He'd been having sex with her. Unwelcome heat gathered in her belly, and she tried to ignore it, busying herself filling the tea kettle. "Don't beat yourself up," she heard herself saying. "I'm sure it's fine. The people who live here respect the sea. They won't do anything stupid."
"Like I did."
"Yeah." He had been stupid to go out whale watching when a storm was coming. "But you don't live here. You don't know these waters. So cut yourself some slack."
"If anyone gets hurt, it's my responsibility."
"Are you always this hard on yourself?"
Silence.
She turned around to see his jaw twitch. He avoided her gaze and asked, "Where are the mugs for that tea?"
Chapter 7
Mac sipped his mug of tea as he sat in a chair in Lizzy Monroe's living room. The tea wasn't completely vile, and the warmth was helping chase his bone-deep chill. But he was going to need coffee soon. He hoped that mess hall wasn't too far away.
In spite of the inky darkness, he could see the rain lashing the windows, hear the roar of the wind as it battered the house. But instead of staring out at the storm, he couldn't keep his eyes off Lizzy.
She sat on the couch, mug clutched between her hands, staring out the window, as if enthralled by the storm. As if the rolling thunder, the flashes of lightning, the driving rain were the best kind of reality show. Did she like the power of the storm? The spectacle? Or was she just using it as an excuse to avoid looking at him? She was probably embarrassed about having sex with a stranger.
Him? He'd been reliving their sex ever since she'd stumbled away from him. Made him a jerk, but there it was. He hadn't been lying when he told her the earth had moved. It had been amazing. Mind blowing. He shifted in his chair, his memories making him hard. He wanted to do it again. Right now, if possible.
He had to get himself under control. He was here to do a job. Take her back to Chicago and find out what she knew about Kelly's murder. He wouldn't have chosen to arrive here by being dumped into the frigid water of Puget Sound, but being stuck here, alone with her, was a good opportunity. He could figure out what made her tick. Why she'd run away. How she was involved in Kelly's death.
Except he didn't want to think about why he was here. He'd always been able to focus on his job. He was proud of being an FBI agent and proud of the work he did. But right now, all he wanted to think about was Lizzy. In a big bed with him. Rolling around the sheets, setting each other on fire.
Which was crazy. It made him certifiable. She'd seen Kelly's killer, and she'd run away. He suspected she was involved somehow. Especially with the new information he'd received in his earlier phone call.
He hadn't called the last boat place twice. He'd called the office. Rhodes had answered, had told him they'd searched Lizzy's apartment and found meth. A lot of meth.
After his initial shock, he'd dismissed the idea that the meth had been Lizzy's. Nothing about her said 'meth addict'. He'd never seen a meth head with skin like Lizzie's, so translucent that it glowed. And her slender but curvy frame that was apparently stronger than it looked? Most meth users were rail thin. Shaky. Jittery.
No, Lizzy wasn't a meth addict.
So why had they found it in her place? Was someone setting her up? Why?
Something was off, and he couldn't put his finger on it.
The dog's nails clicked on the hardwood floors, and he studied the black, tan and white dog. He'd seen meth heads with pets before. But the animals were scrawny, thin, neglected things, either cringing away from human contact or aggressive and mean. Addicts were too wrapped up in their addiction to take care of an animal. But Lizzie seemed devoted to Franny. And the dog clearly adored her. Another missing piece of the puzzle.
She was still the only witness to Kelly's death. He needed to take her to Chicago, even if he had to cuff her to do it. But the intense attraction he'd felt that morning three months earlier had returned with a vengeance. And the amazing sex had only made it worse.
He didn't want to think about Lizzy in handcuffs. Resenting him.
Hating him.
It wasn't his job to think about Lizzy's reaction. Sex or not, she was his job. She'd seen Kelly's killer. He'd remind himself of that as many times as it took to sink in.
"So, why do you live on an island by yourself?" he asked.
She took a sip of tea without looking at him, but her knuckles whitened on the mug. "You should be glad I do. If I hadn't been here, you'd be dead by now."
