Bait (37 page)

“Night, Zelda,” Maddie said.

A rattling little snore was her only reply.

Maddie lay on her back with her head propped up on a pair of pillows and her arms crossed over her chest, listening to Zelda blissout and thinking about sleeping. With the bedroom door ajar, the room wasn't particularly dark and, in addition, she could hear everything going on in the apartment. She listened to McCabe emerge from the bathroom, to him and Wynne talking, and, finally, to Wynne leaving. This was followed by a series of tiny beeps that had Maddie frowning for a moment until she figured out that it must be McCabe setting the new alarm.

Good to know that one day, when her resident FBI agent went bye-bye, she wouldn't be left entirely unprotected. There was more hair spray in the bathroom, too.

The light in the living room went out. The TV came on, flipping from channel to channel. In a matter of minutes she was treated to the sounds of about four dozen different programs, maybe more. It didn't require genius to deduce that McCabe was once again parked on her couch with her remote in one hand. To her disgust, the very thought made her heart beat faster.

Every iota of common sense she possessed told her to close her eyes, block out the sounds, and try to sleep. Every scrap of self-preservation that remained told her to at least stay put and stare at the flickering shadows on the ceiling if sleep just wasn't in the cards. The very last thing in the world she needed to do under the circumstances was get out of bed and walk into the living room and pick a fight with McCabe.

Unless she wanted to end up in bed with him, that is.

She lay there a moment longer, then abruptly sat up and swung her legs out of bed, carefully so as not to disturb Zelda. McCabe was a temporary fixture in her life, here today and gone tomorrow. Nobody anybody with any sense would allow herself to get attached to. Wynne had warned her. Not that he needed to; she knew it perfectly well herself. At best, a quickie love affair was all that was in the cards. But then, life was uncertain at best. Her life was more uncertain than most. The hard truth was, it could come crashing down around her ears at any moment. The only thing she had for sure was tonight.

And tonight she wanted McCabe.

So call her stupid.

TWENTY

Tuesday, August 19

 

 

Except for the flickering TV, the living room was dark when Maddie walked through the bedroom door. That was no surprise, of course. She'd known that all the lights in the apartment were out, and that she would find McCabe sprawled on the couch, watching something mind-deadening like ESPN. Except, he wasn't there. The couch was empty. The TV had no audience. A sweeping glance around confirmed it: McCabe was nowhere to be seen.

Maddie frowned. Every bit of good sense she possessed combined forces with the last flicker of her self-preservation instinct to urge her to thank her lucky stars for the reprieve and head straight back to bed.

But she didn't do it. Instead, she zeroed in on the faintest of whitish glows that seemed to be coming from the kitchen, and headed that way.

I'MA SICK MAN,
Sam concluded glumly as he studied the meager contents of Maddie's refrigerator. He was turning himself on. Or, at least, the strawberry smell he couldn't seem to lose was turning him on. He breathed in, and he pictured Maddie. The mental images were so vivid that they had driven him from the couch to the kitchen in search of distraction. Unfortunately, the distractions in her refrigerator were minimal: Besides milk and orange juice, the only marginally edible thing was a Saran Wrap-covered bowl of salad.

Grimacing, he picked up the half-gallon of milk, tried to check the expiration date, couldn't read it with only the dim light from the refrigerator for illumination, and opened the carton to sniff at the contents suspiciously.

And he got a big whiff of strawberry-scented shampoo for his pains.

Damn it to hell and back anyway. If he'd known, when he'd used her shampoo in the shower, that he was going to be tortured like this for the rest of the night, he would have stayed dirty. He'd figured it out about halfway through scrubbing his head, when he'd inhaled the scent of strawberries and thought, for a sudden, heart-stopping second that Maddie had stepped into the shower with him. His eyes had popped open—damned shampoo had burned the hell out of them, too—and he'd immediately figured the whole thing out: He was alone, and the smell was the shampoo.

