Garrett's lips parted, as though he was about to say something. He must have changed his mind.
Murphy's breath caught when, instead, he angled his head.
His mouth settled warmly over hers.
Her lashes fluttered down, blotting out everything but the wonderfully familiar feel and taste of his lips on hers, and the whirlpool of sensations it stirred inside her. While she'd often heard the expression “time stood still", she'd never experienced the phenomenon.
Until now.
Emboldened, her hand lifted, her palm stroked the firm line of his jaw. Clean-shaven and smooth, he smelled vaguely of a light, spicy after-shave. The scent of him, the feel, was intoxicating.
Even when he eased back and looked down into her eyes, she didn't drop her hand. It felt good to touch him.
“I've missed that,” he whispered huskily. His breathing was uneven, almost as erratic as her own.
“So have I,” she admitted softly, because it was the truth, and because she had to say it. Today was going to be her last chance to say the words bubbling inside her. She'd be damned if she'd spend the rest of her life looking back on this afternoon and regret holding anything back.
“There's something I want to give you,” Garrett said, even as his fingertips feathered from Murphy's brow the few strays curls that refused to be smoothed back with combs.
“Please, not more roses!”
He laughed. “No, no roses.”
“That's a relief.” She almost added that, whatever it was, she didn't want it. Almost. And then she realized how big a lie that was. The truth was, she wanted everything he could give her. And more.
“Where's my duffel bag?” Garrett asked.
“What duffel bag?” Murphy replied, distracted.
“The one I gave you to hold onto a few weeks ago. You know, that ugly, beat-up looking green thing…?”
“Oh, that duffel bag.”
His gaze shimmered with…something. Concern? Laughter? “You still have it, don't you?”
“Of course! I promised to keep it safe, and a McKenna always keeps his—or, in this case, her—word. It's in my bedroom. Hang on a sec, I'll go get it.”
Murphy stood, and noticed that Garrett stood, also.
“I'll go with you.”
“No!” she replied, remembering the shambles her bedroom was in. “I mean, I-I can get it myself. Really. It's no trouble. You wait here.”
She turned, intent on hurrying from the room before he could follow. She should have known better.
Murphy wasn't aware Moonshine had crept back into the living room and had curled up on the floor close to her feet…until her anklebooted-toes accidentally hooked underneath him.
The cat yowled.
Murphy startled.
Her arms flailed as her balance tipped. She tottered on one foot, afraid to put the other one down in case she stepped on the cat with her sharp heel.
Moonshine growled low and deep in his throat, then sprung indignantly to his feet. The base of the cat's tail hooked in the curve between the sole and heel of Murphy's ankleboot as he scurried from the room.
Unfortunately, while the tug his furry tail gave to Murphy's foot was minimal, it was enough to decide the question of her balance. She yelped when she felt herself going down, knowing she couldn't stop the momentum.
The cushions on the couch crunched, and from the corner of her eye Murphy saw Garrett lurch to grab her. His fingers closed around a fistful of skirt, all he could reach from that angle, and she felt the waistband cut into her stomach as he tried to yank her backward.
Over the pounding of her heart in her ears, the rending of cloth sounded unnaturally loud.
Suddenly, there was no resistance at all, and Murphy was going down harder than ever. Her knees and palms slammed into the cold, hardwood floor, breaking her fall and saving her forehead a painful collision by a mere fraction of an inch.
There was a loud clattering, and at first she thought it was the racket her heart was making as it tried to break free from her rib cage. It wasn't. Murphy had never been that lucky.
Drip, drip, drip.
Something cold and wet was soaking into the back of her nylon encased legs. Milk. Somehow, she'd managed to upset the copper serving tray. Murphy groaned and wished the floor would open up, swallow her whole, and be done with it!
Moonshine trotted back into the living room, no doubt drawn by the racket and the luring scent of fresh milk. The cat's sandpaper rough tongue lapped away the wetness coating the back of her calves. The sensation tickled. If she wasn't so mortified, Murphy might have laughed.
