Baddest Bad Boys (18 page)

“Excuse me?”

“In the bedroom. Out of your way.” Her expression was dead serious. “Hugh told me you’d be working.”

“Some. Not enough to make you a prisoner on the second floor. Come and go as you like. It won’t bother me.” Much.

“I know you don’t want me here, Mac. So as soon as I work things out, I’ll be gone. I promise.” She ran a hand nervously through her hair, shoved one side of it back. Mac caught a glimpse of an ivory throat, the sparkle of a single diamond on her lobe. “I’m just grateful you took me in.” She laughed lightly. “God, I sound like a stray cat—probably look like one, too.”

As strays went, this one merited a bowlful of rich cream and a warm place in the master’s bed. He deep-sixed the image.

He could see she was working hard to look casual, stay in control. “Hugh said you were in some kind of trouble.” Mac waited, watched.

Her hand fluttered from her hair to the deep vee of her top; she tucked her fingers under its trim to massage the space between the shoulder and the top of her breast. Mac followed the play of her hand as she idly stroked herself. The fire made her hair glow to gold, an angel halo atop the body of a Penthouse bunny.

Fuck! She hadn’t been in the room five minutes and he wanted her.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not talk about it.” Her eyes darted from his. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Suit yourself.” He strode toward the kitchen area, set apart from the great room by a long counter. The more distance between them, the better. “Hungry?”

“Starved.” She gave him a grateful smile, either for not asking any more questions or for offering her food; he wasn’t sure which. She trailed after him and sat on a stool at the tiled counter, tossed her head to settle her long hair down her back.

“Nuked leftovers okay?” He frowned at the clear plastic container he’d pulled from the fridge. “Chicken is my guess.”

She came around the counter, took the container from his hand. “How about I earn my keep?” She glanced around the fully appointed kitchen. “I can see we’re not exactly roughing it here.” She tilted her head and looked up at him. “Which means there must be wine.”

“Just red.”

“Perfect.”

As Mac headed for the wine, his phone rang.

“My cell quit miles back,” she said and looked puzzled.

“Satellite. If you have calls to make, feel free.” He abandoned the wine project and crossed the room to his phone. “I’ll only be a minute.”

He was twenty minutes at least, and by the time he hung up, two plates with chicken, salad, and rolls were on the table.

She’d found the wine and was reaching vainly for the wineglasses on the top shelf. He took his gaze from the four inches of bare back her stretch exposed and went to stand behind her, easily picking a pair of wineglasses off the high shelf. This close to her, he couldn’t ignore the scent of roses drifting up from her hair, or the rousing pressure where his groin met her buttocks as he’d reached above her head.

He sure as hell couldn’t ignore the stir behind his zipper when she turned—almost in his arms—to look up at him, her eyes not quite focused, face delicately flushed, lips parted in perfect invitation.

Pupils dilated.

Mac knew the signs, sensed the vibes, and damned if he didn’t get hard thinking about it. About her.

The air between them burned blue-hot.

Could he…Could it be this easy?

Their bodies touched, held, exuded heat, one into the other.

Neither stepped away.

Mac raised the empty glasses, looked down at her. “Need anything else?” he asked, his voice deeper than he intended.

He heard the hitch in her breathing, knew his own followed suit. Then…she blinked.

And slid away from him with the speed of a cornered cat.

“No, that’s it.” She coughed as if to clear her throat. “Let’s eat. Then if you’ll show me to my room, I plan to sleep for at least twenty-four hours. Oh, and I have to call Hugh, and—” Her words were rushed, anxious, her face still pink.

“That call was Hugh. He’s called three times to check on you. I told him you were fine.” He stepped back. “The phone’s yours if you want to tell him yourself.”

“No. That’s okay. Thanks.” She rubbed her hands down her thighs. “Let’s just have dinner, all right?”

He nodded.

They managed a spotty local-news-and-lousy-weather conversation during dinner, but her eyes didn’t meet his directly until a half-hour later when he showed her to her room, where she muttered a weary “Thanks, Mac” and a good-night before she closed the door in his face.

Mac went back to the fire, poked at it, and, for the first time since Hugh called and woke him early this morning, smiled.

The smile dropped off his face when he thought about his brother and his feelings for Tommi.

If it weren’t for Hugh, he might strap on some emotional armor—and a condom or two—and get in line after all.

For the next few days at least—for once—that line would be damn short. He’d promised Hugh he’d take care of her, keep her safe.

Fucking her was not an option.

 

Tommi sat heavily on the edge of the bed. What in heaven had happened down there? And what magic had transformed the skinny, awkward boy who used to be Mac Fleming into a calendar hunk of the month?

She’d always thought Hugh handsome, but Mac had morphed to absolute male-gorgeous. Still grim, still sober as a church pew, but gorgeous all the same.

And when they’d touched…

Heat rose, as it had in that moment, warming her throat and face, then scorching down to settle roughly between her thighs, pulsing, promising, wanting.

Agitated, she stood, walked to the window, and stared out into the bleakness of the storm. A rivulet of rain wended its way across the glass, and she traced it with her index finger, followed its shaky path down to the wooden sill. She placed her chilled fingertip on her lower lip, tasted the cold.

Tommi was a sensualist, knew it, and gloried in it. She was tactile, moved by the slither of satin over her skin, cool water pooling in her palm, the sun caressing her shoulders—the hard, strong length of a man buried deep inside her, his breath hot in her ear.

She leaned her forehead against the cold windowpane.

