Merry and Bright (4 page)

She flashed another fake smile and rose, then winced and sat back down. “Honestly, it’s not hurting at all.”

“God, you are such a liar.” He shuffled through the kit. “Damn, I don’t have Band-Aids. I can’t believe it. Joe must have used them all last week when he staple-gunned his finger to the ceiling. The spray should help, though. Did you get a lot of it? Come on, let me see.”

“Can’t.”

“Why not? You have ugly knees?”

She rolled her eyes. “If you must know, I didn’t shave my legs.”

“Jesus, really? I’ll call the fashion police, stat.”

She wasn’t amused at his grin. “It’s not funny. I haven’t been as diligent lately since I’m not dating.”

He sat back on his heels, fascinated by this, by her. “So you only shave your legs for a date?”

“Well, it’s a time sink otherwise, and—Never mind.” She lifted her chin. “My point is, I can’t show you my legs if I haven’t shaved them.”

“Maggie, I don’t care.”

With a look that said she was prepared for his disgust, she finally pulled her skirt up past her knees.

His smile caught in his throat. Disgust was the last thing he felt. She was definitely wearing silk, which had torn and snagged at both knees, but that wasn’t what caught his interest and held it. Nope, that honor went to the fact that her silk stopped at mid-thigh, or one did; the other had sagged down just above her bloody knee, held there by what appeared to be an inch-wide strip of stretchy lace.

If she’d been this sexy in high school, he’d been blind. He tried to control himself, but suddenly all he could think about was what she’d look like in that silk and her white lab coat and nothing else.

As if she could see his wicked, dirty little thoughts, she let out a sound that managed to convey what she thought of him, and snatched the antiseptic herself. “I got this.”

“Okay.” He straightened and jammed his hands in his pockets, waiting for her to deal with it, letting out a slow, long breath, practicing some multiplication problems in his head . . . anything to make sure his brain didn’t focus in on those sexy as hell thigh-highs. But she slowly rolled the stocking down, past the scraped knee, and—

“Don’t look!”

“I’m not.”

“You are so.”

Yeah, he was.

“What, you’ve never seen a clumsy woman tear her stockings before?”

“I’ve never seen a beautiful woman so unaware of herself before.”

Her gaze snapped up to his, and he let her look her fill, which she did with a wary hunger that quite frankly turned him on more than the stockings, more than any woman had in a long time.

“So I have a little thing for lingerie,” she said defensively, and sprayed her knees again. “And dammit,
ouch.
”

He put a hand on her thigh, bent, and blew on the scrapes.

She gasped.

Nope, he wasn’t alone in this odd and inexplicable attraction. “Maggie?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re crazy if you think I have a problem with your lingerie.”

“It’s not that I’m crazy. Although in general, women are thirty-seven percent more likely to need a psychiatrist.”

That made him smile. “You know some interesting things.”

“I know, it’s odd. I’m . . . odd. I dress in lab coats every day and I wear glasses, and my hair—Well, just never mind about my hair. I know what I look like. Wearing sexy underwear gives me the illusion of
being
sexy, at least in my own mind.”

He took in her slightly disheveled, sexy-as-hell appearance and shook his head. “Hate to argue with someone thirty-seven percent more likely to need professional help, but there’s no illusion here. You
are
sexy as hell.”

She blushed beet red. “And not that it’s any of your business, but the thigh-highs are far better for the female body anyway, and—” She broke off when he slipped his hand around the back of one calf and lifted her leg enough to get a good look at her trashed knees.

“And . . . ?” he prompted, when she didn’t finish.

“And . . .” She slid her eyes to his hand on her. “I lost my train of thought.”

“You were talking about your lingerie fetish.”

She pushed him back a step. “It’s not a fetish!”

“Okay.”

“It’s not!” She shook her head and let out a breath. “Oh, forget it.” She thrust the antiseptic spray at him and got up. As she straightened her legs, she sucked in another breath.

“Still hurt?”

“It’s just scraped knees.” She shoved her nose up into nose-bleed heights. “I’ll be fine.” She put a hand to his chest to push him out of her way, then frowned down at her hand.

“Yeah,” he said, feeling the pull at the touch. “Quite a punch, huh?”

