by Vicki Hinze
He leaned back against the door. Stared at the streaks of shadows the light played on the ceiling. “I’m thinking to try crossing out by the pond. Up by the stone wall between here and Beaulah Favish’s place.”
“It couldn’t hurt.” She muttered as if she’d nicked herself again. “MacGregor, when you actually cross over, what do you feel?”
Should he tell her? Right now she just thought he was nuts. But if he told her about the episodes in detail, she’d be certain of it. He knew how crazy it sounded, but he wasn’t crazy, and he knew that, too. She didn’t. Whatever was happening here fit into the weird, strange, abnormal and unusual categories, but it was happening. It was real.
But if he didn’t tell her, she’d just ask Miss Hattie, who might or might not tell her. Better it came from him. “First the temperature takes a nosedive.” He studied his nails, disassociating from the things he felt when this happened, fearing if he didn’t, Maggie would hear all the emotion in his voice and think him nuts and weak. “Then this mist comes up over me. I feel it everywhere, like a blanket. No. No, it’s more like a second skin.”
A thread of anxiousness stole into his voice. He paused to level it out, to further distance himself.
“What else?”
She sounded controlled, her tone not reflecting the strangeness of what he was telling her at all. Grateful for that, he went on. “Then it’s like these icy-cold fingers grab me by the shoulder. I try to knock them loose, but I can’t.”
“That’s what you’re fighting, then?”
“Yeah.” He stared at her clothes on the floor. Her sleeve was crumpled and twisted around the leg of her jeans. Her panties lay right on top. He shut his eyes. “Yeah, that’s what I’m fighting.”
“Then what?”
The water rippled, lapped against the sides of the garden tub, and he imagined himself in it with her. Her skin wet and rosy from the heat, her cheeks flushed, her eyes soft and slumberous.
“MacGregor?”
The image popped like a bubble. “Then I’m too weak to fight. I see spots, know I’m blacking out—and I know that there’s nothing I can do to stop it.” He swallowed an emotional knot from his throat. “Then I’m out.”
“Sounds creepy.”
It was. “Try experiencing it.”
“No, thanks.”
Something in her tone alerted his sixth sense. He stared at the woodgrain in the door, wishing he could see her expressive eyes. “Maggie, have you been experiencing strange things here, too?”
She hesitated. “Um, no.” The water pipes groaned ominously and the room temperature seemed to suddenly drop. “Why do you ask?”
She’d lied. “Just curious.” He leaned back, rested his head against the door and stared at the antique brass shell soap dish on the marble counter. Why had she lied?
“What happens to you then?”
“Nothing. Out’s out, Maggie.” He pivoted, leaned his weight fully against the door to scratch an itch in the middle of his shoulders. “The next thing I know, I’m waking up looking at angels.”
“Angels?” She opened the door.
Not expecting it, T.J. crashed onto his back.
“Sorry.” She looked down at him, her hair damp and swinging forward cupping her face.
He looked up her legs to the fluffy pink towel circling her middle. Droplets of water clung to her skin, between her clavicles, in the soft hollow of her throat. A lone trickle slid down her shoulder and onto her arm, and she smelled of lavender soap. He loved the smell of lavender soap as much as the smell of the sea.
“Tell me about the angels.”
He sat up. “They’re not your halo variety.”
“Glad to hear it. You were starting to worry me.”
Telling her about the boundary crossing should have her plenty worried already. Why didn’t it? “These angels flap hankies, not wings.”
“Ah, Miss Hattie.”
“And you.” He rolled his shoulder, bowed his spine, and worked a kink out of his back.
She smiled. “I don’t think anyone’s ever called me an angel before.”
“No? Well, don’t let it go to your head. I curse you plenty, too.”
“You?” She drew in a sharp breath that was totally faked. “Well, what do you know? And here I had you pegged as a gentleman.”
“Uh-huh. And I buy swampland by the parcel to build subdivisions on, too.”
“Now, MacGregor” —she flipped at a curl clinging to his ear—“who these days other than a gentleman asks a woman for a kiss?”