So far, his damned stupid dick hadn't caught on.

He'd taken the longest shower he just about ever had in his life, trying to rinse off the smell, to no avail. It still clung to him like skunk scent, driving him out of his mind with its erotic associations every time he inhaled. With each breath, he had brief, tantalizing visions of Maddie's big, honey-colored eyes looking all dazed with desire as he'd lifted his head up from kissing her, her mouth all soft and sweet and seductive as her lips parted for him, her body—
God, that body
—all hot and willing.

Willing. That was the thing that made it so torturous.
She was his for the taking, and he knew it. She wanted him. She would welcome him. All he had to do was walk into her bedroom and ...

No. Hell, no.
He wasn't going there. He'd already made a decision about that. He wasn't going to do it. She was his job, damn it, not his girlfriend. He was there for one purpose: to catch a killer.

Bedding his bait was not in the program.

Okay, so maybe she was more than bait. Maybe she was more than just a body to be bedded, too. Maybe she'd gotten to him, just as he'd feared she was going to. Maybe her feistiness, and her courage, and the sweetness with which she'd rocketed to Wynne's defense, and the surprising way she'd won Gardner over, and the intelligence and passion and plain old hard work she brought to running her business had clicked with something inside him. Maybe ...

Hell, maybe he was breathing in too damned much strawberry shampoo.

With that thought, Sam decided to throw caution to the wind. Tilting the carton to his mouth, he took a big gulp of milk.

“Are you drinking out of the carton?” an outraged voice demanded out of the darkness.

Sam jumped and almost spit the milk back out again.

Lowering the carton, he looked around, choking a little as he swallowed. Maddie stood in the doorway. She was wearing her big white bathrobe over what he was pretty sure would be a slinky little nightgown, and her fists were planted on her hips in a way that told him he was in the dog-house big-time. The robe ended at her knees, and below it, her killer legs and feet were bare. Her hair waved in a loose, dark cloud around her face. Her skin was pale and smooth. Her mouth, even pursed disapprovingly as it currently was, made him hot just looking at it. And her eyes were big and luminous—and fixed accusingly on him.

Except for the accusing part, he thought, taking her in with one sweeping glance, she looked like the embodiment of every erotic dream he'd ever had.

And trouble. Standing there in the doorway, glaring at him, she definitely looked like trouble. Trouble with a capital T.

“It was the last little bit,” he defended himself in a mild tone, closing the refrigerator door and setting the empty carton down on the counter, knowing even as he turned back to face her that he was playing with fire here. If he wasn't way careful, he was going to end up getting burned.

 

“DIDN'T ANYONE EVER tell you that drinking milk out of the carton is not only disgusting, it's unsanitary?” Maddie shook a monitory finger at him. He'd jumped guiltily when she'd caught him with the milk, which had actually been kind of cute, she thought. He was facing her now, leaning back against the counter with his hands propped on either side of his hips. With the refrigerator closed and the window behind him, she couldn't make out his expression at all. He was a tall, broad-shouldered shape in the dark, and if she hadn't known him, she would have described him as formidable-looking. But since she did, the description that came to mind was
sexy as hell.

Her heart gave a little lurch.

“Like I said, it was the last little bit.” If he was still mad at her, she couldn't tell it from his tone. “Why are you up?”

“Maybe because listening to you flip channels lacks something as a sleep aid.”

She crossed the kitchen toward him and thought he tensed, although it was hard to tell in the gloom. But her ostensible target was the milk carton, which she removed from the counter and tossed in the trash can near the back door. That brought her to within three feet of him. Close, but not—quite—close—enough.

“So, the TV bothers you?” he asked, folding his arms over his chest. “Fine. I'll turn it off.”

Maddie frowned, leaned a hip against the table, and considered him. This was not going the way she had hoped. He was being way too accommodating. Too cool. What she wanted to do here was spark some heat.

