"How did Travis handle Sean?"
"Like nothing happened," she admitted, her voice grumpy. "He appears to have a gift for pretending a situation is entirely different from the one he’s actually in. Like—it’s a videogame." Travis had come to his senses almost immediately. As though she'd been the only one on the verge of losing her mind. "Don’t want to deal with an angry dad? Just flip screens and pretend you’re discussing the weather." He’d quickly taken charge, his hands loosening her death grip on his coat. He’d zipped her into his jacket while introducing himself to her father.
MaryJo had been operating on auto-pilot, nerves shattered, her body nearly frozen after the removal of his amazing heat. If he’d experienced any qualms, Travis sure as hell hadn’t shown them. He’d chatted with her father, then politely asked to meet Madeline. As though they hadn’t just been all over each other up against an icy, brick wall.
"Hell, he insisted we all go for a drink at The Scoreboard up the street." MaryJo shook her head, as she had repeatedly over the past several days.
"Did Maddie rip him apart?" The bloodlust in Alyssa's voice made her smile.
"After twenty minutes, he had your mother eating out of his hand."
"Holy cow. He impressed Madeline?" There was awe in her friend's voice. "That’s—unusual. Hell—that's rare. She can cut through bullshit in a heartbeat."
"I know," she admitted. "I was waiting for him to make a mistake." To fawn over her—or try to be funny. Or—the million other mistakes guys had made in the past. Madeline Stanhope was a powerful woman. In Boston—you knew who she was. She was a tough judge of character—of ferreting out weaknesses. Of discovering the fortune-hunter disguised as a nice, young accountant. The attractive, well-dressed loan officer—who wanted to be a wealth manager. "I figured she'd cut him to ribbons, like every other guy I've made the mistake of introducing."
"Maybe this is a sign, MoJo."
"Of what, I have no idea." She hadn’t heard from Travis since Tuesday. Maybe Maddie had scared him off. More likely—she had. They’d had a drink with her dad and Madeline. Then she’d driven him back to her place. Her slumbering neighborhood. All the porch lights out except hers. A single car engine had fired down the street, breaking the peaceful silence. MaryJo's pulse had been jumping all the way home.
After being interrupted during one of the most erotically charged moments of her life, she'd fully expected him to pick up where they’d been forced to leave off. She'd stood on the porch—fully prepared to fling her seven-date-rule to the ice-covered walkway. Instead, Travis had been strangely quiet on the ride back. His smile distracted as he walked her to the porch. After a peck on her cheek—he’d left. He'd left her. And she hadn’t heard a word since. A sign, indeed. A sign she should cut her losses.
DAMN IT, WHAT WAS HIS problem? "Just pick up the phone and call her." Travis' inner voice wrought havoc on his day. Six times now, he'd started dialing her number. Six times, he'd come to his senses. Although if he kept tossing his phone in frustration, he was going to crack the damn screen. Okay—so he wanted to see MaryJo again. "What's the big deal?" He remembered to set his phone down this time. Carefully.
The big deal—was he didn't allow himself to be dictated by want. Stretching tense shoulders, Travis stared at the ceiling. "That doesn't even make sense." He always did whatever he wanted. But this time—he didn't like that he wanted her. He didn't like how he wanted her. As though she were the damned sold-out toy on his Christmas list. As though she were the present he didn't dare wish for—out of fear he might be disappointed. What if he received the gift? After building it up in his mind. He'd play with it a few times before growing bored. As he always did.
But MaryJo was—nice. She was generous. Far too kind for her own good. Travis didn't fare well with nice. Kindness was wasted on him. If he gave in to the crazy urge—he could easily hurt her. Because she would expect things. Phone calls. Dates—planned ahead. She'd want—exchanges of personal information. MaryJo would require effort—because she was worthy of it. Knowing the way he operated, Travis didn't want to disappoint her. "Besides, I don't want any of that," he muttered to the cobweb drifting in the corner.
