by Jill Shalvis
Yep, two cookies left.
A double loser.
Jacob had his final check in hand, including the bonus that they’d earned by the skin of their teeth. It’d been a helluva tough forty-eight hours but he was done.
Free.
Leaving Scott’s office, he went by Maggie’s to say good-bye before heading to the airport. He hadn’t had a moment to breathe all day, but he’d thought about her. Thought about her and how she’d looked sitting on her worktable with no panties . . .
Her office was dark. He’d missed her. Frustrated, exhausted, and now disappointed, he left the building. It was a typical L.A. winter evening, fifty-five degrees with a rare addition—clouds gathering, blocking out any moon or starlight—not that there was ever much of that visible in downtown Los Angeles anyway.
The streets were decorated with red garland and festive colored lights, along with a long string of red brake lights—business traffic trying to get to the freeway. He walked through the parking lot and came to a surprised stop in front of Maggie, sitting on the curb by her car, eating . . . a cookie? “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself.”
“What are you doing?”
“Eating a cookie.”
“Okay.” He waited for her to expand on that but she didn’t.
“You can just ignore me,” she said instead.
Uh-huh. As if he could. Nothing about her was ignorable, not from the tips of her toes poking out her high-heeled sandals all the way up those sweet, lush curves to the strands of her adorably messy hair. “Why are you sitting on the curb?”
“I was talking on my cell to my sister. Just doing my part of the statistic that says the average American spends two years on the phone.”
“I’m not anywhere close to average.”
“I know. You’re bigger.” She covered her face. “Sorry. Sugar rush. Too many cookies. Waaay too many.”
She had a dab of chocolate on the corner of her mouth, and he found himself fixated on that. “What, no facts on cookies?”
“Oh, I have cookie facts. I was just trying to hold back.”
“You don’t have to hold back with me, Maggie.”
“Okay. Did you know it was Ruth Graves Wakefield who first used candy-bar chocolate in a cookie recipe while at the Toll House Inn circa 1930?” She waved a cookie. “And voilà, chocolate chip cookies were born.”
“Good one. So why are you sitting out here eating cookies?”
“Actually, technically, they’re your cookies.”
She was wearing another skirt today, a pencil skirt, with her legs demurely tucked beneath her, but he could see her knees, and the Band-Aids there. Her jacket was open over a blouse the same light blue as her eyes. She looked extremely buttoned up and extremely put together—if one didn’t count her hair, which was once again defying gravity with what appeared to be a stir stick shoved into it.
And the chocolate at the corner of her mouth, let’s not forget that, because he couldn’t tear his eyes off of it, or understand the sudden insane urge to lean down and lick it off.
But he had his bag packed and in his truck, and a plane to catch.
Maggie took the last bite of the cookie and brushed her fingers off. “I should have baked three dozen.”
“You bake?”
“Yes, and I’m good, too.”
“I bet you are.” He sat at her side, so tired he had no idea if he could get back up again. She smelled like chocolate. He had a feeling she would taste even better. Reaching out with his finger, he ran it over the corner of her mouth.
She pulled back. “What are you doing?”
“You have a little chocolate—”
“Oh, God.” Her tongue darted out, collided with the pad of his finger. It was like an electric bolt straight to his groin.
“Did I get it?”
“No.” He smiled. “You smeared it a little. Here.” Again he glided his finger over her lips, then sucked that finger into his own mouth.
Her eyes were glued to him. “Oh,” she breathed softly.
Yeah, oh. Traffic rushed all around them, and they sat there in their own little world. He had to get to the airport, and yet he didn’t get back up. Instead, he leaned in so that their mouths were only a breath apart. “Let me get that last little bit—”
“Where—” Her tongue darted out, attempting to lick the chocolate off. “There?”
He smiled. “No.”
She licked it again. “Now?”
“No.”
“Dammit, Jacob.”