“What’s quite a punch?”

“The chemistry. Our chemistry. Fitting, I think, since chemistry is where we first met.”

She paused. “You think we have chemistry?”

“I guess it could be static electricity.”

She choked out a laugh, looking down at her fingers, still spread over his chest. “Do you remember me catching you in that empty classroom with that girl?”

He went blank a moment, then grimaced. “Oh, shit. Yeah. Look, in my defense, I was an idiot back then.”

She limped to the window, which looked over the courtyard, and farther, back to her own lab. “Hey, my light’s on,” she said with surprise. “I didn’t leave my light on.”

“Maybe you forgot.”

“No. I shut down my laptop, locked my files, filled my briefcase with everything I need to work at home tonight, and then shut off my light. Like I do every single night.”

“It happens.”

“Not to me.” She took a hobbling step toward the door, and he sighed. “Give me your keys. I’ll run back and flip it off for you.”

She hugged her keys to her chest. “That would be against the rules.”

“And you always follow the rules. Even if your gut tells you otherwise.”

“Well, yes.”

“Doing my homework for me was against the rules.”

“I didn’t look at it like that.” She sagged a little. “I was trying to help you, and . . .”

“And?”

“And I had a crush on you. Which you had to know.”

He paused, then let out a breath. “Yeah, but like I said, I was an idiot back then.”

“No, I think you’re onto something. Not about breaking the rules, but about following your gut. I need to do that for this situation.” She looked very determined. “Follow my gut.”

“Which situation?”

She hesitated.

“Tell me.”

“You’re very different,” she said. “Direct.”

“Saves a lot of time. Save time, Maggie.”

“Okay, if you must know, I’m determined to need to shave my legs more often. How’s that for direct? But not for my usual Mr. Right, because my usual Mr. Right always turns out to be Mr. Wrong. Using reverse psychology, when I shave my legs, it’s going to be for a Mr. Wrong, and a night I won’t easily forget. One night, and then we both just walk away. Do you understand?”

He blinked. “You need a razor.”

With a frustrated sound, she walked out of the lab. He followed her limping form back down the hallway. “At least let me give you a lift.”

“No, I’m good.”

He watched her hobble another moment, then grabbed her, and turning his back to her, bent at the knees and hoisted her up.

“Hey—”

“Just a piggyback, relax.” Which he realized was going to be next to impossible for the woman who probably never relaxed, just as she never broke the rules.

“Don’t touch my legs.”

How did a woman like this even have sex? “Hold on,” he commanded, locking her hands together across his chest.

“Oh, God.”

Yeah. If their
accidental
touch had set off sparks, there was a fire blazing now that she had her breasts smashed to his back and her legs around his waist. He lowered his hands to her thighs to hold her up. Her skirt was long and gauzy, and stretchy enough that she wasn’t flashing anyone behind him. Her modesty was perfectly intact, except for the fact that her crotch was pressed against his lower back, but he decided not to mention that.

But he felt it, felt the heat of her, and suddenly he needed to do some relaxing of his own, especially when he spread his fingers to touch as much of her as he could and she shivered, pressing her forehead to his shoulder.

He understood. But it was one thing to fantasize about the pretty scientist geek, and another entirely to think about doing more than just fantasizing.

As he strode with her down the hallway, a few of his men gave him a second look, some even taking a third and fourth look. No one said a word, though, as he carried her, trying not to enjoy the feel of her legs hugging his hips, her breasts up against his back, and utterly failing as he took her past the offending toolbox and to her closed lab.

Which was locked up tighter than a drum.

“Key’s in my pocket,” she said in his ear.

He slid a hand to her hip, and she sucked in a breath. “I’ll get it!”

“Okay, okay. Just trying to help you out.”

“Letting me down would be helping me out.”

“Sure.” He loosened his hold on her legs, allowing her to slide down his back, making sure it was a slooowwwww slide, because there was something about having her legs wrapped around him, about the heat between those legs—

“You have a dirty mind,” she said.

“Hey, I didn’t say a word.”

“You were thinking it. You were thinking about us . . .”

“Yes?”

“Having sex,” she whispered.

“We’d both have to be facing the other way for that.”