He caught her finger and held it. “I’ve been meaning to talk with you about that.”
“Oh?”
“Color me uninformed on the politically correct scene—I’ve been out of circulation for some time—but at least I asked you before I kissed you. You didn’t ask me. Worse, you kissed me and cursed me.” He cleared his throat. “Notice how chivalrous I was about that, Maggie. I’m needing to rack up some redemption points here.”
“Intention noted.”
He nodded. “Did you note, too, that I didn’t hold it against you—you’re not asking me before you kissed me, I mean? I didn’t. I kissed you back, anyway.”
“Did you?” She pressed a fingertip to her temple and walked past him, then scooped up her clothes. “Gee, MacGregor, I can’t say I did notice.”
“You didn’t?” He stood up and moved toward her. “How the hell could you not notice?”
She looked up at him and shrugged, her eyes glinting mischief. The towel, knotted between her breasts, lifted with each of her breaths. “I guess maybe it was one sorely-lacking kiss.”
“You’re lying, Maggie.”
“Am I?” She feigned innocence.
“Yeah, you are.” It was so transparent. Too transparent. She meant for him to realize it. “You know what I think?”
“No idea.” Holding her clothes bundled near her stomach, she backed up a step, against the hallway door.
He stepped closer, hemmed her in, determined to see her eyes on this one. She didn’t know it, but every emotion she even thought about feeling shone clearly in her eyes. “I’m thinking it wasn’t a sorely-lacking kiss. I’m thinking you want to kiss me again.”
“Nope. Not me.” She shook her head, setting her hair to swinging. “You’re thinking wrong.”
“No, I’m not. And I’m also thinking that you don’t want a sweet and gentle kiss.” He nodded to let her know he meant it.
Her little quiver had the knot at her breasts heaving. “Uh-uh.”
“Uh-huh.” He stepped closer still, until they touched chest to breasts, thigh to thigh. Her clothes crushed between their stomachs, she moved her hands, hesitated as if uncertain what to do with them, then lowered them to her sides, palms flat against the door.
He lifted his hands to her shoulders. Her skin was creamy soft, so warm and tempting. “I’m thinking you want to feel passion, Maggie.”
She hissed out a spurted breath that he thought might just be the sexiest sound he’d ever heard. “I don’t,” she said shakily. “I really, really don’t.”
Again, she’d lied. But this time he knew why. She didn’t want to find him appealing any more than he wanted to be attracted to her. He let his fingertip trail down from her temple to her earlobe, traced the shell of her ear back to her lobe, then to the soft spot behind it. A second finger joined the first and skimmed down her long neck, over her pulse point to her slim shoulder, to the soft hollow at her throat that was still damp and moist and warm from her bath. He circled it, then glided just the very tips of all four fingers along the upper swell of her breasts, meaning for his touch to be sensual, not sexual, and from her rapt expression, he was succeeding. “If passion is what you’re needing to feel, I can—”
“No, MacGregor.” Her voice softened to a pleading whisper. “I can’t.”
“But you want to.”
She swallowed, her breaths rough and loud in the still, moist air hanging between them. “Yes.”
He nearly collapsed from relief. This wasn’t one-sided. Neither of them wanted anything between them, but they were both feeling something. He didn’t like it, but he’d acknowledged it. So had she, though she hadn’t yet acted on it. And that, she had to decide to do.
He locked their gazes, let his hand fall to his side, then slowly and deliberately backed up a step.
The bundle of clothes between them dropped to the floor. Ignoring them, she grasped his arm and squeezed. “MacGregor?”
He paused, watching her inner struggle reflect in her eyes, and then the pressure from her fingers strengthened, urging him toward her. His heart thundering hard, his blood rushing through his veins, he took her into his arms and closed his mouth over her waiting lips.
She lifted her hands to his sides, glided them over him, ribs to waist, then gathered him close and drifted them down his spine. He’d been right. No gentle kiss, this. No tender pressing of lips and light flutters of learning touches. This kiss demanded, took, and delved deeply inside, exploring, touching parts of him he thought had died. This kiss teased and tempted and promised more. And he wanted more. He wanted all it promised. He wanted her.
