“Billy Idol, really?” he said.
“You want your sister overhearing the conversation we’re about to have? About how you’re behaving like a complete ass?”
“You’re doing little to destroy this delusion of hers.”
Feet moving of their own accord, Mac stomped over to him. “You can learn a lot about someone in a short amount of time, and I’ve learned this about your sister already—if you push her too hard too fast, she’ll dig in her heels. So back the hell off for a bit. You’re too heavy-handed.”
His jaw bunched, and suddenly he wasn’t leaning against the door anymore—she was—with Joe’s big hands still clamped on her arms, which was how he’d twisted her around and pinned her.
“Heavy-handed, am I?”
Deeper and rougher than his usual silky tone with a hint of Ireland, his accent came out in force. It wasn’t the voice of a doctor with a charming bedside manner, but the voice of a man who could walk through the rougher parts of Dublin with confidence.
“Yes.”
The word came out high-pitched like a chick’s peep because his grip had loosened on her arms. Both his thumbs stroked over the curve of her biceps, and, dear God—she couldn’t for the life of her stop a delicious shiver from skimming down to her toes. Oh. And the shiver made a couple of pit stops at her nipples along the way.
Her breath shuddered out on a gasp. Even though she knew how to break away from a man by inflicting enough pain to ensure he wouldn’t grab her again, Mac couldn’t do anything but curl her toes and stare at the working of Joe’s Adam’s apple.
She licked suddenly dry lips. “You, ah, need to use a gentler touch.”
“Do I, darlin’?”
The mean streets of Dublin had left his voice, and a new tone appeared. One she’d never heard from him. One that a tiny corner of her heart recognized with a skittering jump, conjuring up a fantasy of a stone cottage on a lonely, Irish cliff top, the sea roaring below and a man whispering Irish endearments in her ears.
His hands skimmed up her shoulders, and one finger traced the line of her jaw, coming to rest in the cleft of her chin. “That’s how you expect a man to handle you, no doubt. As if you were made of spun glass, and a kiss that was anything but gentle would shatter you.”
“A kiss won’t shatter me.” That didn’t make sense, but then nothing did when she could barely hear his words over the pounding bass and the pounding thrum of blood firing through her veins.
“Are you sure now? Because I’m not wantin’ to be gentle.”
He dipped his head and brushed his lips along the path his finger had taken a moment before. A total contradiction of his words. Mac’s stomach dropped in a giddying free fall, and her hands—which had found their way onto his hips—bunched in the soft wool of his sweater.
“Anyone ever tell you you talk too much?” she said.
When she’d meant to say, “I need you to kiss me, fool.”
Apparently, his diagnostic powers were good because he figured out what she needed, and he cupped one big hand behind her neck, lowering his mouth to hers. Warm, firm lips teased hers, not quite a kiss, more testing for reaction as he drew back a fraction, waiting for her to broach the hairbreadth of distance between them again. And with a ragged inhale, she did, parting her mouth slightly to draw him in deeper. If she was going to kiss Joe, then, dammit, it was going to be a good kiss. A grand kiss.
A not gentle, not polite, not going to stop thinking about it for days kiss.
He moved his mouth over hers, catching on to her intention to taste as much of him as she could. Soft, drugging kisses that caused a glimmer of smugness to appear for an instant, a half-formed thought of not gentle, my butt—then the fingers of his other hand splayed around her throat and his lips sealed to hers, the slide of his tongue against hers dragging a moan from her chest and a tingling tug deep within her core.
He backed her against the door, keeping her in place with the hard planes of his body. Every inch of his body.
Mac released his sweater, her hands travelling up the broad planes of his back to play over the hard-packed muscle there, her nails digging in for purchase as he took the kiss from gentle to combustible. His fingers slid into her hair, palming her head in the perfect position for him to plunder her mouth—and there was no other word, much as what remained of her brain cells cringed at using it. He plundered, demanded, stole the damn breath from her lungs until she clung to him with soft, whimpering moans.