“And do what?” Her tone was deliberately provocative. “Sit there in the dark and twiddle your thumbs?”

“I've done it before.”

Her eyes narrowed. “All part of the job, huh?”

“Yep.”

“Just like I'm part of the job?”

He hesitated a second, as if mentally testing that. “Yeah.”

This wasn't working. He was getting cooler by the second; she was the one who was starting to get ticked off.

“So why did you get so mad at me for chasing off after Zelda?”

“Because that was one damned dumb thing to do.”

Yes.
She couldn't see his expression, but she could hear the hardening of his voice.

“I could have been killed,” she said, with a deliberate touch of mockery.

“Yeah, you could've been.” His tone was positively flinty. “'Course, if you're bound and determined to give that guy out there another chance to get in some target practice, there's only so much I can do.”

A beat passed.

Her voice went soft. “So what's it to you?”

McCabe didn't reply right away. Their eyes met, but the enveloping shadows made it impossible to read anything in his expression. Silence stretched out between them, vibrating with a tension that was almost tangible.

“Darlin', believe me, I'm not in favor of anybody being killed,” he said finally. Cool again. And casual. Too cool and casual.

To hell with it. Subtlety had never been her strong suit anyway. Tightening the belt on her robe with the air of a fighter getting ready to step into the ring, Maddie took the three steps necessary to put her directly in front of him. He still leaned against the counter, but he stiffened a little and almost seemed to brace himself. This close, she could see the black, restless gleam of his eyes, the high, hard cheekbones, the long, mobile mouth, the lean stubbled jaw. He looked big, dark, and dangerous.

Her heart turned over.

“McCabe . . .”

“Hmm?”
He sounded slightly wary.

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe we're developing a relationship here?”

“A relationship?” There was no slightly about the wary this time. His eyes narrowed. His jaw hardened. His fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. He was suddenly as still as if he'd been carved out of stone.

Not that he had to say anything. Electricity leaped between them, so strong it practically ignited the air.

“Yeah,” she said. “A relationship. As in, I'm crazy about you, you're crazy about me. ...”

His eyes flared at her. Holding his gaze, she reached out and ran a semi-teasing finger down the center of his chest. As she had thought, he was wearing a T-shirt. It felt old and soft, and the muscular contours beneath felt masculine and hard.

She'd wanted heat. Now she was feeling it in spades.

He sucked in air through his teeth. His hand came up to catch hers. She felt that big, warm hand wrapping around her slender one clear down to her toes. He kept her hand trapped, a willing prisoner flattened against his chest, and her pulse rate skyrocketed.

“Maddie ...”

“Hmm?”
His eyes were suddenly as black and shiny as jet.

“For all kinds of reasons, a relationship between us right now would be a really bad idea.”

With her hand pressed to his chest, she could feel the rhythm of his heart. It was beating hard and fast—way too hard and fast for a man who was basically telling her to take a hike. He wanted her. There was no mistaking that.

“Too late,” she said softly, almost whimsically, and took a step nearer. She was so close now that the hem of her robe brushed his jeans.

“What do you mean, too late?” His voice was low and a little rough around the edges. She could feel the pounding of his heart beneath her hand.

“I told you: I'm crazy about you. I'm sorry if it's a problem for you, but it's too late to do anything about it.”

She smiled up into his eyes, and he straightened away from the counter fast, releasing her hand in favor of catching her by the elbows and holding her as if he couldn't decide whether to pull her close or push her away. Her hands flattened against his chest, fingers pressing into the warm, resilient muscles there, and his grip on her elbows tightened. She was tingling all over, tingling in places she didn't know she had, and filled with a spreading warmth that had its center somewhere deep inside her body. Whatever came of this, she was going into it with no regrets. Once again, she was proving herself to be her father's daughter: She was taking a gamble, going for it, making a play for what she wanted.

And what she wanted—so badly that her heart was pounding and her blood was racing and her throat was dry—was him.