“Cinnamon.”
“All right, but you’re not going to like it,” she warned.
He waited.
“She said you reminded her of Wesley Garner.”
For a moment he was confused. Then he remembered. “The guy who went to Europe?”
Cinnamon nodded and took a drink of wine. Mac recognized when people were hiding things. Observation was his job. He knew Janelle Bruce had not said that. Raising an eyebrow, he gave Cinnamon a skeptical look.
“That’s too many words for what she really said.”
“All right,” Cinnamon responded. “She said you were nice eye candy.” Cinnamon smiled again. “And I have to agree with her.”
The house was brightly lit when Mac drove into the circular driveway. The weather cooperated and the day had been warm. The night was crisp and cool. Mac smiled at Cinnamon as he got out of the car and came around to open her door.
“Beautiful place,” he said, looking up at the house and the grounds that extended around it.
“It reminds me of Allison and Paul’s,” she told Mac. He’d said he no longer owned the house in Virginia.
With his hand on her lower back, he guided her toward the wide steps that led to the front door. Cinnamon felt warmth spread through the thin material of her gown and fought to keep her balance.
“By the way,” Mac whispered close to her ear. “Have I told you that you look gorgeous in that dress?”
Cinnamon turned to him. “You are going to be trouble tonight, aren’t you?”
“I hope so,” Mac said, his meaning clear. He slipped his arm around her waist.
Cinnamon was wearing the purple strapless gown. His reaction when she’d come down the stairs an hour ago had been jaw-dropping silence. Maybe he’d just found his voice. Together they continued toward the house.
The party was in full swing when Mac and Cinnamon arrived.
“Cinnamon.” Mary Ellen greeted them at the door. The two women hugged as if they hadn’t seen each other in decades.
Mary Ellen Taylor was short and thin, but buxom enough to stop traffic even with only an inch of hair. That alone made her striking, but her perfect African skin, high cheekbones and clear brown eyes, added to the sex appeal she’d been born with.
Penn State University had been Cinnamon’s undergraduate and graduate school. She and Mary Ellen Taylor had met in the graduate program, although Mary Ellen was in Criminology while Cinnamon studied Atmospheric Operations. Today Mary Ellen worked as a forensic artist, combining her talent in art and her criminal studies.
“You look great.” Mary Ellen pushed her back and studied her from head to toe. Cinnamon turned completely around, modeling the bright purple gown. The full skirt flared out as she twirled.
Cinnamon pushed her arm through Mac’s as she introduced him. “Meet MacKenzie Grier.”
The two shook hands. Cinnamon saw the sly smile her friend gave her. It said, we’ll talk later.
“Call me Mac,” he said, with a charming smile. Cinnamon felt the power of it flow like sunshine all the way to her toes.
“Welcome, Mac. Cinnamon didn’t tell me she was bringing a television personality.” Mary Ellen looked at her friend. “I’m glad you could come. Cinnamon will show you around. Enjoy yourself.”
With their arms linked, Cinnamon led him into the ballroom. The rooms in Mary Ellen’s home were wider than Cinnamon’s. The main living room had been cleared of furniture and a dance floor put down. Everyone called it the ballroom.
“Cinnamon!”
She turned as someone called her name. Several of her friends, who’d been dancing, stopped and came over when they recognized her.
She introduced Mac and answered all the standard questions about leaving Boston and living in Virginia. Mac got her a drink and when he returned, Edward Bailey, one of her former colleagues, stared openly at him.
“I thought I recognized you,” he said, snapping his fingers as if he’d just remembered. “You’d think, being in television, too, other personalities would be easier to recognize. Ed Bailey.” He introduced himself again and offered his hand. Mac shook it. “You host Keeping it Honest.”
Cinnamon knew it was a statement Mac had heard countless times, but he was gracious and nodded.
“It’s really good to meet you. I guess we get so involved in our own world that we don’t really focus on anything outside it.”
