House Calls: Callaghan Brothers, Book 3 (5 page)

The sound of fierce, howling winds rattling against the panes competed with the crepitation of the fire for auditory dominance in the sturdy old farmhouse.  It took Maggie a minute to get her bearings.  She was on the sofa in her living room, tucked beneath a warm down comforter, a fluffy pillow beneath her head.  That was weird; she didn’t even remember going to bed last night.  Or making a fire.  The last thing she remembered were spotty images of that hot, sexy doctor bringing her home.... 

Oh, God
.

Maggie sat up quickly, immediately wishing she hadn’t.  The pain in her head was fierce, and this morning she didn’t have the benefit of a few shots of finely-aged bourbon or the natural adrenaline from dancing to temper it.  The entire right side of her body felt stiff and bruised as she forced herself off the cushions. 

Looking down, she realized she was still wearing the shirt and sweats Michael had covered her in the night before.  Lifting the soft flannel to her face, she inhaled the scent that had had such a devastating effect on her then, hoping it had been the post-crash delirium that had made it so appealing.  Nope.  Even now, after sleeping in them all night, the scent was still there, and still every bit as devastating.  Maybe more so, because the combination of his scent mixed with hers was even better. 
Damn.

She gave herself a slight mental shake to free herself from those totally unproductive thoughts, and as soon as her head stopped spinning she looked around for her canine shadow.  It was unusual that George hadn’t woken her to go out or to remind her about getting his breakfast.  For as lazy as he was, the dog never missed a meal.

Then again, maybe he had tried.  She had been pretty out of it.  The poor guy was probably crossing his stubby little legs in front of the back door, she thought guiltily.

Bracing herself, she eased her way to standing.  George had really taken to Michael, she thought, remembering how he had placed himself at Michael’s feet the night before.  They said that dogs were excellent judges of character, and in this instance at least, she had to agree.  How many men would have done what he had? 

Maggie snorted quietly to herself.  Not many.  None that she knew, anyway.  At least not without expecting something in return.  Maggie made up her mind then and there to make some fresh cookies today and send them over to the Pub with her thanks.  She vaguely remembered Sherri telling her that some of the brothers lived on the upper floors; she was fairly certain Michael was among them. 

Her eyes were mostly open now, except for the right one which only seemed capable of opening half-way.  Her hearing seemed to be working fine, and, judging from the discomfort she had along the length of her body, so were her tactile senses.  But something wasn’t right with her nose.  Amidst the light scent of wood smoke from the fire and the delicious scent of Michael on her clothes, she thought she also smelled ... bacon and eggs?

It took longer than usual for her to make her way along the short distance down the hallway.  Her balance was decidedly off and her ankle and hip hurt like hell.  Each step was a blaring reminder of her little accident off the stage.  She wasn’t exactly the most graceful woman on earth, but neither was she typically clumsy. 

What must they all think of her?  Michael had said no one else had witnessed her fall from grace, but surely they all knew of it now.  Would they laugh and snicker if they saw her again?  Probably.  Maybe someday she would look back and find it funny, too, but it wouldn’t be today.

When Sherri called later – and Maggie was sure that she would, Maggie would ask Sherri to deliver the cookies on her behalf.  That way Maggie could avoid the humiliation and Sherri would have a valid reason to place herself in the presence of the Callaghan men again.  She’d like that.  It would more than make up for any hurt feelings caused by Maggie’s bailing on her.

After meeting a few of them, Maggie had a better understanding of Sherri’s obsession with them.  They had been polite and friendly, not to mention romance-novel-cover gorgeous, and, from the little bit she had observed, seemed genuinely fond of each other.  Maggie tried hard to find one thing about any of them that she would improve, and frustratingly, she came up empty.

One Callaghan in particular seemed to be commanding her thoughts this morning, however.  Despite the certain knowledge that he was way out of her league, she liked him.  He was kind and caring, with an easy going manner, yet there was something decidedly darker beneath the surface. 

Not that she felt any fear; on the contrary, she had never felt safer than she had in his presence.  He had an aura about him that exuded confidence and capability without an oversized ego, and she just knew that he would always take care of what was his. 