Her arms and wrists, sore from the way her hands had broken her fall, nevertheless supported her weight. The strength now drained out of Murphy's neck and she hung her head and sighed. What must Garrett think of her?
“Are you okay?” a serious voice asked from behind her. She thought his tone sounded too serious, like he was struggling to hold back…laughter?
“Of course. Don't I look okay?” she replied. Her mind's eyes flashed her a picture of what she probably did look like, sprawled face-down on the floor, her skirt…
Wait a minute. Where was her skirt?!
Murphy's head snapped up, and she glanced back before she could think better of it.
Garrett was perched on the edge of the couch, where she herself had been sitting only a minute ago. Legs spread, his elbows were cushioned atop his heavily muscled thighs. Murphy's skirt—rather, what was left of it—was crushed in his right fist. The remainder of the thick black cotton dragged the milk-and coffee-sodden floor.
Rising up fully on her knees, Murphy glanced down. Her face reddened. Her slip was twisted, the lacy hem riding high on her thighs. Her nylons were stained from everything that had spilled on them. Beneath the sheer hose, she could see discolored bruises already starting to form.
The copper tray was no longer on the coffee table, but most of its contents were. Milk and coffee and sugar had scattered all over. The mugs had tumbled to the floor; neither had broken.
Murphy traced the drips that continued to splash coldly onto her legs back to the creamer; the porcelain container was lying on its side and, like a bear doing tricks, Moonshine had gone up on his back paws and was now sticking his nose—well, what there was of it, he was a Himalayan, after all—inside, purring loudly as he lapped up what little milk left.
Murphy groaned.
She should have taken Elise Thayer's advice and gone to that matinee while she'd had the chance!
Chapter 11
Murphy's Law #11: The solution to a problem only
changes the nature of the problem…
GARRETT DIDN'T want to laugh. To do so would only add to Murphy's embarrassment, and it was the last thing he wanted to do. Yet some things simply weren't possible to control. He felt a chuckle build in his throat, tried to swallow it back, failed. Before he could stop it, his laughter burst forth.
Unfortunately, once he'd given himself permission to laugh, he found he couldn't stop.
Murphy glared at him.
Garrett thought of “The Perfect Line” he'd practiced so diligently in the car. God, but he'd wanted everything today to be perfect. He should have known better, should have guessed that Murphy's Law would reign supreme.
That thought made him laugh even harder.
“Stop it, Garrett. It isn't that funny,” Murphy scolded.
He glanced down at her. The combs she'd used to tame her curls had dislodged when she'd fallen. Who knew where they had landed? Her hair now fell in appealingly soft disarray around her face and neck and shoulders. Her green eyes were bright, the color in her cheeks high. She was now kneeling on the floor facing him.
His gaze dipped. The snowy white slip had twisted around her hips and legs. He couldn't help noticing the way…well, all of her, it seemed, was wet with a mixture of spilled coffee and milk. Sunlight glinted off the particles of sugar clinging to her nylons; they shimmered like minuscule crystals.
&nbs
p; Garrett hadn't come away from the incident unscathed. His laughter peaked when he noticed that, in certain places, his jeans and shirt were also wet and clinging damply to his skin. Drops of milk had splattered onto his cheeks; without thinking, he wiped them away on what was left of her skirt.
That was when Murphy started laughing. Reluctantly at first, then with more enthusiasm.
Their gazes met, held. Garrett felt something inside him crack and shift. It wasn't a snap, exactly, but close. It was impossible not to adore a woman who could laugh at herself so easily.
“Come here, you nut,” he said as, still laughing, he tossed Murphy's torn skirt aside and extended his hand.
“I'm not a nut,” she said, also laughing as she placed her hand in his. “I'm a klutz. There's a difference.”
One tug and he'd brought her to her feet. Static electricity—or dampness from the coffee and milk—kept her silky white slip twisted provocatively high around her hips and thighs, exposing a generous expanse of shapely legs. “Not much of a difference from what I can see.”
“Then you obviously haven't seen enough.”