“Ed is one of the producers at WBSN,” Cinnamon explained. Then to Ed, she said, “You two can talk about it later. This is our song and we’re going to dance.”
They joined everyone on the dance floor. “Thanks,” Mac said, taking her into his arms. “I’m sure you did me a favor.”
“I thought you needed rescuing. Ed’s a nice guy, but he’ll keep you talking all night if you let him.”
“I’ll heed the warning.”
Mac’s arms circled her waist and he pulled her tightly against him. They swayed to the music. Cinnamon’s head naturally rested on his shoulder, as if it belonged there. She melted into him. She didn’t need to act as if she liked him. She did like him. In fact, she wanted him. The room was crowded, but Cinnamon felt as if she was alone with Mac.
Mac hummed in her ear. “I should remember this song if it’s going to be ours.”
Cinnamon leaned back and looked up at him. “You know I only said that because—”
“Doesn’t matter why.” He stopped her. “You called it.”
Cinnamon listened. The bandstand had been set up along the wall. Mary Ellen’s parties had a format to them. Since the age group of the attendance list covered several decades, the band played a variety of music. Currently they were in the Cole Porter stage, playing “Love for Sale.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he stopped her. “You’ll pay for that,” she promised. Mac pulled her back in his arms.
“I certainly hope so,” he said, and danced her around the floor until the song ended.
Mac proved an excellent escort. He made friends easily and talked with practically everyone. Mary Ellen found her during a period when Mac was elsewhere.
“So, tell me, where did you find him?” She looked across the room to where Mac was speaking with her parents.
“In my backyard.”
“Literally?” Her eyebrows went up.
“Not quite. He was on the porch. Angry and ready to skin me alive.”
“Ah, sounds promising.” She smiled. “I guess this means he’s not the same as he is on television?”
“He wasn’t immediately. I was wearing his sister’s dress and he thought that was a little over the top.” Cinnamon explained about the delivery of the wrong gown.
“You have some nerve.”
“Well, it worked out. He didn’t eat me.”
“Give him time. It looks like he wants to.”
Cinnamon stared at Mary Ellen, then looked over at Mac. His back was to her. What had Mary Ellen seen? Mac said he was putting their enmity on hold, but there was nothing between them. Sure, he made her hot, but he didn’t know that.
At that moment he turned and smiled at her. Cinnamon felt as if the sun had suddenly invaded her body. Her dress might be bright purple, but she outshined it by millions of watts.
“Mac, I hope you’re enjoying yourself,” Mary Ellen said as he reached them.
“I am,” he answered, slipping his arm around Cinnamon’s waist. The action was natural, as if the two of them were already lovers. And it didn’t go unnoticed by Cinnamon’s friend. “I didn’t expect to find anyone here I knew and there are several people I’ve met before. We’re having a good time remembering our mutual pasts.” He looked down at Cinnamon. “How about another dance?”
Cinnamon didn’t answer. She was unable to speak. She nodded and turned into his arms, letting him excuse them and guide her away. Cinnamon knew Mary Ellen would be on the phone early the next morning wanting every detail of her and Mac’s relationship, but for the time being she only thought of Mac.
They danced without talking. The band had moved on from the Cole Porter era and traveled through time to the nineties. Cinnamon recognized the tune, but her mind wasn’t capable of determining the title of the song. She was swaying with the music. Something about her had changed in the last few minutes. Mary Ellen had said he looked at her as if he wanted to eat her. Cinnamon hadn’t seen anything like that. Did she want to?
She knew how she felt. But Mac? Mac didn’t feel that way about her. He’d told her he wanted to take her to a wedding because there was no chance of her wanting anything more from him. He needed her to play a part. That’s what he was doing for her. He was playing a part.
And apparently he was good at it. He’d fooled Mary Ellen.
“I Could Have Danced All Night” floated through Cinnamon’s brain. She knew exactly how Eliza Doolittle felt after her dance with Henry Higgins. Mac was not a dialectician, but he could dance. She twirled around across the sidewalk that led to her mother’s house. Mac accommodated her by stepping in and partnering her through the music that played in her head.