A sigh came unbidden to her lips.  Talk about the perfect fodder for a romance novel. 

She couldn’t help but wonder what Michael had thought of her, if he gave her any thought at all.  He hadn’t seen the real Maggie; he’d seen her wild alter ego.  The real Maggie didn’t single-swallow shots of bourbon, or dance the dance of the seven veils in a room full of men at a bachelor party.  The real Maggie didn’t wear makeup or sexy clothes.  She farmed, she cooked, she baked.  Her computer skills let her work some consulting jobs from the comfort and safety of her own home, allowing her to scrape together just enough to keep the bills and taxes paid. 

The more she thought about it, the more glad she was that Michael had seen
Magdalena
.  Because if he had run across her as plain old
Maggie
, he would never have given her a second glance.

She sighed, shuffling along the hardwood-flooring, one hand on the wall for support.  Despite the unfortunate accident and the aches and pains now surfacing with a vengeance, Maggie couldn’t find it in herself to regret the decision to help Sherri out.  It
had
been fun.  For a little while she had been allowed to be someone else – someone free and passionate, wild and sensual – so unlike the hard-working, quiet, do-the-right-thing girl she normally was.  And, more importantly, she had met Michael, something that probably never would have happened under different circumstances.  Even if she knew nothing could come of it, she could tuck away the memory of his dazzling smile, brilliant blue eyes, and soft, soothing voice for when she needed it. 

Maggie had to blink several times as she pushed open the swinging door and stood in the doorway, not quite believing her eyes.  George didn’t even notice her, his attention focused solely on the huge male positioned in front of the stove. 
Michael
.  He hadn’t run.  He was still here. 

Maggie swallowed hard.  Geez, he looked good, even better than her concussed, bourbon-soaked mind remembered.  In a heavy flannel shirt, untucked and unbuttoned, worn over the white wife-beater tank, a pair of well-worn Levi’s conforming to a perfect backside.  The shadow of a beard – dark like his hair - graced his strong, masculine jaw.  His blue-black hair was slightly messy, as if he’d recently run his hands through it.  He wore it shorter than his brothers did, in the back at least.  It was still just long enough to give him a touch of that bad boy look, especially the way he allowed it to grow a little longer in the front, hanging down teasingly to his brows when he inclined his head a certain way. 

And he was barefoot. 

In her kitchen. 

Making breakfast. 

Dear sweet Virgin Mary
.

She stood there, rooted to the spot, convinced she was dreaming.  Perhaps she had a concussion after all.  If so, she wasn’t sure it was such a bad thing.  If the next few days were filled with visions like this, well...

George finally noticed her.  His tail started thumping, catching Michael’s attention.  He followed the dog’s eyes to where she stood in the doorway.

His eyes raked her from head to toe before a dazzling smile lit his face, making her blush furiously.  She could only imagine what she looked like.  Why hadn’t she visited the bathroom first? She could have at least splashed some cold water on her face, or combed the tangled mess of hair she knew had to bear a striking resemblance to Medusa’s right about now.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice even deeper than she remembered, giving her shivers up and down her entire body.  “How are you feeling?” 

“I think I’m hallucinating,” she said weakly, leaning against the frame for support as her hand rubbed gently at her face.  In two long strides he crossed the floor and towered next to her.

Concern etched his perfect features as he cupped her face and tilted it up to his, looking intently into her eyes.  His hands were so big and warm, commanding yet infinitely gentle.  Maggie fought the urge to lean into him; it would have been so easy.  Instead she concentrated on trying to keep her trembling legs beneath her. 

“Why do you say that?” he asked, staring first into one eye, then switching to the other.

Because the hottest, sexiest man I’ve ever seen is in my kitchen making breakfast
.  She read about something like this in a romance novel once.  The man ended up lifting the woman onto the table and having
her
for breakfast.    She shook her head – slightly – trying to dispel that lovely image.

“Because you’re here.”