“Argh,” she responded, or something close to that, and dug into her own pockets for her key. She unlocked the door, flipped on the lights, and nearly shut the door in his face when he didn’t step inside fast enough. “I’ve got it from here, thanks.”

“Just wanted to see your world.” He stepped into the room, which was as neat and tidy as he imagined it would be. There was a long table against one wall, lined with microscopes and other various equipment, another worktable along a second wall, with sinks and burners and lights, and a center workstation, behind which sat a neat black chair and a white lab coat over the back of it.

“Home sweet home,” she said, and strode toward the center workstation. “Thanks for the TLC, good night.”

“What’s your hurry, you have your Mr. Wrong waiting for you at home?”

The tips of her ears went pink. “I shouldn’t have told you. In any case, I changed my mind.”

“Look at that, you’re lying again.”

“I . . .” She flipped on another light. “Okay, yes, I’m lying.”

“Why? Am I your Mr. Wrong?”

“What?” She whipped back to face him, dropping her keys.

One look at her face had him letting out a surprised laugh. “Me? Really?”

“You were only guessing.” She let out a breath and shook her head at herself. “Of course you were only guessing.”

Fascinated, he moved in close. “So what exactly was it that you wanted from your Mr. Wrong?”

“Nothing. Because trust me, I’m so over it.” And with that, she walked out of the lab, into a connecting bathroom, whose door she shut and locked.

4

M
aggie stared at herself in the small mirror over the bathroom vanity. “You are an idiot.” She opened a drawer, searched around, and
yes,
found her own damn Band-Aids. Then she pulled out her cell and called Janie. “You’re
not
getting a Christmas present.”

“Oh, no. You promised. You’re going to do Mr. Wrong.”

“I am not going to have hot sex with that man. He’s . . .”
Gorgeous. Hot.
“Insufferable.”

Jacob’s voice came through the door. “I’m not insufferable during hot sex, I promise.”

Dammit! “I’ve got to go,” she hissed to Janie. Red as a beet, she opened the door and found Jacob sitting on one of the worktables, a big mixing bowl on one side, toying with her electric mixer on his other. He held up a thistle tube and dropper. “I feel like we’re back in chem lab.”

She just looked at him, tall, big, and rough-and-tumble, a bull in her china shop. She couldn’t help but picture them back in chem lab, where she’d once dreamed of him clearing the workstation with one swooping hand, then laying her down and—

He hopped off the table and patted the spot he’d just vacated. “Come here.”

When she didn’t, he merely scooped her up himself and put her on the counter himself.

“Hey—”

Taking the Band-Aids from her fingers, he tore one open and smiled at her as he took ahold of the hem of her skirt. “It’s like we’re playing doctor.”

She slapped at his hand, which didn’t deter him. “We are
not
playing doctor.”

“Spoilsport.” He pushed her skirt up above her knees and put on the Band-Aids, during which time she became hyperaware of the feel of his fingers on her skin, of the fact that when he was bent over her that way, she could smell his soap and absorb the heat of his body. But mostly she became aware of her own breathing and how it’d quickened, but once he’d finished and yet left his hands on her, the opposite happened and she stopped breathing entirely. “You listened to my conversation with my sister.”

“Yes.”

“This is a little awkward.”

“Not for me.”

Dammit. “Okay, so you were my Mr. Wrong of choice.”

“Because . . .”

She grimaced, hating to admit this. “Because historically speaking, I tend to go for a certain type of guy.”

“Uh-huh. Someone like yourself probably. A little anal, a little uptight—”

“Yes,” she agreed, trying not to be insulted. How was it that he could be both so gorgeous and so irritating? “But it’s no longer working for me. Hence the juvenile behavior of my sister and I, and me going for my Mr. Wrong in the first place. I just wanted to . . . feel. I wanted . . .”

“Hot sex.”

He was smiling again, and she gritted her teeth. “Nothing permanent.”

“How long has it been for you?”

“That’s not really any of your business.”

“How long?”

“Not quite two years.” One year, eleven months, two weeks and three days, not that she was counting or anything.

“So you wanted me to be your Mr. Wrong,” he said. “To break your not-quite-two-year dry spell with some hot sex.” He arched his brow. “Were there any particulars? Special requests? Kinks?”