Joe broke the connection, feathering one last kiss along her jawbone. She was gratified to hear she wasn’t the only one with breathing issues, and judging by the press of his arousal into her upper belly, he’d been affected by their kiss as much as she had.
“You’re wearing my lipstick,” she blurted as he took a step backward. She slumped for a second against the door, her legs undeniably wobbly.
“And you look like a woman who’s been well and truly kissed.”
He ran a thumb over his mouth, and the corresponding tug from her budded nipples made her knees weak all over again.
“Shattered, if I might be so bold as to say,” he added.
The man must be delusional, not to mention arrogant, if he thought she’d admit how much he’d rocked her world in the past few minutes. How kissing Joe Whelan ranked up there in the Top Ten Kisses of Mac’s life—okay, the Top Three Kisses.
She forced her shoulder up in a half shrug. “It was a nice enough kiss, and we both needed to vent some frustration.” She strode over to her desk and tugged a tissue from the box, holding it out to him, giving it a little jiggle when he made no move to grab it. As if she were waving a white flag of surrender—but oh no, she wasn’t.
Steeling herself, because having Laura walk in on them with Joe’s mouth still smeared with Sinful Sunset wasn’t an option, Mac crossed to him, intending to wipe off the crimson lipstick remains. He caught her hand before the tissue made contact, his thumb giving her wrist one soft stroke before he released her and plucked the tissue from her fingers.
He wiped his mouth with the tissue and dropped it into the trash container beside her desk. Without denying their kiss was anything more than simple frustration, he parked his very fine butt on the edge of her desk.
“Name your price.” Then, with a wicked grin, he added, “For Kerry’s dress, I mean.”
Chapter 8
An hour later, after Kerry and Mac kicked Joe out to wait in his car, Mac had come up with a half dozen ideas of gowns that might appeal to Kerry, and had an appointment noted in her system for a week later when she’d come back to both sign off on the finalized design and for the measure up necessary for Reid to start creating a pattern.
“Come to lunch with us,” Kerry said as she shrugged on her jacket. “Nothing posh, just a quick bite to eat at the pub.”
Having a quick bite with the man who’d kissed her into a gooey puddle only an hour before? “Thanks, but I’d better—”
“Please, MacKenna? You said you’ve no other client appointments until three, and if you don’t come, I’ll have to kill my brother to shut him up about how I’m ruining my life.”
“He said that to you?”
“Not outright, but it’s in his eyes every time he looks at me. And I don’t want to fight with him anymore today—not when he’s being so sweet paying for my dress.” Kerry’s mouth turned down as she zipped her jacket. “I know the two of you don’t see eye to eye either,” she continued. “But his bark is worse than his bite, as the saying goes.”
Mac touched a finger to the tingling spot just below her ear where Joe’s stubble had grazed her skin. She’d prefer his bark to his bite any day. Trading barbs with him was much easier than the Jell-O legs she continued to suffer with every time she thought of him.
Kerry’s frown turned into a sly smile. “Or I could tell Joe you refused to come to lunch since he’s going to be there.”
“High school tactics—that’s pretty low,” Mac said.
Kerry just conti
nued to smile.
“Fine. A quick lunch.” She caved under the Whelan charm, which was twice as powerful as Joe’s since Mac actually liked Kerry.
The pub was crowded, but they found a table for four near the back and ordered from the bar menu. Joe hadn’t raised an eyebrow when she and Kerry arrived at his car, with Kerry insisting she take the back seat so Mac could ride shotgun. He was a master of cool indifference, and from the polite small talk he made with both her and his sister, Mac could easily believe she’d imagined the blisteringly hot kiss they’d shared.
While Joe went to wait for their drinks, Mac couldn’t resist a little prying.
“You said your brother thinks you’re making a mistake with Aaron.” She leaned closer to Kerry in the booth seat so they wouldn’t be overheard. “Do they not get on?”
Kerry’s lips twisted, her gaze dropping to her lap, where her fingers had locked together.
“I’m sorry,” Mac added quickly. “You don’t have to answer; it’s none of my business. Only I can see it’s hard for you.”