Except—he did. Want her. Like a maddening, flaming hell. He'd relived Tuesday night a hundred times. The harshness of the wind at his back, her warm, curvy body pressed to his front. He relived the tightness of her arms around his neck, the taste of the green apple she'd eaten before they left the car. The clinging, tormenting scent of her. The exquisite sensation of his tongue in her mouth-
Jeez—he was sweating. His pants uncomfortably tight around his erection, he released a frustrated breath, grateful for the desk in front of him. He wanted MaryJo like he'd never wanted anyone. He wanted to take her—against that frigid, brick wall, to thrust into her until she was moaning his name. Until there was nothing left of him. Then—he'd return to the safety of his comfort zone—the place where he felt nothing. For the last five nights, he'd awakened from the same torturing dream—hot, hard, aching and so damned frustrated he wanted to tear his hair out. At this point—it was pissing him off.
Because nothing—no person could ever be worth the desperation he was experiencing. The desire for something that could ultimately be withheld—likely at the very moment he realized he couldn't do without it. The gnawing craving for her—for anything, he corrected—wasn't healthy. It was controlling. Disruptive to his work. His lifestyle. He wanted no part of it.
The knuckle rap on his door came as a relief. Glancing up to greet his visitor, Travis was eager to shove MaryJo from his head. He would conquer his stupid fixation. He'd be okay. Just so long as he didn't have to stand up in the next five minutes.
"How're we coming along, Travis? I didn't get my update last night."
Christ, it just kept getting better. "You stop by at least twice a day, Patrice. When you're not here, Eli and Moe tell me you're down in the lab checking behind my back. And when you're not checking on them or pestering me, you're meddling in the system yourself. So, I'm not typing up some damn memo every night to cover the four or five hours of work you might not be aware of."
A perfectly winged brow arched over his tone. Patrice stood there, pencil-thin, not-a-hair-out-of-place. Why couldn't he want her? As a purely functional physical task—to exorcise MaryJo from his system. Patrice was perfect for him. She was driven, competitive, unemotional, detached from humanity. It would be like screwing a robot. If it would provide even a moment's peace-
"I think it would be best if I remained in the loop on our progress. That means daily."
Hell—he was seriously at the breaking point if he could fathom considering Patrice- Suppressing a shiver of revulsion, Travis leaned back in his seat. At least she'd rid him of his erection. And left him feeling slightly nauseous. "I don't give a shit what you think, Patrice. We'll make the deadline. Concentrate on your area. I'll worry about mine."
There it was. The flash of murderous hatred he knew she felt for him. Blazing with fury, her eyes revealed the truth for only a nanosecond before the fembot mask slid back into place. "Fine, Travis. But when this all goes to hell, I'll be right there waiting to say I warned you."
It gave him a stab of satisfaction to watch her turn away with a flounce. "Hey, Patrice-" "Yes?" Three inches of frost coated the single syllable. She turned back, twin spots of color visible on her cheekbones.
Good. If he had to be miserable, she may as well be, too. "I was talking with a friend about hacking—ethical hacking," he added. "She mentioned that we probably have someone here who monitors our systems to prevent outside attacks. Can you confirm this?"
Pursing her lips, she leaned against the doorframe, momentarily lost in thought. "We have firewalls, of course. We also have an internal system that monitors for attacks—for heavy volume that may indicate an attack on our servers."
"Do we have someone on staff who looks for this stuff? Do we outsource to test our security—to make sure Tiberius could withstand an attack?"
"As far as
I know, we don't sub out any testing." Her frozen eyes heated with rare curiosity. Something she wasn't absolutely certain of. "It's actually a great idea," she admitted. "It would be nice to know where our weaknesses are." Pulling her phone from her pocket, she typed a few notes. "I could arrange to have a White Hat come in—run some tests."
Travis nodded. "Yeah. I want to do that. Better to discover it now, than be blindsided later."
TEN MINUTES LATER, Patrice propped her feet on the desk, kicking off the four-inch Louboutins. She smiled as one flew halfway across her office. Though they pinched unmercifully by the end of a sixteen hour day, they made her ass look incredible. Perhaps, she'd drink champagne from one in celebration. Tempted, she glanced at her mini refrigerator, before thinking better of it. Though she’d discovered the perfect way to screw Travis, the celebration could wait. "You have work to do."