M
ichael couldn’t help the grin that simply appeared on his face as she allowed him to lead her over to the table.  Did she have any idea how absolutely adorable she looked, standing there in an oversized man’s shirt (
his
shirt), only the tips of her fingers visible, with her tousled curls and her flushed cheeks?  Not even the dark purple bruise extending from her right temple to her jaw could detract from her beauty.  It was strangely exotic, while at the same time, evoking a powerful and protective instinct within him. 

Michael pressed down gently on her shoulders, guiding her into the chair.  Her eyes were much clearer than they had been the night before, as sharp and multi-faceted as finely cut crystal.  One was at least partially open, the other wide and regarding him with genuine puzzlement and a touch of suspicion. 

“Seriously, why are you here?”

That was an excellent question.  Too bad he didn’t have an acceptable answer for it yet.  ‘I didn’t want to leave’, while true enough, seemed neither appropriate nor adequate at this stage.  So he tried a little misdirection instead.  It had always worked for his younger brother Ian. 

“You weren’t exactly honest with me,” he chided.  “You led me to believe there was someone here who would take care of you last night.”

“I said I didn’t live alone,” she corrected as he pulled a chair up close to hers, nudging his large body against the inside of her knees.  Her breath caught audibly when he leaned in and looked deeply into her eyes.  “That’s not quite the same thing.” 

* * *

A
ll that man, all that heat between her thighs made her heart race faster. 
He’s a doctor,
she told herself repeatedly. 
Looking at you as nothing more than a patient.  Get a grip.
Yet no part of her rational mind could explain away the scorching chills his closeness seemed to generate. 

She
really
had to stop reading those Salienne Dulcette novels.

“Hmmm,” he hummed, and she immediately felt like a naughty child who had just been caught telling a fib.  The tips of his fingers skillfully examined the side of her head and face as she clamped her lips shut, determined not to let the sigh escape.  His touch was gentle, and sent thousands of little electrical impulses down her neck, searing through to the tips of her breasts, and right to the juncture at her thighs.  It took a lot of effort to keep her breathing controlled and even, especially when her heart was pounding against the inner walls of her chest so hard she was certain he could hear it. 

Why did he have to be so freaking good looking?  Weren’t doctors supposed to be old and pudgy with glasses and the personality of a dishrag?  And weren’t they supposed to smell like antiseptic and latex, not like peppermint and coffee and warm spice and male musk? 

Hell
.  This man was not like any doctor she’d ever seen.  He was far too gorgeous and aromatic to be in her kitchen, sitting on her chair, examining
her
. 

She caught her breath when his index and middle fingers paused at the pulse point just under the side of her jaw where it pounded furiously.  His expression stilled for a moment as his eyes sought out hers questioningly, then he looked away, the hint of a knowing smile pulling at those delicious-looking lips. 

Damn it
.  He knew exactly what he was doing to her.  What was it about him that made her lose control?  Maggie Flynn was an intelligent, capable woman.  There was absolutely no reason she should be responding to him like a star-struck teenager, and it irritated her enough to be able to focus on the situation at hand again.

Did he feel sorry for her?  Was that it?  She rejected that idea almost immediately.  Michael wasn’t the pitying type.  How she knew that with such certainty, she wasn’t sure, but she did.  He was caring and kind and would be the first one to help, but never out of pity. 

Maggie couldn’t fault him for that.  No, if she was perturbed with anyone it was herself for being the one to put him in this situation.  Worse, she hated that there was some small part of her that secretly hoped Michael had stayed out of something more than a sense of professional duty.  That small part was currently being bludgeoned by her much stronger practical, rational side; the realist within her that said she was a fool for even considering it. 

And, it logically pointed out, even if he had stayed out of something more than a professional interest, it was Magdalena he was attracted to, not Maggie. 

“You still didn’t answer my question.  Why are you here?”

* * *

S
atisfied that she exhibited no obvious signs of a concussion and was in no immediate danger, Michael stood and went back to the counter.  He poured her a cup of coffee and placed a plate of eggs, toast, and bacon in front of her.  She stared at it as if she had never seen such a thing before in her life.