“Joe’s never met Aaron. I only met him eight months ago, and as amazing as I think he is, according to my brothers—and I have three of them—I shouldn’t even have gone past second base with him yet.” Kerry gave a rueful chuckle. “Not that my brothers and I ever talk about sex or falling in love or marriage, for that matter. Marriage has become a four-letter word in our family since Joe—” Kerry’s mouth snapped shut.
Since Joe was all but left at the altar.
Mac’s burgeoning appetite evaporated. She squirmed a little on the wooden seat, knowing what she had to ask but not wanting to. This deception—pretending she didn’t know Joe was plotting behind his sister’s back, pretending she didn’t know about Sofia-gate, wasn’t sitting well in her gut. But in order to keep playing this charade, a person who didn’t know what she knew would ask…
“Since Joe what?” she said.
Kerry shot her a sideways glance—an assessing, sideways glance. Then her mouth curved just a fraction. “Well, I guess it’s no secret in a town as small as Invercargill. My brother got his heart broken by a woman—engaged, they were—and he’s been gun-shy about wedding bells ever since.”
“Oh. That’s awful. Poor thing.” Mac gave Kerry a sideways glance of her own, to check if Joe’s sister appeared to have any inkling of Mac’s involvement.
But Kerry just nodded, her expression grim. “That’s why he’s not happy about me and Aaron. It’s not because Aaron drives a tour bus or has more than his fair share of ink on his arms. He wouldn’t care how Aaron votes, and he’d even forgive my man for supporting the Wallabies instead of the All Blacks—Aaron grew up in Australia, you see. It’s because he doesn’t believe in true love anymore.” She sighed and gave Mac a dreamy, heartfelt smile. “But that’s what Aaron and I have—true and strong and real. My brother’ll come around once he realizes Aaron’s not the male equivalent of his fiancée.”
Joe appeared beside them with two white wines and an open bottle of beer on a bar tray. “What fiancée are we talking about?”
Kerry jolted, eyes widening as she shifted her gaze between Joe and Mac. “I was just asking if Mac ever had a fiancé.”
Way to throw me under the bus. Thanks Kerry.
And, thanks to Joe looking at her with expectation as he passed her a wineglass, Mac couldn’t lie.
“A long time ago,” she said.
Joe handed the second wineglass to his sister and sat opposite them, taking a long, thoughtful sip of his beer. “Only about five years ago, wasn’t it? Not that long.”
Kerry’s forehead creased. “I thought you two didn’t really know each other?”
“We don’t,” Mac said quickly. “Like you said before, Invercargill’s a small town. Everybody kind of knows everybody, or they know someone’s cousin or neighbor or someone they went to school with. People do love to talk—not as much as in Oban, but…” Mac gulped some wine and hoped the Whelan siblings would let her off the hook.
“There was talk?” Kerry asked. “About your fiancé?”
“Her ex-fiancé.” Joe set down his beer and leaned back in his chair.
Not gonna let her off the hook. Not by a long shot. Heat crept into her cheeks as the seconds ticked by, and nothing on his handsome face gave away any of his intentions.
She took a deep breath. Just the facts, she told herself. He couldn’t humiliate her with the facts or make her feel any worse than she already did over what happened.
“My fiancé was an agricultural research scientist, and we were together two years before he proposed. But in the end, it didn’t work out. Richard is married now with two little girls. I’m very happy for them,” Mac finished lamely.
“Awwww.” Kerry patted Mac’s arm. “Richard must’ve been a complete eejit not to marry you. The man obviously needed glasses if he didn’t see what was in front of him.”
Kerry’s instant loyalty touched Mac, and she didn’t have the heart to correct the other woman’s false assumptions.
“Plenty more fish in the sea,” Mac said, the false joviality in her voice raising the last word to a singsong squeak.
Luckily, the server arrived with their ordered lunches, and Mac dived into her meal. Kerry took the hint and changed the subject to the less minefield-ridden turf of national politics.