“That’s Mr. Wrong, to you.” And still holding her face, he dropped his gaze from hers to look at her mouth, absorbing her little murmur of anticipation before he closed the gap and kissed her.
6
It was the sugar rush, Maggie told herself. That, combined with the feel of Jacob pressed up against her again, and the warmth of his mouth . . . God. This was all his fault for being such a good kisser, all his fault, she thought as she pulled him even closer.
His reaction was an immediate approving rumble from deep in his chest and a tightening of his arms. So she hugged him tighter and gave him some tongue.
Hauling her into his lap with a groan, he kissed her long and hard and wet right there in the parking lot, until her entire body shivered in delight and anticipation.
She knew what he could do for her now, to her, and that made the longing worse. Given the sound he made, and how deliciously hard he’d gotten, he felt the same. The thrill of that surged through her. This big, bad, gorgeous man had already had her and still wanted her.
She felt drunk on the knowledge. Or it might have been the sugar. Either way, he had one arm around her, the other on her jaw, holding her face for his kiss; but then he pulled back, let out an unsteady breath and a short laugh. “There’s no door to lock this time.” He rose and offered her a hand, turning to her car. “Uh-oh. What happened to your tire?”
“It got a flat.”
He crouched down next to it. “Yes, because someone slashed it.” He took a careful look around them before cutting his no-longer-heated eyes to hers. “How long were you sitting here alone before I came?
“Wait. Slashed ?” She took a closer look. “Do you think it was random?”
“Slashed tire seems pretty personal. You annoy anyone lately?”
“I annoy a lot of people. It’s part of my charming nature.” Spooked, she just stared at him. Her brain didn’t feel like it was getting enough oxygen, so she decided to sit. Her tire had been slashed. Merry Christmas to her.
Ah, hell. Jacob looked over Maggie’s head to where his truck was parked, complete with a plane ticket sitting on the front seat.
But he wasn’t going anywhere.
And not just because his heart rate was still affected by that kiss, or because Maggie’s lush mouth was still wet from his and he wanted to see what else was wet, but because he had a bad feeling that this smart, adorable, sexy woman who was nothing but trouble was in trouble. “Do you have a spare?”
“Yes.” Her voice was muffled, but then she lifted her head. “And I took a class on how to change it, too.”
Of course she had. He had a feeling this careful, organized, brilliant sexy mess could do anything she set her mind to.
“Is it hot?” she asked. “I feel hot. Maybe it’s nerves.”
“It’s not hot. It’s actually chilly.”
“Did you know that minus forty degrees Celsius is exactly the same as minus forty degrees Fahrenheit?”
“That’s a new one for me.” Knowing she was about to lose it, he took her hand. “Listen, how about I change the tire for you, while you call the police and make a report.”
“What if it’s just one of the twenty-two percent of random, senseless acts of violence that people face in their lifetime?”
He slid her a glance. “You know, you’d really kick ass on Jeopardy.”
“I already did. That’s how I paid for my PhD.”
He shook his head in admiration a
s he pulled out his cell phone and called the police himself, but due to a high volume of calls, they wouldn’t even come out and take a report.
“It’s okay.” Maggie pulled out her keys. “I’ll just get the spare—Uh-oh,” she said when she opened the trunk.
“Uh-oh?” He peered over her shoulder and saw nothing but stacks of craft supplies. “Where’s your spare?”
“My sister borrowed my car. She’s been volunteering at her kids’ school, and my trunk is bigger than hers. She must have taken out the spare.” She sighed. “Dammit. I’ll call her.”
“How about I just take you home?”
She lifted her gaze to his, her eyes still soft and heated, her cheeks flushed. “I don’t know.”
“You’re not spooked at having your tire slashed but you’re spooked at me driving you home?”
“Of course not.” She gnawed her cheek a moment. “It’s just that if we go to my house . . .”
He liked where that sentence was going. “Yeah?”
“Nothing. A ride would be great, thank you.”
