Jesus. Mac isn’t the only one skilled at silent communication around here.
“Ms. James!” Elle’s voice echoes off the walls as she strides toward me, a welcoming smile beaming from behind her red lipstick.
See, now this is the kind of greeting a girl deserves.
I see Mac’s head snap up at my name and a trill of pleasure races through me.
“Ms. Valentine,” I respond, pretending not to watch Mac in my peripheral vision.
Elle reaches me and we shake hands.
“I’ve already told you. Please, call me Elle.”
I smile back. “Of course. And call me Poppy.” I catch myself before I tack on some comment about Poppy being better than the various other names I’ve been called before. Totally smooth.
“Has anyone ever told you you look stunning in red, Poppy?” She laughs before I can answer. “Of course! It goes right along with your name. How charming.”
Either Elle has been sampling the sauce already, or she’s just in an exceptionally good mood. Either way, I’m grateful.
I’m about to compliment her on her outfit, as any woman worth her salt would naturally do in response, when Mac approaches.
I think for a split second that he’s going to lean down and kiss me, a thought which sends all my blood racing for the hills. It occurs to me we never explicitly talked about my wish to keep my professional and personal lives completely separate.
But I don’t have to worry. He just nods with a quick, “Ms. James.” His eyes, however, send a completely different greeting. One that, if I’m not mistaken, is something along the lines of, “Tell these people to get the hell out of here.”
Naveed is gonna have a hell of a time with Mac, I can tell already.
“I was thinking we should shoot Angus in the corner piece.” Elle points to a curved affair nestled in the studio’s corner. “It’s going up for auction next month at a fundraiser so it will be the last chance to capture him in a shot with it.”
My eyes swing to Mac. “You’re doing an auction?”
“He does several throughout the year. The man does love his charities.” Elle fills me in.
“So I hear.”
Elle blinks and then her gaze turns the slightest bit assessing.
Shit!
“Well,” I say a bit too loud. “I know Mirren already has several shots in mind and she’ll work her magic.”
“Of course.” Elle’s tone is definitely distracted now.
“Mr. McKinley, if you would?” Naveed calls from the other side of the room where he stands with Mirren and her assistant by a low-sitting chaise.
I swear I hear Mac growl before he turns and crosses the space to Naveed.
Elle turns to watch him walk away, making it ridiculously awkward if I pretend I don’t notice the giant gorilla in the room.
Then my heart ceases beating when her next words are, “So, how long have you and Angus been screwing?”
Seventeen
“Women who wear red lipstick always have more fun.”
– Cookie Rutledge
Consider me a cartoon character falling off a cliff right about now, my extended, slow-motion “Noooooooooooo” echoing off the canyon walls.
“You should see your face,” Elle says. And then she smiles. The woman actually smiles. “I wasn’t sure until just now, but your face says it all.”
I couldn’t find my voice in a paper sack with both hands.
She laughs and puts a hand on my arm at my guppy impression. “I think it’s perfect.”
My head jerks back. “You do?” Then I remember exactly what she’s referring to and I hurry on. “I mean, we’re not…” My eyes dart between Elle and Mac.
She shrugs. “Maybe not yet, but I know he fancies you.”
Fancies me? I’m pretty sure no one in the history of time has ever accused Mac McKinley of fancying anything.
“Don’t look so shocked. He’s only a man. He has needs just like any other man.”
There is no good response to this. I just know it. So I smile nervously instead.
“I’ll admit, there was a time when I thought about… trying him on for size, but we’re much better as friends. Besides, he’s a disaster at dinner parties.” She chuckles.
“I can imagine,” I finally eek out.
“I also don’t have the patience for a project, if you know what I mean.”
My shoulders tense. I’m not sure I like her—or anyone—making implications like that about Mac.
“I can’t say that I do.” I know my tone gives away my irritation, something that doesn’t go undetected.
Her hand is on my arm again. “Oh, wow. I’ll bet that sounded awful. It’s not what I meant at all, Poppy. I love Angus like my own family, but he does come with a lot of baggage. Not that any of it is his fault. Quite the opposite, actually.” She sighs. “I can be a selfish bitch at times, I’ll admit.”
My eyes seek out Mac without me meaning to. He’s got his hands propped on his hips and is giving Naveed and Mirren a few of his short nods. I can see the tension in his neck and it makes me want to walk right over there and soothe it with my fingers—or my lips. Instead, I take a breath and bring my gaze back to Elle. She’s watching me with her brilliant blue eyes.
Despite my fondness of her, a thread of resentment winds through me at the knowledge that she knows Mac—really knows him, in a way I’m pretty certain he would never let me. She knows his past, his struggles, his entire story, and all I know is that he talks with his eyebrows, has a protective streak, and likes classic rock. So it doesn’t matter that he and Elle aren’t romantically or sexually involved. She has a piece of him I’ll never have.
“Oh, Poppy, I didn’t mean to make you sad. Look what I’ve done.” Her perfectly manicured fingers squeeze my arm in reassurance. “He’s all bluster at first, that’s all. Before you know it, he’ll be spilling all his dirty laundry and you won’t even know what to do with the big lug.” She smiles again at me and I muster a return one.
