled in her lips. “Why do I suddenly feel like the walls are closing in?”
“Apparently the problem is catching,” Ozzie said, right before asking a question that immediately tainted the easy atmosphere between them. “So what’s behind all that doggedness? Why are you so hell-bent on uncovering secrets? I’ve known you long enough to figure out it’s more than just a profession. It’s a calling. One might even say it’s an obsession?”
And for all they’d shared, this was the one thing she had never been able to bring herself to tell him. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe because it felt so big, so central to her soul and the essence of who she was. Telling him would give him everything, everything that was her. But considering all he’d shared, the grand secret that was the pasts of the men of Black Knights Inc.—and talk about power; he’d handed her a boatload with that one confession—she couldn’t do him the disservice of not answering. Turnabout was fair play.
Still, she was dismayed to hear her voice shake when she admitted, “It all started with my father’s murder.”
Chapter 16
Ozzie had been prepared to hear a lot of things. He had not been prepared to hear that.
Just like the time he had jumped in front of the neighborhood girl to save her from the slavering dog, his instincts had him reaching for Samantha and pulling her down so that her head rested beneath his chin. He wanted to protect her from it all. Erase the hurt in her eyes and the hitch in her voice.
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” He knew how deeply a wound like that could cut, and he cursed himself for bringing up the subject in the first place. He had done it, after months of making sure he didn’t. He had thrown open her Pandora’s box of deep, dark secrets.
“No,” she assured him. “It’s okay. I… My dad was a good man. He was a hardworking man.”
And he understood her need to put that out there. Having lost a parent himself, he knew how important it was to protect their memory. “His daughter obviously takes after him.”
The tension drained out of her, and she softened against him. “You know”—she sighed—“I’d like to think so. I try hard to live my life in a way that would make him proud.”
“Samantha.” He loved the feel of her pressed along his side, loved her, wished there was a way he could make her love him too. “I’m sure if your father were here right now, he’d tell you he couldn’t be prouder.”
“If my father were here right now, he’d probably grab my ear, haul me up, and tell me to get my clothes on.” She laughed. That was the thing about Samantha. Her sense of humor was never far from the surface.
“True,” Ozzie admitted. “I’ve never been introduced to anyone’s father, but if I ever was, I’d like to think I wouldn’t have my wedding tackle hanging out.”
Her tone turned theatrically seductive, like she was auditioning to be the femme fatale of a really bad film noir. “But it’s such nice wedding tackle.”
“Right back atcha, sweetheart.”
“Aw, look at us, a mutual appreciation society of two.”
“Two hearts are better than one,” he told her. “At least that’s what the Boss says.”
“Boss said that?” There was a heavy dose of skepticism in her voice. “He doesn’t strike me as the sentimental sort.”
“Not Boss as in Frank Knight.” He laughed, trying to imagine the curmudgeonly dude who ran Black Knights Inc. spouting anything other than mission parameters or weapons specifications. “The Boss. Springsteen, baby.”
“Oh right,” she said, then fell silent for a while. Her fingers continued to toy with the tattoo over his heart. And he knew she was working herself back up to continue her tale. He waited patiently. Something this important, this painful couldn’t be rushed. Finally, she said, “So my father had been nuts about cars his whole life. Worked most of it as a mechanic at a dealership. It was steady pay, enough to keep us decidedly lower middle class. But it had always been his dream to open his own repair shop. By the time I was a freshman in high school, he’d socked away enough to do just that. Man, I can still remember the look on his face the first morning he opened for business. It was like…” She stopped and searched for the right word. “Incandescence,” she finally said.
A puzzle piece fell into place. “The Mustang… It was your father’s.”
She nodded. Her cheek was warm and wonderful as it brushed over the skin of his shoulder. “He rebuilt it from the frame out. After me and the shop, he always said that car was his pride and joy.”
“And by keeping it, you’re keeping a piece of him.”
Her breath caught. “You understand.”
Better than you could possibly know. “Go on.”