She squirmed all the way to her place in the Glendale Hills above L.A., her brain working so hard he could practically hear the wheels whirling. He pulled into the gated complex of her condo unit and looked at her. “Maggie.”
She jumped. “Yes?”
“You do know this was just a ride, right?”
Her face flushed. “Of course. Just because we . . .”
“Had sex.”
She winced. “Yes, that. Which doesn’t mean we’re going to pull off all our clothes and have more sex.”
“Do you want to?”
She stared at him. “It was just a one-time thing.” She seemed to hold her breath. “Right?”
He stroked a strand of hair along her temple. “It’s whatever we want it to be. What do you want it to be, Maggie?”
“That’s sort of the problem,” she whispered. “I didn’t think this far ahead, which is really unlike me.”
“You like to think ahead.”
“I really do.”
“Okay, you go ahead and think on it then.” He walked her to her door, where she turned to face him, pressing her spine up against the wood. “Thanks so much for the ride, but you don’t have to come in.”
“I want to. I want to make sure you’re okay.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because someone slashed your tire.”
“That was random.”
“Okay, but if I promise not to look at you even if you do strip your clothes off, can I please come in and make sure everything’s okay?”
“You wouldn’t look?” She looked intrigued at this. “Really?”
“Not if you didn’t want me to.”
“Oh.” She looked so crestfallen, he laughed, and unable to help himself, he put his hands on her hips and pulled her in. “If you begged me,” he murmured in her ear. “Maybe I’d look then.”
She smiled, and it obliterated a few million of her brain cells.
“Okay, truth,” he said. “I’d look. I’d look for a long time, and then I’d touch.”
“Oh,” she breathed, sounding a little turned on. “Really?”
“And then I’d taste. I’d lick and nibble and—”
The sound of glass shattering broke the night’s silence. “What was that?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” She pulled out her keys and unlocked her front door, looking up at him questioningly when he held her back so he could enter first.
Her condo was dark, but enough of the streetlights shined in through the windows that he could see the living room was empty, and so was the kitchen. But the sliding glass door between the two, leading out onto a deck, was wide open to the night. “Did you leave the door like that?”
“No. No way.”
Which, given her anal tendencies, he believed without question. He ran to the glass and looked out, where he could see a tipped-over ceramic bowl and plant—the source of the noise they’d heard.
Someone had just left, in a big hurry. He glanced down, saw the broken lock and moved to the edge of the deck, leaning over to see the path that lined the entire complex, which was well lit both ways for as far as he could see. There wasn’t a single soul.
Her mysterious visitor had vanished.
He turned around and went back inside, where Maggie was turning on lights in the living room, revealing soft, muted beachy colors and a neat, minimalist style. He pulled out his cell phone to call the police. “Is anything missing?”
“No.”
He spoke to dispatch, was assured a car would come out to investigate, and slipped his phone into his pocket. He eyed the couch and matching chair, the coffee table, all perfectly arranged and perfectly neat. Much like the woman. “Let’s check upstairs.”
The minimalist trend continued on the second floor, with one big exception—her bathroom. While he stood in the doorway, mouth open, enthralled by the sight, she was hastily yanking down a forest of hanging lingerie. Yellow silk, blue satin, black lace, a virtual cornucopia of exoticness that made thinking all but impossible.
“Don’t look!” she demanded, shoving everything in a small drawer. She pulled at a simple white cotton thong that was maybe two square inches of material. “You’re still looking!” She was all breathless and adorably sexy, and desperate to hide her things. “Close your eyes!”
“I’m sorry,” he said with a laugh, when she twisted to glare at him. “I can’t hear a word you’re saying, you just blew all my remaining brain cells. Do you really wear all this . . . ?” He fingered a set of garters, black silk, and felt himself get hard.
“Yes.” She yanked it out of his fingers and shoved it into one of her pockets. “Lots of women wear pretty things beneath their clothes, you know. It’s not like I’m a freak.”