“I wish I could say more, but it’s his story to tell. The part I can say is that I promised his dad I’d look out for Angus, and from what I can tell, you’ll be good for him.”
I speak before I think. “Is that why you call him Angus?”
Her brows draw together.
“You call him Angus instead of Mac. Is that what his dad called him?”
Her expression turns almost soft. “No. Angus, Sr. called him a sheòid. It means my warrior.”
At those words, I can practically feel my heart cracking open another inch—putting me that much closer to inevitable heartbreak.
Elle releases me and takes a step back. “Well, I’m so glad he finally agreed to the interview. I was certain it was a lost cause, and I believe I have you to thank.”
A small smile touches my lips. “To tell the truth, I don’t have a clue what changed his mind.”
Elle tuts. “Don’t be so modest. I told you he’s smitten.”
Another term I wouldn’t associate with Mac. Is it because I don’t actually know the first thing about him?
My response is a blush I wish I could erase.
“I have to tell you I’m so grateful. Sometimes the man makes it impossible for me to do my job.” She winks at me, her long eyelashes brushing her cheek.
“How so?”
“Don’t get me wrong, his work is superb, but it doesn’t sell itself. You’re part of the game so you know better than most that it’s all about exposure.” Her eyes travel to Mac and mine follow. His posture is the picture of closed off as Naveed tosses questions at him.
A quiet chuckle bubbles up my throat. “You need to ask for a raise.”
Elle’s laugh bounces off the walls, making it hard to quell my own responding laughter. And when Mac turns, sending us his classic broody frown, it’s really no use even trying.
* * *
“Loki’s balls, it’s like drawing blood from a stone. Thank God the photos are stunning.” Naveed loose
ns his tie and then rolls down his window. It seems we chose a taxi without air conditioning.
I snicker at Naveed’s assessment.
“I take back everything I may have said behind your back about your initial interview.”
This earns him an elbow to the kidneys. “Jerk.”
“Joking. I didn’t say a word—out loud, at least. But I think I have enough, especially with some of Elle’s input and the bit about the charity angle. Although he was silent as ever about its origins. No worries, though, I can do some digging.”
I shift on the vinyl seat and refrain from begging him not to. Instead, I steer him away. “Well, it’s not a cover feature, so I’m sure all the beautiful furniture and his process will be riveting enough.”
Naveed blows out a breath as the cab driver takes a sharp turn that has me gripping the seat for dear life. “Remind me to buy you dinner for making that small miracle possible.”
I breathe in a lungful of much-needed oxygen at the memory of Mac standing in his forge before the orange and gold glow of the fire. While he didn’t actually make anything or even wield his hammer for his gathered audience, he did agree to setting the scene and being photographed in his element.
Gone was the button-down and it was just Mac. T-shirt, jeans, boots, and his stoic expression. Mirren could hardly contain herself, nor could Naveed or I. Although, I think I did a damn good job of covering up the effect the whole picture had on me. I feel a sudden urge to fan myself and it’s not due to the lack of air conditioning.
But Naveed’s assumption it was my doing is misplaced. All I did was nod in encouragement when it was suggested. Who knew Mac would actually allow it?
“Speaking of, what kind of stick does Jonathan have up his ass? I thought he was going to kick us all out when we dared trespass on the forge.” He tilts his head to me and waggles his brows. “But that whole scene has me feeling decidedly medieval.”
This makes me laugh because I know exactly what he means. Against the backdrop of fire and steel, Jonathan looked like he might try to behead the entire Warbey contingent when we moved the party to the forge. Besides running around barking at everyone not to touch anything, he focused on shooting daggers at me in particular, like I ever did anything to him. I kind of missed the bored yet rude Jonathan.
But Mac and Elle both appeared to ignore him, so I tried to do the same. I figured if Mac really didn’t want us in there, we wouldn’t be in there. He doesn’t need a bouncer.
“I’m not sure,” I respond. “But Mac must like him for a reason.”
Naveed turns in his seat. “Mac, is it?”
Dammit!
I do my best to cover. “Didn’t you hear him telling everyone to call him that?”
His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek and it takes him a moment to respond while I will my blood to stay away from my face. “I must have missed that.”
Gah.
“Well, let me know when the article is done and I’ll get right on the layout,” I say, telling him something he already knows. But it seems to do the trick because he lets my previous comment go and moves on to the next topic.
I have got to watch my big damn mouth!
* * *
Me: On a scale of one to ten, how bad was it?
My phone rings and I grin like a baby who’s just discovered feet.
“Hello? Who is this?” I decide to play with him.
I’m rewarded with a chest rumble I can feel in my sex.
“You busy tonight?”
“Why, do you have something else you want to show me?”
Oh my God. My sass has risen to a level five hundred.
Thankfully, he doesn’t directly answer.
“That depends.”
“On what?” I continue to play. Cookie and Bunny would be appalled that this guy keeps asking me out with no notice whatsoever, but they’d forgive him if they met him, I’m sure.
“On if you’re gonna wear that red dress.”
Oooooh my.
Needless to say, I’m not changing.
