He winced at the feel of her hand on his back, soft and warm through the sweaty fabric of his T-shirt. “And then you put yourself back together,” she whispered. “And you did a damn good job.”
“Did I?” he said, turning around and fixing her with his gaze. If she touched him again, he would break. “I’m hiding. I wasn’t honest with you. At first I was so worried about what would happen if you went through with taking photos of me, I couldn’t think about anything but more press, more local reporters. And then you meant so much to me, I couldn’t bear what you would think if you knew the truth.”
She shook her head silently, her eyes full again, tears rolling down her flushed cheeks. But he wasn’t finished.
“Don’t you get it, Mackenzie?” he said, walking across the room, away from her, away from the grief and the pain in her eyes. “Even after I figured out I was falling for you, I kept going. I kept drawing out the work on the studio, finding things to fix in the cottage, so I could have you to myself a little longer. Even when I knew you would never want a man like me if you knew the truth, even when I figured out I was hurting you by staying…”
“You’re not making sense,” she murmured, following him, taking his hand and forcing him to look at her. In the half light, her eyes were incredibly dark, but they were full of emotion. Understanding, compassion. Love.
“Aren’t I?” he said. “Didn’t I do those things?”
“Maybe,” she said, winding her arms around him. Her body’s soft, giving curves felt so good against him. “Everyone makes mistakes, Leo. Not everyone tries to correct them.”
Had he done that? Or had he just hidden? Sure, he didn’t drink anymore, and he worked hard at an honest business, but what about the rest? All those years ago, he’d done whatever the hell he wanted to, whatever felt good, because no one told him not to. A little excess was practically a pre-req for a rocker. And no one had cared about him, not really—no one was interested in Leo Dawson, the man. They wanted Leo Dawson, the rock star, the guy with money and influence on the music scene, the guy with bottles of scotch to burn and no second thoughts about doing the craziest thing anyone could propose. They wanted the scent of fame to rub off on them. They wanted stories to tell their friends. They wanted the perks, the photo ops, the backstage passes. And the few people he’d cared about—his family, his long-ago girlfriend, the one who’d been there when Joe’s Garage hit it big—had paid the price. He wouldn’t do that to Mackenzie.
Not that she was giving him a choice, apparently.
Tugging him toward the sofa, she pushed him back onto it and climbed in his lap, straddling his thighs and smoothing her hands over his skull.
“I could tell you so many things,” she said, leaning down to kiss his jaw, his cheek, his forehead, feather-light kisses that were tenderness as well as desire. “I could explain the things I’ve learned about myself, the things I’ve figured out about life and love, just in the past few hours. But I’ll keep it to this. I don’t want perfect. I don’t want a picture-postcard life, or what’s traditionally expected of a woman like me. I want you. I want the…eating seafood together, and making love in the rain, and crazy-sounding red cabinets that look awesome, and showing you my photographs, and maybe, just maybe, hearing you play the guitar. I want to be together, no matter how hard it gets, because it’s going to be worth it. Love always is.”
Love. His heart thudded against its cage, and a knot of emotion formed in his throat. She loved him. She knew who and what he was, and she loved him. He could spend the rest of his life showing her how much he loved her.
“A life with you is more than worth it,” he said between sudden, hot kisses, his hands tangling in her hair. “Always, only with you. I love you, Mackenzie Pruitt. I may have saved your shed, but you saved me. From myself.”
“I had ulterior motives,” she whispered, stroking his chest, her cheek warm and soft against his jaw. “I want you around for good, Leo Dawson. I want to spend my life with you.”
He couldn’t believe he was actually hearing those words. Couldn’t believe that it wasn’t over between them, that she loved him no matter what. It was almost too much. And he was going to prove to her, every day, that she hadn’t made the wrong choice. That loving him was going to make her happier than any other woman on earth.
He stood up, bringing her with him, her legs wrapped around his waist, her arms around his neck, desire coursing through him in a hot wave. “I want to start the rest of our lives right now,” he murmured. “In my bedroom.”
She kissed him, hot and urgent, as he made his way toward the bed. “I thought you’d never ask.”
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Cody sipped her beer, her legs stretched out with her boots propped on one of the four chairs circling her table. The bar was dim; only a few low-watt overheads kept the room from total darkness.
It was the middle of the week and not very crowded—two men sat on stools at the bar while three women on the prowl lounged at one of the scarred tables closer to the door. Cody had already seen them turn down the two men as they waited for something better to come along. Apparently, they were picky about who they screwed.
She couldn’t fault them for that.
She rested her beer against her lips and tipped the bottle. The Bud Light was already room temperature. Hell, she didn’t know why she was still there. A week of little sleep, living on crackers smeared with peanut butter and drinking flat soda had taken its toll on her. She should be at home in bed. Tiredness seeped out of every pore.
When she glanced up, the reason she’d hung around strolled through the door looking dangerously attractive. Like her, he’d gotten rid of his vest. The deep green T-shirt molded to each sinewy muscle while his jeans hugged every inch of his sexy thighs. He could put Calvin Klein male models to shame.