“I guess I don’t have to ask if you had a good time,” he said.
“I had a wonderful time.” Elongating the word wonderful, she climbed the stairs to the century-old front door and unlocked it. Inside, she turned on the hall light and went through to the high-ceiling living room. “Would you like something to drink—coffee, nightcap, champagne?”
“I think I’ve had enough champagne, but coffee sounds good.”
Cinnamon took off her wrap and stepped out of her shoes. Barefoot she padded to the kitchen and set up the coffeemaker. Mac followed her in and he was opening and closing cabinets.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
“Tray, cups and saucers, mugs. I thought I’d help.”
Cinnamon forgot that Mac was used to helping Allison. It was natural for him to try and help her. She opened a cabinet over the sink. Inside was an array of china cups. “There’s a tray on top of the refrigerator.”
He got it and began setting it up. When the coffee was ready, Cinnamon added the pot to the tray and Mac took it. She led him through the living room to the pink room. When she turned on the light, he stared.
Cinnamon laughed. “I told you my mother liked bright colors.”
“Yes, but a totally pink room?” He set the tray on a large, low ottoman that served as a coffee table. Mac didn’t immediately sit down.
Cinnamon poured the coffee, but Mac stared at the furnishings. There was a huge mural of the world on one wall. It was the only thing in the room that wasn’t a shade of pink. The sofa was a sectional that had been made for the room. The ceiling was high and pictures of pink flowers were arranged in matching frames to accommodate the room height.
“Where did she find a pink piano?”
Cinnamon laughed. “It was specially made for this room, like most of the things in it.”
Mac sat down and accepted the cup Cinnamon offered him. “Shouldn’t the coffee be pink?”
Cinnamon laughed, then she became serious and quiet. Mac looked at her. She moved to the edge of the sofa and put her cup on the tray.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Thanks,” she said.
“For what?”
“For tonight. For escorting me. For meeting my friends and winning them over.” She remembered how well he seemed to fit into the party and with people she’d known for years. Leaning over she kissed his cheek. It seemed the natural thing to do.
But what happened next wasn’t part of Cinnamon’s plan.
Mac’s free hand combed through her hair and turned her mouth to his. Cinnamon was balanced on her hand, but it wasn’t going to support her much longer, not with her body turning to butter. Mac must have put his cup on the table, for his other arm circled her waist and he pulled her closer to him. His mouth never left hers, except to reposition itself and continue the kiss.
He pulled her across him and laid her down on the long sofa. Cinnamon’s arms went around him. His mouth did tantalizing things to her. She welcomed his tongue as it tangled with hers. Cinnamon was in Boston, the town she’d fled with a vow that she was off men, but now she was entwined in Mac Grier’s arms and loving it. Her legs draped over his, and Cinnamon found it impossible to keep them still. She rubbed them over Mac’s. Mac’s hands moved down her body. Fire trailed where he touched her. She tried to suppress the moan of pleasure that welled up in her throat, but the combination of his hands and his mouth were too much.
It had been a long time since a man kissed her. She missed it, missed the rush of emotion, the prickle of nerve endings coming alive and pulsating along her skin, missed the feel of a man’s arms holding her. Mac slipped his arms around her again, pressing her against him as his mouth continued its onslaught. She’d begun this as a thank-you kiss, a soft touch to express her appreciation, but she hadn’t pushed him away when he deepened the kiss, when he took over and showed her exactly what men and women were made for.
Mac finally lifted his mouth. Cinnamon’s heart hammered and she was out of breath.
“You’re welcome,” Mac whispered.
Chapter 7
Mac opened his eyes and immediately knew where he was and what he’d done. “Damn!” He cursed, as he hooked his legs over the side of the bed and hung his head. He hadn’t been thinking straight last night. He couldn’t blame it on too much champagne because he’d had only one glass. The rest of the night, tonic water had been his only drink.