Evasive. Going on the offensive rather than answer his questions. He suppressed the flicker of admiration. "Do you live here all the time, or are you just visiting?"
"I've been here for awhile."
Not an answer. "What do you do here?"
She finally looked at him. "You're interrogating me. Why?"
These were casual questions. She'd know when he interrogated her. "Just making conversation. Seems strange for a woman to live by herself in such an isolated place."
"I like the isolation. I like being self-sufficient."
"Don't your parents worry about you, alone out here?" He knew her parents were both dead, but he wanted to provoke a reaction. She was entirely too self-possessed. Too calm.
Her eyes hardened, but not quickly enough to camouflage the pain. Although she hadn't moved, there was suddenly a huge distance between them. "You don't need to worry about my parents."
Interesting. Why didn't she say they were dead? That would have been a conversation stopper. Apparently, she was stingy with all information. Not just information about Kelly's murder.
"I'm going to fix something to eat," she said, standing up. The dog was next to her in a moment, staring at Mac with watchful eyes.
Had the damned dog sensed his thoughts?
"Are you hungry?"
"I guess so," he said after a moment. At home, he was used to forgetting meals when he was working. And right now, questioning Lizzy, felt like work. "What can I do to help?"
"You can stay out of my way," she said, walking toward the kitchen.
Twenty minutes later, the spicy aroma of spaghetti sauce drifted out of the kitchen, along with the buttery smell of garlic bread. His mouth watered, and he realized he was hungry. He'd eaten a granola bar before boarding the ferry at Anacortes that morning, and hadn't eaten since. Then the scent of roasting nuts – for a salad? – drifted out of the kitchen, and he struggled to his feet.
Sitting down had forced him to notice the aches in his body. Everything hurt. His head throbbed, and the gash Lizzy had mentioned covered a lump on the side of his head that was tender to the touch. His back and legs ached as if he'd run a marathon, and his arms were useless as shit. Weak as a baby's. He remembered standing in the boat, fighting the violent water, trying to steer through the enormous waves. As the fog cleared from his brain, he'd also remembered the shocking impact of the cold water when the boat had capsized.
He was lucky to be alive. Thank God Lizzy had found him.
And to thank her, he was going to cuff her and haul her away against her will.
Shoving the thought out of his mind, he moved stiffly into the kitchen. "There must be something I can do."
She glanced over her shoulder as she stirred bubbling sauce in a pot. "You can make the salads," she finally said, nodding toward the refrigerator. "Arugula is in there. Chopped apples and cheese on the counter. Candied pecans next to them. Knock yourself out."
He seldom cooked for himself at home, but she'd given him an insultingly easy job. In a few minutes, everything had been divided up. "Where do I put them?"
She rolled her eyes. "Dining room table. Unless you want to have a picnic on the deck."
"Think I'll pass on that one." His aches and pains, his weariness, along with Lizzy's self-possession, had tilted him off-balance. He struggled to right himself. She was the person who was hiding things. The one who'd run away. But he felt as if he'd done something wrong.
She'd saved his life, and he was lying to her about who he w
as and why he was here.
That was his job. If she hadn't run away, if she'd been straight with them, he wouldn't be here. She wouldn't, either. Depending on the answers she gave them, she'd either be in her apartment, living her life, or she'd be in jail.
He set the salad bowls on the table, then watched her work. She moved gracefully from the stove to the sink and back again, scraping something from a small bowl into the spaghetti sauce then rinsing the bowl and setting it on the counter. She lifted the lid of a larger pan and dumped in a box of pasta. As the pasta and sauce cooked, she filled the sink and washed her preparation dishes.
It was like watching a ballet, every movement controlled but purposeful, graceful and alluring.
The way she'd been while making love a few hours ago.
His cock stirred as he watched her move. He remembered the way she'd moved over him. Beneath him. He remembered the tiny sounds she'd made, the low moans when he'd touched her, the sharp cries when she came, her hum of contentment as she'd snuggled into him afterward.