“Oh, baby, I never thought you were a freak.” He put his hands on her arms and halted her frenetic movements. “That’s not what I was thinking at all.”
“What are you thinking?” she whispered.
He looked into her beautiful face and those eyes that had a way of sneaking past all his defenses. “I’m thinking you’re the smartest, funniest, most fascinating woman I’ve ever met. And you’re so desperate to hide your sexy garters that I’m wondering what else you’re hiding.”
She ignored that. “Fascinating is a euphemism. You might as well say I have a good personality.”
“You do.”
“We both know what it means when someone says that. It means I’m a dog.”
At that, he tossed back his head and laughed.
“That’s funny?”
“Yes.” He hugged her from behind, turning them so that she faced the bathroom mirror. She had a baby blue bra in one hand and sea green panties in her other. Her hair was its usual rioted, gorgeous mess, and her face . . . Good God, she had a face that reached out and slayed his heart. “You’re beautiful,” he said, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “So goddamned beautiful, you take my breath away.”
She dropped the lingerie. Twisting in his arms until she faced him, she cupped his face. “You’re beautiful, too. I know you’re not supposed to tell a guy that, but it’s true. And I don’t mean just on the outside.” She sighed. “I’m sorry I ate all the cookies I made you, and I’m sorry I needed a ride home. You should go, I know you have a flight.”
Had a flight. “Are you sorry you chose me as your Mr. Wrong?”
“No.” Her gaze dropped to his mouth. “Do you think it was a fluke? You know, how good it was between us?”
He arched a brow. “A fluke?”
“Yeah. Maybe . . . maybe we should do it again. Just to make sure, you know?”
Suddenly the blood was rushing from his head for parts south. He nodded, and in the interest of getting to the “again”—which hopefully would involve some of that hot as hell lingerie, he leaned in. He’d just touched his mouth to hers, body hot and hard and ready, when from down below, her doorbell rang.
The po
lice had arrived.
“Maybe we can pretend we don’t hear them,” she whispered against his lips, all flushed and heated and sweet, sexy acquiescence in his arms.
He was all for that idea, but unfortunately the police weren’t going to be ignored. The doorbell rang again, and with a sigh, she backed out of his arms and headed out of the bathroom, the black garters sticking out of her pocket.
7
The police took a report, but with nothing missing, nothing even out of place other than the broken lock, they didn’t seem too hopeful on getting Maggie answers anytime soon.
When they were gone, she settled back against the front door and eyed the big, bad, sexy man standing in the middle of her living room. “Thanks for staying,” she said, her hormones much more firmly in control now that he wasn’t touching her. “I’ll be fine.”
He came close. His hands settled on the wood on either side of her face as he leaned in. He smelled like her idea of heaven, and looked good enough to eat—better than even her cookies.
“Will you?” he murmured.
“Absolutely. Maybe you can still catch your flight.”
“That ship has sailed.” He was so close that his body heat seeped into her bones, so close that she could feel that there wasn’t an ounce of softness to him, anywhere. “Back to our other conversation. So, Maggie Bell, what other secrets are you hiding?” He tilted his head, letting the tip of his nose glide along her jawline.
Oh, God. What was she hiding? Nothing. Nothing at all. Well, except that she’d apparently renewed her huge crush . . .
He came in even closer, and opened his mouth on her earlobe, making her eyes cross with lust.
“D-did you know that Kansas state law requires pedestrians crossing the highways at night to wear taillights?” she stammered.
“I didn’t. But what I do want to know is, how come you’ve denied your body pleasure for two years?”
“Nearly two years,” she corrected, and felt him smile against her skin. “And I haven’t completely denied myself. I have a showerhead.”
He laughed silkily and she bit her lip to keep any more ridiculous admissions from escaping, sucking in desperately needed air as he glided his mouth along her jaw to her throat. She was melting into a boneless puddle of longing when the doorbell rang again—making her nearly jump out of her skin. Pushing him aside, she ran down the stairs and opened the door to . . .