That arrogant, prick bastard was about to get his ass handed to him. And Patrice Reynolds would be the one serving it up. Her pride was at stake. She was going to sell this damned company, or die trying. "By the time I'm through with you, you'll be begging me to find a buyer." And she would clean up. But, before she did—she would run Lockwood ragged. She was going to make him suffer. And then—when he'd suffered enough—when he'd reached the absolute breaking point, she would run his balls through the shredder.
She wanted to toss her head back and laugh. Instead, she picked up her phone. "Hey—you still here?" Rolling her eyes at the indecisive male voice, she cut him off. "Get up here. I've got a fantastic idea. And you know how horny that always makes me. I'm feeling the urge to take you on my desk."
"YOU PROBABLY SHOULDN't be stopping." More than a week had passed since MaryJo had she'd seen him. Repeatedly, she'd told herself to forget Travis. For the last week, she'd thrown herself into work—both her day job and the new project from her father. Sean had assigned her a high priority project, an ethical hack for a company who'd heard of her father's services. A secretive software firm wanting a firewall test before anything bad happened. With all his IT consultants scrambling on a big, mysterious case for one of his shadow clients, Sean was pushing for her commitment. But—with a looming deadline at her day job, the timing couldn't have been worse.
At least the complicated project kept her mind off Travis. Despite the attraction, he was too moody—too unpredictable to risk becoming more deeply involved. In hindsight, she'd reflected that not once had he actually called her. His showing up the previous Tuesday had been a whim. His rescue squad shift cancelled. With nothing better to do, why not show up at MaryJo’s? As though he'd pretty much taken it for granted she’d be eager to see him. And stupidly, she had been. So, she’d invited him on her stakeout. Again, they’d had a great time. Again, he’d blown her off afterward.
The sense of being dangled on a string had taken hold. Maybe, she’d been too nice. Guys never seemed to appreciate nice. Technically, Travis didn’t owe her a thing. But the strung along feeling had grown uncomfortable. Now, when she should be driving home with her groceries to start the weekend, MaryJo was driving to his house. To drop in unexpectedly. Intuition told her Travis wouldn’t appreciate it. Assuming he was even home, she sensed he would view it as a violation. As though only he should be the initiator. A disruption—while he worked on his vitally important software or some monumentally important task far superior to anything she could ever do.
Perversely, she was eager to catch him off guard. She had a ready-made excuse. His sweats were on the seat beside her. Returning them was her reason for dropping in, uninvited. Part of her hoped he wouldn't be home. She could leave his clothes on the porch and be done with it. Despite her disappointment . . . and some serious confusion over his mixed messages, she was still grateful to him for his kindness the night she'd fallen.
The other part—the nonsensical, bordering on desperate part, wanted to see how he reacted. Anger? Annoyance? Whatever it was, at least she’d finally know. Then, she could put him out of her mind. She'd drive home and chop vegetables for the spectacular, homemade pizza she'd planned for dinner.
"If he blows you off tonight—that's it." She wouldn't invest in a guy who didn’t think she was worth it. She’d been down that road too often in the past. The few months of intense heat and great-to-be-alive happiness weren’t worth the inevitable battering her heart would take. Because she'd spend those months eagerly waiting to see if he liked her. She’d immerse herself in their conversations, sifting them for hidden meaning, for signs that meant he was falling for her. When the inevitable happened, it always hurt worse than if she’d cut her losses early.
"Just once," she muttered. She wanted to know— what it felt like to be wanted. Desperately. Passionately. By a man who would love her as much as she loved him back. She wanted what Jules had with Matt. What Alyssa had found with Teagan. She wanted someone to gaze at her the way their husbands did them. As though she was the best damned thing he’d ever found. That vision kept her slogging through the tedious, sometimes downright hellish process of dating. Because when all was said and done, it would only take one guy. One right-for-her guy.
Releasing a nervous breath as she pulled to the curb in front of his house, MaryJo hesitated, rethinking her plan. There was an extra vehicle in the driveway. Great. He had another woman there. "Are you really up for being humiliated tonight?" Resolutely, she shoved aside her hesitation. This would be good for her, she admitted. To remind her Travis already had women in his life. That she shouldn't and wouldn't sit around waiting for him. And if he ever did get around to calling her? She planned to be busy.