A little moan escaped the back of her throat and the hands that had been gentle rubbed over his shirt, groped and clutched, bunching the fabric beneath them. He nipped at her lip and she opened her mouth on a gasped sigh. He darted his tongue inside, skimming over lips and teeth, and searched out her tongue. On finding it, he shuddered and touched it with his. Mingling, tangling, mating. She let out a whimper as sexy as that breath, and stroked his jeaned calf with her bare toes. A spiral of pleasure winding through him coiled tightly in his loins, so intense it weakened his knees.
He had to stop. If he didn’t stop—now—he’d be making love with her on the floor. He knew it. She knew it. And though he’d like nothing better, he also knew that the time wasn’t right.
Fighting tremor upon tremor of protest, he lifted his head and stared into her unfocused eyes, knowing his own were every bit as desire-glazed, and brushed his fingertip over her lower lip. “I want you, Maggie.”
Bemused, she breathed in deeply three times, each breath lifting the towel’s knot to brush against the heel of his hand. Each breath expelling warm heat that fanned over his chest. Each breath timing itself with the beats of his heart. “I can’t.”
“I know.” He did. They both were caught in inner struggles, though hers he couldn’t yet begin to understand. She’d told him too little.
She didn’t move, stayed leaning against the door as if it were all that kept her upright. “I lied, Tyler.”
Tyler, not MacGregor. Tyler meant serious trouble. His heart beat harder still.
“Your kiss wasn’t lacking.”
A pang of pure male pleasure rippled through his chest and settled in his groin. “I know.” And to show his appreciation at her being honest with him, he kissed her again. Longingly. Lovingly.
When he released her, the bathroom mirror had fogged solid and she didn’t look any more steady on her feet than he felt. “I think” —he backed up, putting some distance between them—“we’d better find something else to do. Want to come with me to try my luck at the pond?”
She swallowed hard, clutching at the towel. Their contact had loosened the knot and it threatened to come undone. “Give me five minutes.” Opening the door, she stepped out into the hall. “Ten max.”
“Uh-huh. Meet you downstairs in ten.”
Watching her pad down the hall, he smiled at her back. He’d been sharing the bathroom with the woman for a week. He’d give her an hour, and hope that was long enough.
Telling herself she hadn’t been as affected by MacGregor’s kiss as she had been, Maggie dressed quickly. Black slacks, a copper silk blouse that seemed to set her hair afire with golden glints, and a black jacket with copper lapels and patch pockets.
She dropped her brush back onto the vanity and stared at herself in the mirror. “What are you doing? Why are you letting him get to you?”
He was gorgeous. But she’d met gorgeous men before. He was a good listener, empathetic and nonjudgmental—and he was in trouble. Possibly weird trouble.
Feeling his despair and hearing those whispers, she feared she might be in weird trouble, too.
Her hand trembled. She shut her eyes. “Think calm. Think serene.” Why that seemed to work, she didn’t know. But she’d done this several times since she’d arrived here, and on each occasion it had worked.
When the tension coiling in her stomach unwound, she phoned her mother. Thankfully, the phone chose to work. Maybe hearing her mother’s voice would get Maggie back on track and focused on her purpose for being here. She hoped it would.
MacGregor’s lure was too strong. He appealed to her physically but, worse, he appealed emotionally. She sighed. The man appealed to her in every way a man could appeal to a woman. And that made him even more potentially dangerous.
Fifteen minutes later, she headed downstairs, her black high-top sneakers squeaking on the wooden stairs. On seeing Cecelia’s portrait, she whispered, “I wouldn’t mind a little help here—if you can spare it,” then walked on, her hand gliding over the gleaming bannister.
At least her mother had sounded terrific. Taking a ceramics class. Imagine that. Maggie smiled, no less happy that the call had had the desired effect on her, too. She was focused. Intent. Determined. And she was confident that she could keep this attraction to MacGregor in perspective.
At the foot of the stairs, MacGregor stood waiting. He checked his watch and looked awfully pleased with himself.