And just like that, he was ready to go again.
Dishes rattling in the kitchen yanked him out of the memories. He glanced down at the sweat pants, hoping she wouldn't notice how tented they were. He cleared his throat. "I'm, ah, going to toss my clothes in the dryer," he muttered. He needed his jeans back. Jeans would camouflage his reaction to her.
"Fine," she said without turning around. "Dinner's almost ready."
By the time he transferred his wet clothes to the dryer, he had himself under control again. When he re-entered the kitchen, she was carrying two bowls of pasta to the table. "Grab the salad dressing and the cheese," she said without looking at him.
A bottle of balsamic vinaigrette and a tub of grated parmesan cheese sat on the counter, and he brought them to the table. She had glasses of water at both their places, as well as silverware.
"Have a seat," she said, sliding into one of the chairs.
"This smells wonderful." He inhaled the steam rising from the pasta. "What is it?"
She shrugged. "Red sauce with olives, capers and peppers. Hope you like your food spicy."
"What if I said I didn't?"
"Then I'd tell you to enjoy your salad."
"Good thing I like spicy, then. I'm hungry." He took a bite and his eyebrows rose. The capers and spicy black olives made the simple sauce taste complex. "This is really good."
"Thank you." She shrugged. "It was quick and easy, and we both need carbs."
They ate in silence for awhile. When he looked up from his food, he caught her watching him. Instead of looking away, she said, "What do you do in Seattle?"
"I'm in software development," he said easily. It was an easy answer – a lot of people in Seattle were involved in the software industry.
"What kind of software do you develop?"
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He hadn't planned to need a cover story, so he hadn't bothered to create one. "I, ah, work on virtual reality programs."
"Yeah?" She cocked her head. "Then you must know about the CAVE-2 project in Chicago. I have friends who worked on it."
"Are you from Chicago?"
She froze, her fork halfway to her mouth, then ate the pasta, chewing slowly. Finally she said, "I met them in Seattle. That's where they work now. VR is a pretty tight-knit community. Maybe you know them? Corey Mulholland? Jenny Gregg?"
Her eyes were cool as she watched him. Damn it. Those were probably real people. He took a bite of his own pasta, pretended to be thinking. "Doesn't ring a bell," he finally said. "I don't get out of the lab much."
"I see."
She didn't smirk, didn't react, but he read it in her eyes – she wasn't sure she believed him. God. How had he let her get the upper hand like that? The boat accident, the hypothermia, the bump on the head – all of them must have affected him more than he'd realized. And the sex. The sex had made him stupid. Because, clearly, he wasn't at the top of his game. "I only recently got into virtual reality. It's the hot new area."
"So I've heard. What kind of project are you working on?"
Okay, this had to stop. A few more questions and she'd know he was lying. "It's pretty technical. My project involves using virtual reality as a training tool for the military." He took another bite of spaghetti. "How long have you been running this language camp?"
Her eyes flickered, and she bent to take another bite of her salad. She chewed for a long time. "I've been involved with the camp for a number of years," she finally said. "This job evolved from other ones."
A slippery answer, neither truth nor lie. He watched her for a long moment, then nodded. He needed to be careful. Any more pointed questions and she'd get suspicious. "What's the place like when it's not being pounded by the wind and rain?"
Her shoulders relaxed a little. "It's beautiful. Peaceful. The wildlife is amazing." She glanced at the dog and her mouth curled slightly. "Franny likes to watch the otters. They seem to like her, too. They almost always show up when she's walking with me."
That tiny smile was all it took to get him going again. Memories of the sex they'd shared earlier spooled through his mind in an erotic movie. It made him want. Need. Struggling to ignore his reaction, he said, "I've never seen otters, except in a zoo. Didn't see any earlier, when I was looking for whales."
"You'll see them in the San Juans." Her knuckles tightened around her fork. "Once you're back on Orcas, the locals can show you the best places to watch for them."