At the very least, she could wreak a little havoc on his love life. Appearing on his doorstep to return his clothes—while he was inside getting busy with some gorgeous, skinny, big-boobed blonde—might throw a monkey wrench into his evening.
Smiling at the thought, she marched up the steps and rang the bell before losing her nerve. Hearing footsteps approaching the door, MaryJo experienced the sudden impulse to run. Thankfully, her feet remained glued to the slate. As clutzy as she was, she would have face-planted down the steps. Travis would find her, ass in the air, wailing on his walkway.
Filling his doorway, his gorgeous eyes reflected surprise and . . . relief? "MaryJo—hi!"
Untangling her tongue, she remembered to speak. "Hi—um, I was on my way home and I remembered I still have the clothes you lent me-"
"C’mon in," he invited, a little too quickly.
Experiencing a twinge of guilt over her mean-spirited internal monologue, she shook her head. "I don’t want to interrupt your night. I'm just returning your sweats."
"Please," he insisted, reaching out to tug her arm. "My brother is here. I want you to meet him."
Chapter 8
Thank God. Travis couldn't believe his eyes. As though delivered from the gods, MaryJo Mullaney was standing on his doorstep. Relief cascaded over him, drowning the desperate, panicky feeling. He didn’t know why Mariela was standing there, but right now—he wanted to kiss her. Hustling her through the door before she could change her mind, he closed it firmly behind her. "C'mon in. I want you to meet my brother."
"I don't want to interrupt-"
"No problem, MaryJo. We were thinking about ordering Chinese." No way in hell was she leaving. His hand at her back, he gave her a gentle push. Jeez—she smelled great. Why the hell hadn't he called her? Why the hell hadn't he just stayed at her place last week to finish what they'd started?
"I really shouldn't stay." Silky hair fell around her shoulders with her nod. "My groceries are in the car."
Unfortunately, he couldn't spare the time to think about his sexual fixation on the neighbor. Not with the gigantic Curtis problem sitting in his living room. "We can put them in my fridge," he suggested.
His brother had arrived nearly an hour earlier—mostly because he’d bullied Curt into coming. His plan—to ply his brother with take-out Chinese and a couple beers, before fake-watching the game while interrogating him on what he was up to wit
h the charity basketball thing—had been foiled. Curt had read his moves and set up his defense before the Kung Pao chicken had been ordered. His formerly peaceful living room was now courtside seating for Travis vs. Curt. It was Awkward Central— with Curtis sitting there, sullen, frustrated and trying not to show it. And him, floundering—with so much to say, and nothing actually coming out of his mouth.
Enter MaryJo Sunshine. Standing in his foyer was the perfect conversational buffer. She could likely talk to anyone. Lord knows, she’d made him open up. Still unsure exactly why, he’d talked more with her than he had anyone in the last several years. For that reason—there could be no escape. For the next hour, MaryJo would be his intermediary. His negotiator. His Curt translator. He couldn't allow her to escape. Not hunger. Not bleeding. If she somehow sustained a gaping head wound in the next hour? He could stitch her up. Just so long as she would stay and talk with his brother. She couldn't leave him alone with Curt.
"I was going to build a pizza for dinner." Her beautiful eyes widening, she studied him, her expression suggesting she was honing in on an apparent ulterior motive. "The dough is sitting in my car."
"Perfect." He grinned unabashedly as he led her through the kitchen. "We'll help you make it here. You know I've been dying to learn how to cook."
"Dying to learn?" Her tone was amused. "I had no idea my chili could have that effect." For all the years the brothers had to make up for, for all the conversations they seriously needed to have, there was not a great deal of talking going on in his living room. Damn it, he wanted to do the right thing. Travis wanted to help his brother. He wanted someone to talk to. He wanted someone to shoot hoops with . . . to watch a game. He wanted a brother. But, there was so much unfinished baggage to slog through first. And hell if Curtis was going to make it any easier. "Curt, come meet my friend, Mariela."
Out on a Limb Page 12