It was Cinnamon. The magnetism of her. And that dress. He wanted to peel it off her. Expose her body inch by cinnamon-colored inch and lick every bit of skin he found. When she’d leaned forward and kissed him, he was lost. His hands and body took over. Her mouth was like sweet wine, wet, delicious and tantalizingly inviting. He feasted on it. Kissing her was like nothing he’d ever done before. Everything about her felt good, the shape of her, the feel of her dress and the promise of the soft, smooth skin beneath it. Her face was perfect, he liked the way her hair fell over his hands, the weight of her arms around his neck. Mac stopped, shaking his head as if he could dislodge thoughts of her.
Standing up, he moved to the window and looked out on the Boston street. Red maples lined the walkway. A woman passed by with her dog, leash in one hand, a plastic bag in the other. Cars moved slowly down the street. Everything appeared normal. Everything in its place. Everything except him.
His world had been rocked by a kiss.
And now he had to face her, sit before her at a breakfast table and act as if he was able to keep his mind on simple tasks like chewing and swallowing, breathing in and out.
He was no good at the-morning-after conversation. And he and Cinnamon had had no night before. So why did he feel like this was the morning after a night of wild lovemaking?
Dreams, he told himself. What-ifs. Wishing and hoping. Possibilities. Virtual promises.
Mac turned and headed for the shower. It was going to be a long day.
Mac had a house in Georgetown. He’d gone there directly after seeing Cinnamon home. He lived in Washington, D.C., not Indian Falls. He could live and work in Georgetown. That’s what he’d been telling himself for the past two weeks. Yet he spent little time at the house. Other than changing his clothes and showering, most of his time was spent in his office.
He looked at his messy desk, tapped out a few words on his computer keyboard. The phone rang.
“MacKenzie Grier,” he said into the phone.
“I thought I’d find you there.”
Instantly he recognized his sister’s voice. “Allison, great to hear from you.” He smiled. It was great to hear from her. She’d been back a week and he hadn’t talked to her. “Are you two settling in?”
“We’re fine,” she said. “I was wondering about you. You usually spend more time here than in D.C. Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine,” he lied. “I’ve been busy getting things in order for future shows. And I thought you an
d Paul needed some alone time. Who needs a brother-in-law hanging around?”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t be an imposition. This is still your home.”
“Allison, it’s your home. Yours and Paul’s.” They’d been over this ground before.
“Well, you can still come visit. You’d be surprised to find out all that’s going on.”
“Like what?” He sat up in his chair, bracing himself for bad news. His heart started to pound. Instinctively he knew it involved Cinnamon.
“We heard about Fletcher Caton offering Cinnamon Scott free invitations to her wedding.”
“That was weeks ago.”
“Well, a few other people have come forward with more wedding freebies.”
“Cinnamon isn’t engaged.”
“Not yet. But she could be soon.”
“What?” Mac nearly shouted. “To who?”
“That’s whom,” Allison corrected. “And I don’t know.”
“Allison, are you trying to play Cupid again?”
“No.” She sounded as if she’d never interfered in his love life. “Apparently, the local papers heard about Fletcher’s offer.”
“I know. I was there when it happened.”
“Now, the story’s been picked up by several other papers and they’ve begun a contest.”
“What kind of contest?” Mac asked.
“It’s not a real contest.”
His sister was being too slow with information on Cinnamon. Or she was baiting him. Mac’s blood pressure had gone up several points just at the mention of Cinnamon’s name. Squeezing the phone between his neck and shoulder, he pulled up the Internet on his screen and clicked on one of his favorites. It was for The Weekly. The screen painted down in a flash. On the front page was a photo of Cinnamon amid a mountain of letters.
Choose Me, stated the headline. Mac forgot his sister and started reading. Cinnamon Scott was inundated with mail from would-be grooms this weekend. Letters from as far away as Montreal, Canada, were delivered to the Indian Falls resident with proposals of marriage. “We only see this many letters during the holiday season,” said Ray Cobb, the postal carrier who delivered the mail.
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