Meaning, she'd ship him off Skipjack as soon as possible.
She didn't realize she'd be going with him.
They ate the rest of the meal in silence. As soon as she finished, he struggled to his feet and carried his dishes to the kitchen. Sitting had tightened all his joints. "Let me clean up. You did the cooking."
"You wash. I'll dry." She put the cheese and salad dressing into the refrigerator. "It wouldn't be fair to leave you alone in here."
Her eyes strayed to the telephone. Damn it. She didn't want him in here alone. She was suspicious of him, and didn't want him near the phone.
A spark of unwilling admiration rolled through him. Lizzie Monroe was a smart woman. And a clever one. He'd have to be careful. He didn't want her to take off again.
He glanced out the window, where the rain clawed for a way into the house. She wouldn't be going anywhere until the storm cleared up.
A curl fell over her shoulder as she reached beneath the sink for the dish detergent, and the light seemed to get caught in her hair. He closed his eyes as his cock twitched. He needed to get her back to Chicago. Needed to unravel the truth.
Even though the reckless part of him, the part he tried to keep locked away, liked the idea of being trapped on an island with Lizzy Monroe.
Chapter 8
After they finished the dishes, Lizzy watched Mac stumble as he moved away from the sink. He shouldn't have been on his feet, and guilt washed through her. She pointed to the living room couch. "You should sit down. You're wobbly."
He'd turned away from her and stood at the counter, gripping the edge, his jaw working. "I'm fine."
"Doesn't look like it." She assessed his posture, trying to keep it clinical, but her mouth went dry as she studied his body. The bulky hoodie hid the muscles of his back, but the sweat pants clinging to his very nice ass reminded her of how it had felt beneath her hands. Of how other parts of him had felt, too. "I didn't take you for a stupid, macho dude, but I guess I was mistaken." She cleared her throat, trying to banish the husky voice that belonged in a bedroom. "You almost died this afternoon. Go sit on the couch."
He turned to face her, and his gaze drifted to her mouth. After a long moment, his eyes dropped to her chest and he shoved his hands into his pockets. It didn't hide the evidence of an erection. "Yes, ma'am. Do all men ask 'how high' when you say jump in that voice?"
Very few men had heard that voice. "The smart ones do."
"I'll remember that." He touched the back of a chair, as if for support,
as he walked slowly toward the couch. He was trying to hide a limp, and he moved carefully, as if his back was sore. "I take it you don't like dudes."
She shrugged. "They're better than bros."
He snorted, and she wondered if it was a laugh. "Good to know. I'll try to keep my inner bro under control."
She watched as he carefully lowered himself to the cushion. She didn't think he was the partying, frat boy, misogynist definition of a bro. Something about him was pinging her radar, though. Besides the fact that they'd had sex a couple of hours ago. Twice.
Sex she couldn't stop thinking about.
When she was certain he was seated and not watching her, she unhooked the cord from the telephone. "I'm going to get the spare bed made up."
"You don't have to go to the trouble," he said, shifting to look at her. "I'm happy to share."
Her fingers tightened around the phone cord as she stared back at him. She'd be happy to share, as well. She'd love to share a lot more than a bed. "I'm...I'll...that's..."
In spite of his aches and pains, he gave her those bedroom eyes again. The ones that made her legs weak. After a long moment, he smiled and turned around.
Did he know how tempted she was? How badly she wanted to take him up on his offer?
She suspected he did.
Clutching the cord tightly, she hurried to her room and shoved the cord into the back of her lingerie drawer. As she slid the drawer closed, she shook her head.
She was thinking about having sex with Mac while she hid the phone cord from him. She was out of her mind.
She was also lonely. She craved physical contact with someone other than Jerry and the hug they exchanged once a week. And the man who'd washed up in front of her house had lit her up like no one ever had.
Yeah, he'd been too hesitant about his job in Seattle. Too wary. Most guys loved to talk about what they did. But he fumbled, as if he was making it up as he went along. And not knowing about the CAVE-2 project in Chicago?
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