“One hour—exactly.”
Definitely smug. The third stair creaked under her feet. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing important.”
Looking up at her, his gaze turned warm and appreciative. Her heart fluttered. And the serenity she’d spent the last hour gathering scattered like seeds tossed by the wind.
“Guess that means you’re back to cutting me off, eh?”
“Excuse me?” Maggie stepped around a juniper that didn’t look particularly enamored with the warmer weather then moved to MacGregor’s side.
He slid a hand into his jacket pocket. “No hot water for the wicked.”
Maggie grinned at him. He looked gorgeous in jeans, a steel blue shirt, and denim jacket. What the man did for clothes was sinful.
The pond was just ahead. Smelling the scents of spruce and fir and clean fresh air, she watched a gull flying high above them, toward the ocean. “There ought to be some penalty for cornering a woman in the bathroom and forcing her to admit things she’d certainly rather not.”
“Forcing her?”
“Okay.” Her cheeks flushed hot. “Coercing. Now bury the attitude.”
“Every action causes a reaction, Maggie Wright.” He clasped her waist then heaved her over a fallen tree blocking the path. “One of these days, it’ll be payback time for all those cold showers. And even coercing is stretching it.”
“A gentleman wouldn’t gloat.”
“Ah, but we’ve already established that I’m no gentleman.”
Clasping his shoulders, she waited until he stepped over the tree, then asked, “What kind of payback?”
“It’ll be steep. You owe me for using my razor, too, remember?”
“Geez, MacGregor. Do you always keep score?”
“When I have an end result in mind, yep, sure do.”
She let out a heated puff of breath. “You were going to tell me about this payback business.”
He drew her to him, those beautiful gray flecks warming his eyes. “I was thinking of something like maybe me joining you in that garden tub.”
A pang of longing, of yearning, streaked through her. One of guilt followed right on its heels. Part of her wanted it, wanted him. But another part of her, the part that harbored doubts about him with Carolyn, insisted Maggie had to be crazy to even consider getting more deeply involved with him. And yet, only through getting involved could sh
e ever hope to learn the truth.
A Class-A dilemma if ever there was one.
“Don’t fret, Maggie. If that happens, it’ll be by mutual choice.”
Fearing him right, the disclosure meant to reassure her only worried her more. He set her onto the leaf-strewn ground and then they walked on.
Near the wall, Maggie felt that spooky feeling again. The hairs lifted on her neck, and she snagged MacGregor’s hand. “Tyler.”
“What?”
Her use of his Christian name as much as her tone had alerted him. She sensed him stiffen. “Someone’s watching us.”
He nodded, relaxing. “Batty Beaulah Favish.” He lifted his chin. “Three o’clock. Bent down between the second fir and the dead oak.”
Maggie glanced over. The sun glinted on something shiny. She looked back at MacGregor to explain.
“Binoculars.” He smiled. “Madam Bird-Watcher is actually a disguise. She’s got a good heart, but she’s one nosy lady.”
The woman about Miss Hattie’s age that Maggie had heard muttering outside the Blue Moon Cafe bolted through her mind. “Does she call someone Mister High Britches?”
T.J. laughed. “Yeah, the sheriff. She used to be his teacher so that gives her a license to aggravate him to death.” MacGregor stepped over a rock. “You’ve met her?”
“Nearly collided with her is more like it. When I walked down to the village the other afternoon.”
“Blue Moon Cafe, right?”
“Yes.”
“One of her favorite hunting grounds—for the sheriff.”
Maggie nodded, feeling relieved. Maybe it had been Beaulah watching all those other times she’d had that feeling, too.
But many of those times, she’d been inside the inn.
And Beaulah Favish didn’t have a man’s voice, either. Her’s had been tinny.
He stepped up to the boundary line. “Well, I’m ready.”
“MacGregor, wait.” Maggie clasped his arm, torn. If she brought this up, he could take it as if she were expecting him to fail. But if she didn’t, she might not get him back over the line soon enough. That last warning—that he could die—weighed heavily on her mind.