Mac’s skin was so clear and tan, his jaw a slash of strong bone and determination, and his mouth was…

She stared unseeing into the blackness outside the window, her mind drifting, circling to finish her thought.

…his mouth was an unopened gift—and it kissed her without a touch.

I need to stop thinking about him. Now!

A clap of thunder brought her to her senses, and she squinted through the window, certain she’d seen a flash of light in the trees beyond the clearing. She stared for a good five minutes. Nothing.

Great! First I fantasize about Mac, now I’m seeing things.

Exhaustion. That was her problem. Her eyes were playing games with her sleep-deprived mind, making her paranoid.

Assuring herself Reid had no idea she was here, she hugged herself and stepped away from the window.

The Mac thoughts? The lust at first sight? Nothing but a few misfiring synapses—and a not-so-subtle nudge from her under-utilized hormones. She wasn’t here to sleep with Hugh’s brother. She was here to get away from Reid McNeil and think through what—and how—to tell Paul about what was happening in his company.

But not tonight—she stifled a yawn, headed for the bathroom. Bone-weariness made thinking a waste of time. No doubt she’d conjure another dumb paranoia, as she had on the ferry; she’d been so sure that big man was watching her, until he’d turned the other way when they’d unloaded. No doubt to go home to his wife and six kids!

When she came back from the bathroom, she put one of her bags on the bed, opened it, and pulled out her short blue chenille robe. She draped it across the foot of the bed, stripped, and crawled quickly under the covers. She wondered if this was Mac’s bed, then yawned again. If so, she was eternally grateful—even if they’d never be in it together. She snuggled into one pillow, pulled the other close to her naked breasts.

The sheets were flannel, the duvet goose down, the bed a lemon-scented cloud; she was asleep within seconds.

Her dreams were uneven, disturbing, snaking between her running from Reid and running to Mac. And there was a knife, slashing curtains, gouging wood…blood. Blood everywhere. A light in the forest. Flickering.

She rolled and tossed, trapped between sleep and wakefulness. Panicking. She shook her head back and forth. Oh, no! Reid had the files now, and she was hanging by her fingers at the edge of a bottomless pit. Reid lifted his foot to stomp on her hands…

I’m falling, can’t stop falling. I’m going to die.

Abruptly she sat up, disoriented, her heart a frightened bird, her chest a cage.

She saw a shadow move—at the foot of the bed.

Rising, it came toward her.

3

Tommi covered her mouth to hold in the scream.

“Easy.” A hand offered her a glass of water. “Drink.”

“Mac?” Finally her eyes adjusted to the stingy light leaking in through the open bedroom door. “Is that you?” she asked stupidly, needing to be certain, to hear his voice again.

“Yes. It’s me.” He shoved the glass into her hand. “You okay?”

She saw his eyes, dark and intense, in the shadowed room. “Fine…I’m fine. But why are you here?”

His gaze slid down to chest level. “You want questions answered, might be a good idea to cover up.”

Tommi yanked the duvet over her bare breasts, a furnace of heat in her neck. “Sorry. I sleep in the nude.”

“So I see.”

Tommi felt foolish, then angry that she’d apologized. “What are you doing in here, anyway?”

“I was heading to my room.” He gestured with his head to the hall. “You called my name.”

“I did?”

Mac sat on the edge of the bed, put a hand on the other side of her legs, and leaned in until his face was close enough for her to see his eyes. “What’s going on, Smith? Tell me and I might be able to help.”

“I don’t need your help.”

He stroked her upper arm. “These say you do.” He touched her other arm, raised a brow.

She looked where his hand touched. She had bruised, not badly, but considering the dark marks formed a matched set, it was difficult to come up with a plausible explanation.

“Someone did this. Tell me who.” His voice was firm, his tone low. “I’m not leaving this bed until you do.”

She let out a breath, suddenly and irrationally desperate to tell someone. “I was seeing this man—”

“No surprise there.”

“Excuse me?” His interruption caught her off balance, confusing her.

“Forget it. Go on.”

“I work with him. A few days ago I discovered he’s been stealing from the company. Maybe as much as a million dollars.”

Mac whistled softly. “Busy guy. How?”

“False invoices, Internet bank transfers. There’s probably more but those I can prove.”

“And you told him what you knew.”

She looked down, wanted to escape his knowing gaze. “I trusted him…cared for him. I thought if I spoke to him, he could find a way to put the money back.”

Mac didn’t say a word.

“You think that was stupid, don’t you?” If he agreed with her, she’d kill him. She’d given herself the required forty lashes for idiot-girl thinking—she didn’t need more from him.

“It doesn’t matter what I think.” His hand grazed her knees as he straightened and rose to stand over her bed.

“The problem is,” she went on, “Reid told me there were others involved—”

“That’s his name, Reid?”

“Reid McNeil, CPA. Brought in by…Hired by Del Designs over a year ago to streamline all the admin and accounting systems.”

“And you think he’s telling you the truth—about these ‘others.’”

“That’s just it, I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to.”

“What do you mean?”

“Because you only have one option.”

“And that is?”

“Call the cops. Turn what you have over to them.”

She hesitated.

“You have a problem with that?” He bent to turn on the nightlight on her bedside table, kept his attention fixed on her face.

The low-wattage bulb didn’t do much to lighten the room, but it was enough for her to see Mac’s skeptical expression, his mouth—so close to the sneer she remembered so well. She wanted to explain her reluctance to go to the police, but was afraid it would sound as dumb as her first mistake, confronting Reid.