Beneath the pub table, something nudged Mac’s foot. Goose bumps prickled under her shirt, but she continued to focus on getting her fork into her mouth without spilling any of the tomato-based pasta sauce down her front.
Plenty more fish in the sea.
All Mac had to do was figure out if the man opposite her was a fish or something more dangerous to her wellbeing. Like a great white shark.
He should’ve taken the last ferry back to Oban. He should’ve kept blinkers on while he boarded the ferry, and put the Foveaux Strait between himself and MacKenna.
Should’ve, would’ve, could’ve.
He blamed the look Mac had sent him over her shoulder as she’d left soon after shoveling down her pasta in record time at lunch. It was a look filled with confusion, embarrassment, vulnerability, and unwanted desire. The unwanted part should’ve been enough to deter him. It should’ve kept his car on State Highway 1 to Bluff and the ferry terminal. Instead, he spent all afternoon driving restlessly around Invers, checking out his old haunts then wandering around Queens Park, passing time until he estimated she’d be home.
Invercargill’s streetlights had come on by the time he’d debated the insanity of seeing her tonight, while sitting in his car parked down the road from her converted factory house. The streetlights shone on spreading puddles, and storm water gushed along the gutters since it’d been raining heavily for the last hour. Mac’s lights were on, a beacon to guide him through the darkening night.
What the hell was he thinking? Or a more pertinent question, what was he thinking with? Not his brain, that was for sure. Flippin’ hell.
He got out of the car, slammed the door, and was soaked within five meters of it. No umbrella, no idea what to say if Mac’s lanky roommate was inside and not her, no Plan B if Mac shut the door in his face. Taking a risk, rolling the dice, sink or swim. Sometimes you had to gamble.
As he strode up to Mac’s front door he caught the sound of loud music over the steady drip of rain. She was home.
He froze then pressed his forehead to the front door, bracing his palms against the wet wood. Inside, the Divinyls’ female lead singer sang about touching herself.
Thunk-thunk-thunk. He bumped his forehead to the door a fourth time. He was so screwed. He couldn’t walk away now, not picturing Mac dancing to this song. Not imagining she was thinking about him as she lip-synced the lyrics.
Joe stabbed at the doorbell, and the music cut off. Because of the rain he didn’t hear her footsteps approach so when the door swung open, she caught him unaware, and he gawped at her in the halogen glow of her security lights. Behind her, the building’s workspace was dark. Soft light fil
tered down from the stairs that led to the first floor.
“What’s the craic?” he asked, an Irish greeting he used with his mates without thinking. Only he should be thinking—with his brain and not his cock—because Holy Mother of God, Mac didn’t look anything like a mate.
She folded her arms, breasts rising to mouth-watering cleavage in the teeny-tiny glittery camisole top she wore. “You missed the last ferry.”
“Yep.”
Ferry. Fairy. Potato, potahto. Mac looked like a sparkly little fairy—if the fairy had broken tradition and wore black yoga pants and had tied her long blond hair into a loose ponytail. She was so beautiful he wanted to scoop her up and save her for a Christmas tree topper. That and—
A heavy drip of water made it under the tiny overhang above Mac’s doorway and found its way down the back of his shirt.
“Can I come in and borrow a towel?” That was grand. Go for the poor, pathetic male begging on her doorstep routine. Women loved that. If you happened to be a puppy.
“Hotels have towels. Two of them per room, usually.” She didn’t budge.
“You’re a funny girl. Should I try my luck with Reid?” He nodded toward the darkened space behind her. “Maybe he’ll take pity on me and lend me a coat before I catch my death out here.”
Her eyes narrowed, but a dimple winked in her cheek. “Reid’s not here. Neither is Laura. I’m alone.”
He stayed right where he was, leaving the ball in her court. His heart rate tripled as she continued to study him. He was a little out of practice, but when you arrived on a woman’s doorstep and she made a point of stating her aloneness in the house…it cracked open a can of possibilities.
Saying I Do (Stewart Island Series Book 8) Page 10