Underground operator for Black Knights Inc., the covert government defense firm disguised as a custom motorcycle shop
In a black-on-black international mission that went seriously sideways, Ozzie was badly injured—now he's stuck at BKI headquarters in Chicago, champing at the bit to get out into the field again. To his disgust, he's tasked with distracting Chicago Tribune ace reporter Samantha Tate, who's been trying to dig up the dirt on BKI for years. Turns out Samantha's beauty, intelligence and sense of humor are a seriously big distraction, and Ozzie's losing his desire to keep her at bay.
Ozzie's tired of hiding, and Samantha may be the best—and worst—person to share his secrets with...
EXCERPT
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 today, 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.
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.
“Well, hello, Ozzie,” a pert blond in slacks and a
formfitting maroon blouse slurred, sidling up to Ozzie like a cheerleader to a
quarterback. Somehow she managed to squeeze herself between Samantha and the
lying asshole. That’s how Samantha was going to refer to him from here on out.
Not Ozzie, but Lying Asshole. Lying Criminal Asshole.
“My friend over there told me I should come and introduce myself to you.”
“Oh, uh…” Ozzie said haltingly, glancing into the
mirror at the women by the pool table. “Hi. Which friend is—”
“The redhead. Gloria. She was a brunette when the
two of you hooked up.” The blond tried to bat her lashes, but the booze in her
blood made the move look less sexy and more like she had glue stuck in one eye.
“My name is Janie, by the way. And Gloria told me to tell you I have a really
small…” She glanced around and leaned in close to whisper something in Ozzie’s
ear.
Even though he was a lying criminal asshole,
Samantha felt jealousy bubble in her guts, all green and gross and altogether
obnoxious.
But it’s not for this
Ozzie, she assured herself. It’s for the
Ozzie I thought he was.
Fake Ozzie was wonderful. Fake Ozzie had walked
around Lincoln Park Zoo with his face painted like a lion because they had
passed the kiddie station and she had dared him to have it done. Fake Ozzie had
hired a singing stripper telegram to stop by her apartment the morning of her
birthday. When the “UPS driver” began to take off his shirt while doing his
best Paul McCartney impression and serenading her with the Beatles’ “Birthday”
song, she had never laughed so hard in her whole life.
Fake Ozzie had brought her chicken soup, the entire
DVD collection of Orange Is the New Black, and two
bottles of NyQuil when she came down with a wretched cold. He had knocked on
her door and left all the stuff outside with a card that had the Starship Enterprise
printed on the front. Inside had been an inscription in
his decisive hand that read: Get well soon so you can…live long and
prosper.
Yes, Fake Ozzie was a gorgeous, geeky, wonderful
man. Too bad Fake Ozzie was a big ol’ phony.
The laugh he managed when the blond trailed a
bloodred fingernail over his jaw before turning to stumble back to her friends
was forced and hoarse-sounding. If Samantha wasn’t mistaken, there was a slight
flush on his cheeks when he pinned his eyes to his pint glass, refusing to meet
her stare in the mirror.
“Sweet fuck all.” Christian’s face was the epitome
of incredulity. “Do you have some sort of magical pecker?”
“I—” Ozzie began, but was cut off by a discordant
jangle coming from Samantha’s purse.
Saved by the bell.
She was a wreck, completely devastated, and the last thing she wanted to talk
about, to think about, was Ozzie’s penis. His
lying, criminal—likely big and lovely—penis.
Julie Ann Walker is the USA Today and New York Times Bestselling Author of the Black Knights Inc. romantic suspense series. She is prone to spouting movie quotes and song lyrics. She'll never say no to sharing a glass of wine or going for a long walk. She prefers impromptu travel over the scheduled kind, and she takes her coffee with milk. You can find her on her bicycle along the lake shore in Chicago or blasting away at her keyboard, trying to wrangle her capricious imagination into submission. For more information, please visit www.julieannwalker.com or follow her on Facebook www.facebook.com/jawalkerauthor and/or Twitter @JAWalkerAuthor.
