*
“Welcome to the jungle,” Samantha breathed aloud as she sat on the bed and glanced around.
The room Ozzie had assigned her was small, with brick walls and exposed piping running across the ceiling. But the utilitarianism of the loft-style space was softened by a big four-poster bed topped by a quilt striped in various shades of blue. A triptych painting hung on the wall over the bed. The three separate canvases formed the Chicago skyline as seen from the water. And behind that painting, just on the other side of that wall? Well, that was Ozzie’s bedroom.
She couldn’t shake the feeling she’d be spending the night next to the lion’s den.
Welcome to the jungle, baby!
The line from the old Guns N’ Roses song whispered through her head again. Her knowledge of eighties hair bands had been increasing exponentially since she’d starting hanging out with Ozzie.
She took a deep breath, hoping the exercise would settle her nerves. Then she glanced at the mirror hanging over the dresser. She’d taken a quick shower and changed into a pair of slouchy boyfriend jeans and a centuries-old sweatshirt with Da Bears! printed across the front in faded letters. Her feet were bare. Her hair was drying into a mass of soft curls. And her stomach was doing its best to gnaw its way clean through her backbone.
The Snickers bar in her purse was temptation itself, but Ozzie had offered to take her down to the kitchen to get something more substantial to eat once he finished showering.
Or did he say for me to come get him when I was ready?
Shit a brick. She couldn’t remember. But the sight of her bag reminded her of the envelope on Donny’s desk. Digging inside her purse, she located her phone and sent Donny a quick text. I was way off base. Shred the envelope. P.S. Love your funny face.
After that task was completed, she was once again forced to wait. The old-fashioned alarm clock beside the bed softly tick-tick-ticked. When her stomach made an impolite inquiry about whether her throat had been cut, she bolted up from the bed and padded over to the door. Leaning her ear against the metal, she held her breath and listened.
She’d met the ladies currently in residence at Black Knights Inc. before. And while they had seemed happy enough to see her tonight, made the right noises about her being welcome, their eyes had looked too brilliant. Too brittle. Samantha recognized forced politeness when she saw it.
Not that she could blame them. For so long, when she’d been convinced the Black Knights were involved in something depraved, she’d been a bit of a pain in the keister.
Oh, who are you kidding, Sammie? You were all over them like a cheap suit.
Girding herself, she turned the handle and peeked into the dimly lit hall. Looking right and left, she was relieved to find the place empty. And quiet despite the constant drumming of rain falling on the roof.
Taking a deep breath, she was hit by the subtle smells of motor oil, ground-down metal, and brake fluid. Memories of her father’s repair shop—the shop that had brought about his ultimate demise—threatened to overwhelm her, but she beat them back and set her jaw at a determined angle as she tiptoed to Ozzie’s door. She scratched the metal surface, fearing a knock would be too loud in the narrow hall.
“Coming.” Ozzie’s deep, smooth voice sounded from inside.
When he swung the door wide, every thought fell out of her head, and her breath strangled in her lungs. He was toweling his hair dry with one hand and holding the door open with the other. His raised arms lifted the hem of his T-shirt away from the waistband of his ratty, low-hanging cargo shorts. She could see where his belly tan faded, the whorls of golden brown hair that made up his love trail, and the big veins that ran down the insides of his hip bones…the ones that fed blood to his…
Holy fucking smokes!
She gulped. Audibly. Were the walls sweating? No? That was just her?
She barely recognized her voice when she said, “Nice shorts.” But she gave herself credit for having the wherewithal to speak at all, because, man, he looked good enough to eat. Smelled good enough too. All clean, healthy skin and masculine heat.
“Why, thank you.” He winked and tossed his towel onto the chair pushed under the desk in the corner. She got a quick glimpse at his room. At the ridiculous number of laptops he owned. At the T-shirt that hadn’t quite made it all the way into his wicker laundry hamper and dangled half over the side. And at the big bed dominating it all. “They’re my favorite pair.”
Huh? Oh, right. His shorts.
“I can see that,” she said, so distracted by the nearness of him, the sexy, sexy nearness of him, that the only way she could keep from standing there and stuttering like an idiot was to fall back into her usual role as bandier of witty repartee. “Because I was joking about the whole nice shorts things. Those, my friend, are not shorts. Those are loose molecules of fabric held together by desperation.”
Any minute now, she expected the material to disintegrate—yes, please—and leave him standing before her in nothing but his drawers.
Then again, he might not be wearing drawers.
It was official. She would deposit the glorious moment when he opened his bedroom door directly into her spank bank.
“Are you really ribbing on my shorts when you’re wearing a sweatshirt that looks like it was minted around the time Reagan was president?” He flashed her that incredible grin and closed the door. He bent to give his thigh a quick rub. For a moment, she thought she might catch a glimpse of his injury—she was crazy curious. But then he straightened and gestured for her to precede him down the hall.
Is he going to touch me? Her shoulder tingled as if his hand hovered there, but the feel of his fingers never came. She blew out a breath of relief.
One brush of his fingers, and her control might snap. She could very easily see herself pouncing on him like a cat on a canary. Only instead of biting his head off, she’d lick him from stem to stern. Including that terribly intriguing trail of hair arrowing from his belly button into paradise.
And then she’d lick paradise.
Whew! Is it hot in here? No? That’s just me?
Her legs wobbled as she took the stairs to the second floor. And even more annoying than the Jell-O knees was the hot ache between her thighs. It would be one thing if Ozzie had given her any indication he wanted something more than friendship. But he hadn’t. Since their first meet-up for coffee, he’d been nothing but a gentleman.