“Not nearly as much as I'd like to,” he agreed, his good humor subsiding. He maneuvered Murphy between his legs and pulled on her hand. As though her knees had been waiting for any excuse to melt, she sat down hard on his thigh. He felt a twinge in his old wound, but nothing serious.
Garrett shifted, sat back, his arms coiling around a still laughing Murphy, hauling her with him, keeping her body close to his. She curled up on his lap, into his chest, her cheek on his shoulder. The tip of a wayward curl tickled the bottom of his chin, and he smiled. “God, woman, what am I going to do with you? Will you look at this mess?”
It was Murphy's turn to not be able to stop laughing. “Don't worry, M-moonshine will get it.”
“He's already started. In fact, he's lapping up a puddle of milk from the floor.”
“See? What'd I tell you?” Her breath whisked warmly over Garrett's neck as she gave in to another surge of laughter. “The dratted cat is good for something after all. Besides tripping me and making you sneeze, that is. Oooo, Garrett, speaking of sneezing, you forgot to take the Benadryl!”
She shifted in his arms, glancing up at him.
He pulled back only far enough to return her gaze. She was smiling, and he noticed a hint of a dimple in her right cheek. Without warning, he found himself fighting the urge to trace the crease with his tongue. How would her skin taste? “I didn't forget.”
“You didn't?” Her laughter faded a bit.
“Nope.”
“But you're not sneezing.”
“I know.” What Garrett was doing was taking a swift, mental inventory of every place where Murphy's soft, warm body touched him. There were a lot of places, and he contemplated every one. Thoroughly. He was very much aware of the shapely, silk-encased thigh beneath his splayed palm.
Her expression only half serious, she cupped his cheeks in her hands and opened her mouth to say…something. Whatever it was, the words never came; they clogged in her throat when her gaze descended, sweeping hotly over his lips. Her laughter—rather, what was left of it—evaporated.
Garrett sucked in a shaky breath; it was filled with the sweet, soapy scent of Murphy McKenna. “Ninety-nine point forty-four percent pure,” he whispered, his voice raw and husky.
“Huh?”
He shook his head, his hands rising, his palms blanketing the back of hers. Murphy's fingers opened; Garrett's settled between them. Her gaze never left his lips; his skin burned under the scrutiny. He wanted, needed, ached to kiss her.
“It's that other point fifty-six percent, the part you try so damn hard to hide, that gets to me, sweetheart,” he murmured as, his lips ravenous for the taste of her, descended.
“Garrett, what are you talking abou—?”
His mouth crashed down on hers, and he swallowed the rest of her words. Murphy, in turn, swallowed his husky groan of pleasure. She opened for him willingly. His tongue swept her mouth; like a man dying of thirst, he drank in the flavor of her.
Ah, God, she tasted good! Sweeter than honey, more potent than whiskey; a combination that would have knocked Garrett to his knees had he been standing. She tasted exactly like he remembered, as he'd dreamed she would. No, she tasted better.
There was so much he wanted to say, to ask. Her job and what had happened with it in the last three weeks being the most prominent. It would have to wait. He couldn't find the air to breathe, let alone talk.
Not that it mattered. Talking wasn't what he wanted to do right now, anyway. Oh, no, far from it! Time for that later. What he wanted to do—right here, right now, so badly he thought he'd go insane—was finish what they'd started in the confines of her Rabbit three weeks ago…when they'd been trapped in a blizzard with no obvious escape…when Murphy had thought they were going to die…when Garrett had thought he might, too, the instant he'd snuck his hand past her unzipped jeans and touched the hot, moist heat of her.
Murphy's tongue tangled with his in a frenzied way that suggested she'd been equally as hungry for the taste of him. A soft moan whispered past her lips when she turned, molding her front more fully to the sculpted hardness of his chest. Her fingers combed through his hair, fisted the sandy strands until his scalp burned. She pulled him closer.
The ragged give and take of her breaths felt torrid and misty against his cheek and jaw. They felt wonderful, as erratic and strained as his own.