He surveyed the room until his gaze landed on her, and stopped. The little half grin that always sent tingles down her spine appeared—as well as the tingles down her spine.
Crap, she should’ve left. But then, maybe he was worth a little self-torture.
Casually, she watched as he came toward her. The three women zeroed in on him, their antennae going up. She could almost see the drool running down the sides of their mouths.
One of the three stood. Apparently, the leader of the pack. A frizzy-haired blond bimbo withfuck me flashing on her forehead. She wore a tight black leather skirt up to her ass cheeks and a knit shirt so low her silicone-enhanced boobs practically spilled out. She went so far as to stand in Josh’s path.
Cody had to give Josh credit—he walked around the woman as if she wasn’t even there and didn’t seem to notice when she flounced to the bar to order another drink.
He stopped at Cody’s table. “You waited.”
“Yeah, right, in your dreams,” she said with a very unladylike snort. “As soon as I finish this I’m out of here. Sorry to disappoint you.”
He pulled a chair out, flipped it around, and straddled it. He didn’t look a bit put out by her rudeness as he rested his chin on the top chair rung and stared at her.
What the hell had she been thinking? Hanging around the bar this long had been a terrible idea.
She’d reached her self-torture limit, and then some. Josh was one of the bad boys. The ones who enjoyed the chase almost as much as they did the victory.
Foreplay. That’s all it was to them. She’d seen too many females fall prey to a man in low-slung jeans, boots, and a cowboy hat. Josh had left his hat behind, but he might as well be wearing it the way the three women had given him the once-over.
“Can’t we just talk?”
“Your kind never wants to just talk,” she countered.
“I won’t even touch you.” He straightened, opening his hands in supplication. “Talking, that’s all we’ll do.”
“Talking?” She didn’t trust him, but then, she didn’t trust anyone.
He continued before she could ask what exactly she was supposed to be feeling—other than sexually starved.
“You know, the rush of adrenaline that quickens your pulse when you bring down a skip. It takes me at least a couple of hours to unwind. Help me out. Just talk.”
Bad thing was, she knew exactly what he meant. She might look calm on the outside, but on the inside she was wound tighter than an eight-day clock. She doubted talking would help, but he was right. She didn’t want to go home to a cold, empty apartment.
She nodded toward him. “You talk, I’ll listen.”
“Fair enough. What do you want to know? Ask me anything and I’ll tell you.”
Yeah, right. Let’s see how long it would take him to clam up when she got personal. “Why do you date so many women, but never stay with one longer than a month?”
He grinned. “So, you have been paying attention.”
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From the other side of the aircraft, the door opened. A set of stairs released. A moment later, two long legs emerged, clad in dark blue trousers, clean work boots, and topped by a most excellent ass. Not averse to enjoying a good view, Mel stayed in place, watching as the rest of the man was revealed. White button-down shirt, sleeves shoved up above his elbows, tawny hair past his collar, blowing in the wind.
Yep, there were a few perks to this job, one of them catering right to Mel’s soft spot.
Pilots. This one looked more like a movie star pretending to be a pilot, but you wouldn’t hear her complaining. And just like that, from the inside out, she began to warm up nicely.
The man held a clipboard, which he was looking at as he turned, ducking beneath the nose of the plane to come toe to toe with her, a lock of tawny hair falling carelessly over his forehead, his eyes shaded behind aviator sunglasses.
And right then and there, every single lust-filled thought drained out of Mel’s head to make room for one hollow, horror-filled one.
No.
It couldn’t be. After all this time, he wouldn’tdare show his face.
His only concession to the surprise was a raised brow as he lifted his sunglasses, his sea green gaze taking its sweet time, touching over her own battered work boots, the dirty coveralls, the fiery, uncontrollable red hair she’d piled on top of her head without thought to her appearance. “Look at you,” he murmured. “All grown up. G’day, Mel.”
Yeah, he’d grown up, too. He was bigger, broader, and taller than the last time she’d seen him, but she couldn’t mistake the smile—of pure, devilish, wicked trouble.
Australian accent, check.
Heart-stopping green eyes and long lashes to match the long, thick tumble of light brown hair falling in said eyes…check and check.
Curved mouth that could invoke huge waves of passion or fury…CHECK. “Bo Black,” she whispered, getting cold all over again.
Cocking his head, he let out a slow smile. “In the flesh, darlin’. Miss me?”
Miss him? Yeah, she’d missed him. Like one might miss a close call with a hand grenade. “Get off my property.”
As if he had all the time in the damn world, he leaned back against his plane, slapping the clipboard lightly against his thigh. “No can do, mate.”
“Oh, yes you can.” Staggering at a strong gust of wind, she planted her feet more firmly as she pointed to his plane. “You just get your Aussie ass back inside that heap of junk and fly it the hell out of here.”
“Heap of junk?” Instead of being insulted, he laughed good over that, the sound scraping at her belly because it’d been a long time since she’d heard it.