An hour later, Mac is at my door. I feel a little silly wearing this get-up, complete with heels, to answer my door at eight-thirty on a Wednesday night, but the hungry look in Mac’s eyes when he sees me wearing it makes any doubt go flying out the window.
As does his wordless entry into my apartment which is followed up by my back hitting the entry wall and Mac’s mouth crashing down on mine.
Talk about fire! Who needs a forge?
Unlike our other kisses, this one involves hands and skin and teeth and tongues. And it is exquisite. When his tongue glides past my lips to sweep against mine I lose the ability to stand. Luckily, Mac has his thighs pressed against my hips to hold me up as his upper half has to practically fold itself over to align our mouths.
With my legs not doing anything to help, he must figure I’m at his mercy—which I totally am—so he reaches one arm under my butt and boosts me up so he doesn’t have to give himself scoliosis to kiss me.
My squeak of surprise is lost in his mouth, though, as he continues to lick and bite at me while my hands bury themselves in his thick hair, giving me my first bit of unobstructed access to the glorious mess that it is. The strands are silky and lush, to many a woman’s great envy, and the skin beneath is hot. I let the fingers of one hand roam to his neck as I kiss him back with everything in me.
His lips, his tongue, the scrape of his stubble against my chin and cheeks—it’s all too much. I break free of his kiss to draw in a ragged breath and his mouth trails down my chin to my neck, making me moan. Hell, I don’t even know if he closed my front door, but I’m too caught up on our hot make-out session to open my eyes or care.
Mac’s hand drops from where it was holding the back of my neck and he brings it between us where the back of it grazes my breast over the red fabric of my dress. The contact sends me panting and gripping his t-shirt. When he lifts his head at the sounds I’m making, I finally open my eyes again to see that his pupils have all but overtaken his brown irises and his nostrils are flared like the snarling dragon I’ve suspected he is.
Whatever he sees in my expression prompts him to spin on his heel and stalk past my kitchen and table and on to the living room where my sofa sits, inviting us to use and abuse it. All the while, he’s carrying me with one hand under my butt, the other between my shoulder blades and my feet dangling about two feet above the ground. Until he sits his fine ass on the sofa, that is, and brings my legs around to straddle him.
And, that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I get my first feel of the other beast living in Manhattan.
I don’t even have time to fully react, though, because Mac’s mouth is back worshipping mine again as I savor his taste of mint, spice, and sweetness, a combination that is apparently the perfect recipe for horniness. I’m losing my damn mind as our tongues tangle and my hands go on an exploratory vacation across his chest, his back, his shoulders. There are so many ridges and bumps, the man has an entire mountain range under that t-shirt. And, because he’s wearing short sleeves, I get skin-on-skin contact as my fingers skate along his biceps and down to his corded forearms.
I arch into Mac as both his hands drop to my butt where it’s perched on his lap. He squeezes and pulls me into him, causing my dress to ride up even more than it already has to the point where I’m sure my panties are now on display. His movement seats his rock-hard member firmly against me and I can’t help it when I grind down on him a little.
He lets out one of his growly sounds and his grip on my ass tightens, kneading my flesh over my dress and making stars explode behind my eyelids.
This man’s touch, his taste, his heat—it’s all more addictive than hot fudge and I’m seriously considering quitting my new job just so I can dedicate all my time to being a complete glutton.
One of Mac’s hands leaves my butt and works its way between us, a true feat given how I’ve plastered myself to his chest. When his thumb sweeps over my right nipple I release his mou
th again, my head falling back while I focus on the sensation. He circles it again, bringing the peak to an aching point and then dipping his head down to cover it with his mouth. I can hear the scrape of his whiskers against the silky fabric of my dress and they may as well be brushing against the inside of my thighs for how sharply I react. I feel him capture the bud between his teeth and bite down just hard enough for the pleasure to shoot down my spine and right to my core. If he can do this to me with two layers of fabric between his mouth and my nipple, I’m scared to think how he’ll undo me when we’re naked.
Because we’re getting naked. There ain’t no two ways about that.
I’m not sure if it’s because he hadn’t planned on attacking me right away when I opened the door or if it’s because he suddenly remembers he has urgent business to attend to, but Mac cuts things short about two minutes after he does those magical things to my breast.
One minute he’s practically giving me an orgasm with his teeth and the next he has me on my feet and he’s stalking to my door with a raging hard-on and hair looking like it was styled by Albert Einstein himself.
He doesn’t take me out for a drink, he doesn’t tell me his deep dark secrets, and he doesn’t show me anything, apart from his deadly kissing skills.
He just departs as quickly and silently as he came, leaving me a keyed-up, sweaty, well-dressed mess. Is it possible to actually die from sexual frustration?
I put a hand out to the wall to steady myself while I look down at my clothes. My dress is still riding up around my hips and there’s a damp spot over my right nipple. As I try regaining my breath I realize I’m missing one of my heels, which could explain why it’s hard standing straight, but really, I know the real reason.
Once I’m confident I won’t fall over, I bend my knee and remove my other shoe, dropping it on the floor.
And, even though I’m now alone in my apartment, I open my mouth and say the one word I can think of to sum up what just happened.
Game Changer Page 15