The kiss, already at a fever-pitch, turned hot and wet and consuming. Garrett's mouth ate at hers. Murphy's lips sipped at his as though she never wanted the kiss to end. When he moved his attention lower, over the curve of her chin to the outer side of her neck, she threw her head back and released a shuddering sigh that cut through him like a knife.
His hands splayed her back. The fringe of her hair tickled his knuckles.
He'd asked her once, in the doctor's office in Greenville, what would have happened if Stephen and his truck hadn't shown up when they did. The question, and Murphy's too-vague answer, had tormented Garrett ever since.
Now he knew.
When his hands lifted, and his trembling fingers closed over the top seed pearl button at the base of her neck, he had his answer. She made no move to stop him. If anything, the way she squirmed in his lap—God that felt good!—said she was as eager as he was to get rid of the cumbersome barrier of clothing separating his hot, hungry flesh from hers.
Garrett's spirits soared when that theory proved itself out twofold. Murphy released his hair and her fingers went to the buttons of his shirt. Unlike Garrett, who was trying to be slow and careful, the way she released his buttons was rough and impatient. He'd no more freed half of hers when she parted his shirt wide and, with a whispered moan of appreciation, splayed her palms over his naked chest.
Garrett kissed her neck, suckled a salty patch of her skin into his mouth, his soul shaking from the contact. It felt like she'd literally burned the imprint of her hands into his flesh, so hot, so good did her touch feel. And even if she had, he wouldn't have minded a bit being branded by this woman.
But only if he could brand her in the same fashion.
It seemed to take forever, but he freed the buttons trailing down her spine. He parted the white linen plackets, hesitated for one throbbing heartbeat, then lowered the blouse over her the front of her shoulders, down her arms.
He sat back and watched, fascinated, as her creamy skin was revealed with nerve-shattering slowness.
Garrett's breath hitched when he saw that, instead of the cotton bra he'd expected, she was barely contained by a skimpy, peach lace demi-style underwire that gave her mouth-wateringly firm breasts a seductive uplift.
He tossed her shirt aside; it fluttered to the floor, landing in a puddle of spilled coffee and milk.
Neither noticed.
Neither cared.
Oh, how he wanted to bury his face in the enticing shadow of her cleavage! To—
“Garrett?”
“What?” he murmured, distracted by his thoughts, his needs.
“Is something wrong?”
“Wrong?”
“Yes.”
“No.” Garrett couldn't seem to concentrate on anything but how badly he wanted to see more of her, to taste and touch more of her. Otherwise, he might have noticed, and been embarrassed by the way he stammered, “W-why would you think something's wrong?”
“Because you stopped.”
“I did?”
As though she knew she wasn't going to get an intelligent answer out of him while his attention was otherwise distracted, she cupped his jaw and lifted his gaze, forcing it to meet hers. “Remember that other point fifty-six percent?”
She grinned, and not only did Garrett feel his resolve melt, but his heart as well. That was not a “school teacher” grin, nor was it the grin of an innocent. What it was, was the grin of a woman who knew what she wanted, and knew how to get it. The glint in her beautiful green eyes said that what Murphy McKenna wanted, Murphy McKenna got. And what she wanted now was him.
“Where's the bedroom?” he asked hoarsely.
She nodded to the short hallway behind her. “But—”
He didn't wait for her to finish. He slipped one hand beneath her knees, the other under her arms—her skin felt smoother than satin as it skimmed beneath his palms—and, holding her breathtakingly close, stood.
She felt lighter than air. He thought that only fair since that's exactly how he felt as he carried her toward the hallway…toward her bedroom.
His sneakers crunched over spilled sugar as Garrett stepped past the coffee table. Unable to resist a second longer, his mouth swooped down to capture hers once more.
The bedroom door was ajar. The sole of his foot, applied with artful precision to the thin panel of wood, sent it careening open. In seconds, he'd crossed the room and laid Murphy out on the four-poster bed.
The mattress creaked under the weight of his knee. That was not the only sound in the room. There was also a startled yowl.
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