“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?”
Before he could nod, Emily piped up with, “If by care about he means tap that ass, then sure.”
A tsunami of anger crashed over him. He felt the tips of his ears ignite. “Excuse me? She’s my friend. And I’ll thank you not to reduce her to a sex object.”
“She might be your friend, but that doesn’t mean you don’t want to eat her cake,” Michelle said. “What?” She lifted one sable-colored eyebrow when she saw the incredulity on his face. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, you think I don’t know about cake eating?” When he just blinked, a smile that was decidedly feline appeared on her lips. “Believe me I know all about cake eating. In fact—”
“Stop right there.” He lifted a hand.
“I suspect we all know about cake eating,” she continued. “How about it, ladies? Like having your cakes eaten? Thumbs up or thumbs down?”
“Thumbs up,” a duo of voices declared.
“Look at him,” Becky said, unwrapping a Dum Dum lollipop and plugging it into her mouth. “You can see the wheel is still turning, but his brain hamster frickin’ up and died of mortification.”
“You’re all going to catch pneumonia from the ice in your hearts,” he gritted between his teeth.
“Maybe we should give the poor guy a break,” Emily muttered. “He can’t help that God saddled him with a penis and a brain but only enough blood to supply one at a time.”
“That reminds me of a joke I recently heard,” Michelle said. “Why do men name their penises?”
“Ladies—” Ozzie tried to interrupt.
Michelle just barreled ahead. “Because they don’t want a stranger making ninety percent of their decisions for them!”
Cackles of laughter erupted.
“Stop! Stop!” Becky howled. “You’re ruining my mud mask! It’s cracking into a million pieces!”
“I’m melting! I’m melting!” Michelle did a dead-on impersonation of the Wicked Witch of the West.
“Enough!” Ozzie chopped his hand through the air. The two syllables echoed around the shop like blasts from a double-barrel shotgun. Three pairs of eyes blinked at him in surprise.
Damnit all! It was never his intention to raise his voice. Not with them.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, blowing out a deep breath and reaching down to massage away the shooting pain in his mangled thigh. “Look, I know it’s not ideal. I know you’re all under a lot of pressure right now, and the last thing you need or want is this. But I do care about her, okay? Despite what you might think of her chosen profession, she’s a good woman. And I want to help her through this. I need to help her through this. I’d appreciate your support.”
For a long time, silence ruled the room. It was only broken when Peanut, BKI’s mascot and former tomcat turned fat tub of lard, launched himself onto the conference table with a weird, grunt-like mrrreow. He slunk to the middle of the table where he collapsed as if he’d been held up by marionette strings that had suddenly been cut. His notched ears twitched. His crooked gray tail flicked back and forth. And he let loose with a very unfeline fart.
It effectively broke the tension hanging in the room.
“Dear sweet baby Jesus! You have to change his diet, Becky,” Emily said, waving a hand in front of her face. “At this point, he’s nothing but a fart factory.”
“The one who smelled it dealt it.” Becky grinned around her lollipop stick. She intentionally mispronounced smelled as smelt for a poetic touch.
“Don’t blame that on me!”