Of course, she hadn’t seen him in ten years, and the last time she had, he’d been eighteen to her sixteen, all long and lanky, not yet grown into his body.
He was grown into it now, damn him, and how. Reaching back, he lovingly stroked the steel of the plane, making the entirely inappropriate thought take root in her brain:did he stroke a woman like that?
Clearly she needed caffeine.
And a smack upside the head.
“You know exactly what kind of plane this is,” he noted easily. “And how valuable.”
“Fine,” she granted. “Your toy is bigger than mine, you win.Now you can go.”
Tossing his head back, he laughed again, and she made no mistake—he was laughingat her.
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The men had been after her for a good three blocks.
At first, it seemed almost funny, the old cat calls and whistles something Miranda Stead was used to. They must be boys, she’d thought, teenagers with nothing better to do on an Indian summer San Francisco night.
But as she clacked down the sidewalk, tilting in the black strappy high heels she’d decided to wear at the last minute, she realized these guys weren’t just ordinary cat-callers. Men had been looking at her since she miraculously morphed from knobby knees and no breasts to decent looking at seventeen, and she knew how to turn, give whoever the finger, and walk on, her head held high. These guys, though, were persistent, matching and then slowly beginning to overtake her strides. She glanced back at them quickly, three large men coming closer, their shoulders rounded, hulking, and headed toward her.
In the time it had taken her to walk from Geary Street to Post, Miranda had gotten scared.
Now Post Street was deserted, as if someone had vacuumed up all the noise and people, except, of course for the three awful men behind her.
“Hey, baby,” one of them said, half a block away. “What’s your hurry?”
“Little sweet thing,” called another, “don’t you like us? We won’t bite unless you ask us to.”
Clutching her purse, Miranda looked down each cross street she passed for the parking lot she’d raced into before the poetry reading. She’d been late, as usual. Roy Hempel, the owner of Mercurial Books, sighing with relief when she pushed open the door and almost ran to the podium. And after the poetry reading and book signing, Miranda had an apple martini with Roy, his wife Clara, and Miranda’s editor Dan Negriete at Zaps, but now, she was lost even though she’d lived in the city her entire life. She wished she’d listened to Dan when he asked if he could drive her to her car, but she’d been annoyed by his question, as usual.
“I’ll be fine,” she said, rolling her eyes as she turned away from him.
But clearly she wasn’t fine. Not at all.
“Hey, baby,” one of the men said, less than twenty feet behind her. “Can’t find your car?”
“Lost, honey?” another one said. This man seemed closer, his voice just over her shoulder. She could almost smell him: car grease, sweat, days of tobacco.
She moved faster, knowing now was not the time to give anyone the finger. At the next intersection of Sutter and Van Ness, she looked for the parking lot, but everything seemed changed, off, as if she’d appeared in a movie set replica of San Francisco made by someone who had studied the city but had never really been there. The lot should be there, right there, on the right hand side of the street. A little shack in front of it, an older Chinese man reading a newspaper inside. Where was the shack? Where was the Chinese man? Instead, there was a gas station on the corner, one she’d seen before but on Mission Street, blocks and blocks away. But no one was working at the station or pumping gas or buying Lotto tickets.
The men were right behind her now, and she raced across the street, swinging around the light post as she turned and ran up Fern Street. A bar she knew that had a poetry open mic every Friday night was just at the end of this block, or at least it used to be there, and it wasn’t near closing time. Miranda hoped she could pound th
rough the doors, lean against the wall, the sound of poetry saving her, as it always had. She knew she could make it, even as she heard the thud of heavy shoes just behind her.
“Don’t go so fast,” one of the men said, his voice full of exertion. “I want this to last a long time.”
In a second, she knew they’d have her, pulling her into a basement stairwell, doing the dark things that usually happened during commercial breaks on television. She’d end up like a poor character in one of the manyLaw and Order shows, nothing left but clues.
She wasn’t going to make it to the end of the block. Her shoes were slipping off her heels, and even all the adrenaline in her body couldn’t make up for her lack of speed. Just ahead, six feet or so, there was a door or what looked like a door with a slim sliver of reddish light coming from underneath it. Maybe it was a bar or a restaurant. An illegal card room. A brothel. A crack house. It didn’t matter now, though. Miranda ran as fast as she could, and as she passed the door, she stuck out her hand and slammed her body against the plaster and wood, falling through and then onto her side on a hallway floor. The men who were chasing her seemed to not even notice she had gone, their feet clomping by until the door slammed shut and everything went silent.
Breathing heavily on the floor, Miranda knew there were people around her. She could hear their surprised cries at her entrance and see chairs as well as legs and shoes, though everything seemed shadowy in the dark light—either that, or everyone was wearing black. Maybe she’d somehow stumbled into Manhattan.
Swallowing hard, she pushed herself up from the gritty wooden floor, but yelped as she tried to put weight on her ankle. She clutched at the legs of a wooden chair, breathing in to the sharp pain that radiated up her leg.
“How did you get here?” a voice asked.
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