by Vicki Hinze
Fifteen minutes later, he’d combed the lawn, the garden, stood on the Seascape cliffs, climbed down the stone path to the little strand of beach then back up again, and he still felt smothered. Stopping on the jagged rocks, he stared out onto the foamy, white-capped sea. Even its roar howling in his ears, its cold and misty salt spray gathering on his skin, didn’t soothe him this time. Seascape grounds just weren’t big enough. He had to get away from here or he’d lose his mind. But there was only one way to do that.
Maggie.
And, God, but it appalled him to have to humiliate himself and ask her for help. To have to accept her pity—especially considering the odds ranked about a hundred percent that she’d turn him down cold.
Maybe not. A man’s voice sounded in T.J.’s head. Ask her.
Was it T.J.’s own voice? The entity’s?
Does it matter?
Did it?
All she can say is no...
No.
No way.
Uh-uh, absolutely, positively, unequivocally, no way. Miss Hattie had to be wrong. That’s all there was to it.
Maggie sighed, shrugged, then grimaced. Sitting alone on the bench, she stared out on the wind-rippled pond. Without the sun’s brilliant glint, the water looked murky, dense and dark and almost threatening. Of course, Miss Hattie had been wrong. Maggie had been at the in love brink, but she hadn’t taken the plunge. She didn’t love MacGregor. Spit, most of the time, she didn’t even like him.
But there was something... special about him.
The way he talked? Slow and reassuring, as soothing as the ocean’s gentle roar. The way he looked? Gorgeous, but his lure went much deeper than that. She appreciated his easy moves—what woman wouldn’t? They were relaxed, his carriage proud but not boastful. And he did have a perfect nose. Because he was so big? She did like that. His size and strength tugged hard at her feminine cords, but neither would appeal so much if he weren’t gentle and vulnerable—which he hated—and open in admitting his flaws. Heck, he even admitted them when they weren’t valid—like with his parents.
She wrapped her arms around her bent knees and dipped her face against the sharp wind. Men weren’t often that comfortable with their masculinity, or in their skin. Nor did the prospect of deceit typically trouble their consciences so much. Her father’s certainly hadn’t been. But MacGregor was... sensitive where her father had been calculating, keeping score and making sure he stayed one up on her mother. Of course, an artist had to be sensitive to paint, so that had come as no great surprise. But his sensitivity carrying over into other aspects of his life had surprised her. Oh, he was a nagging pain in the gluteus maximus, with an attitude and a killer snarl as fierce and disarming as his killer smile. True, but under the bluster, that sensitivity was there. When he held her, she sensed it so strongly it stunned her. The way he made her feel stunned her, too. Sighing, she hugged her knees tighter. She wasn’t sure she was crazy about feeling stunned, but she did really like the way he held her. And the way he hassled her. She even liked the way he drove her up the wall when she was in the tub.
Oh-oh. She pulled up a dead blade of grass and slid it between her forefinger and thumb. Serious trouble brewing here. Very serious trouble. She liked too much about the man, especially his huge hands and the way he skimmed them over her back... She positively hated loving that. And, aside from his lethal kisses, she just might hate loving their through-the-bathroom-door conversations most of all.
Sighing deeper, she tossed the grass blade onto the stony ground and watched the wind catch it and send it tumbling toward the big oak down by the water. Poor grass. It was as out of control of its destiny as she seemed of her own. She didn’t love MacGregor, no. But she sure did miss him.
“Maggie?”
She jerked, turned and saw him standing not three feet behind her, wearing a gray shirt and jeans and a black cashmere sweater that made him look as dark and dangerous and as alluring as the Seascape painting. Her heart started a slow, hard beat. “You’ve got to stop sneaking up on me, MacGregor. You’re stunting my growth and I’m determined to reach five-eight.”
His eyes twinkled. “Hate to break it to you, but I think your growing years have passed.”
She feigned a sigh. “There you go again, blowing my fantasies.”
“Old habits die hard.”
They did. And sometimes, without a whimper. Depressing, that.
“How about if I make it up to you?” He shrugged. “I have shattered a lot of your fantasies.”
He’d generated a lot of them, too. Especially in the past week. “How?”
He flipped his sweater over his shoulder and held it with a careless thumb. “I could tell you that you look fantastic in burnt umber.”
“Burnt umber?”
“Brown.” He smiled. “Burnt umber is a paint color.”
“Ah.”
“Sorry. Like everyone else, artists notice things in the familiar—even when they can’t work.” He cocked his head, lowered his lids to half-mast and gave her a killer smile that wilted her knees. “Or, I could take you to the Blue Moon Cafe for dinner.”
Oh, how she wished he could. “We can’t risk that”—a wave of regret washed through her—“so I’ll take the fantastic compliment.”
The wind stilled. She returned her gaze to the slick pond. A bug lit on its surface and tiny circles expanded to large ones, rippling out. For some reason, the old saying about casting your bread upon the water came to mind. Silly really. “You shouldn’t even be here talking with me. What if our entity gets ticked?”
“I’ll risk it.”
The wind started up again. Shivering off a chill, she looked over the slope of her shoulder, back at him. The breeze had his shirt and sweater blown snug over his chest, molding his shoulders, and his wind-tossed hair kissing his forehead. Blades of brown grass clung to his shoes.
She envied it all. Everything touching him. And she was angry with herself because she did. Even now, after a solid week of stern lectures and heart-to-heart talks with herself about accepting her feelings for him but limiting expressing them to her mission here, she got one look at him and envied even the wind because it could touch him and she couldn’t.
I’ll risk it. How easily those brave words had tripped off his tongue. And, oh, what she’d give for just an ounce of his courage.
But he could afford courage. He had far less to lose. His self-respect wasn’t in jeopardy. “You don’t know the consequences. Why are you willing to risk it, MacGregor?”
“Because.”
“Well”—she smacked her lips—“that explains that.”
He frowned.
“Wait, I know.” She lifted a pointed finger. “You have faith everything will work out okay.”
“You are kidding.” He snorted. “Faith? With my track record?”
Pollyandying, he wasn’t. She forced her expression to become passive. “Why, then?”
“Because I’m feeling... landlocked.” He sighed and looked skyward at the heavy, gray clouds scudding across the sky. “Because if I don’t get away from here and see other people and do something semi-normal, I think I’ll go crazy.” He lowered his gaze to her. “Because I’ve missed—”
“Shattering my fantasies?” she interrupted, unwilling to test her resistance if he should say he’d missed her. “And because you can’t go without me?” Coward! Coward!
He blinked twice, shuttering the longing from his eyes. “Yes.” His jaw tightened. “Please, Maggie.”
Please, Maggie. Take the risk. Jump off the bridge. Act like a damn fool, knowing you’re acting like a damn fool to please Maggie.
Inside, she sighed. She wanted to do this for him, but she wanted to do it for her, too, because despite her family responsibilities and obligations she wanted to be with him. Foolish move or sorry judgment factored into the equation, she still wanted to be with him. But did she want it more than she feared crossing the entity? It had played a joke on them with the condoms, yet what
if they angered it? Would it still joke? Or would it grow deadly serious?
Lacing her fingers together, she studied them. No, she couldn’t risk defiance. Wanting to help and to protect him, wanting to be with him, even wanting his rendition of what had happened to Carolyn, Maggie just couldn’t risk defiance. But curious—half-obsessed, actually—she did want the truth. And maybe at the moment MacGregor was vulnerable enough to give it to her.
What signs had he ignored, in his own words, that had caused Carolyn’s death? Ninety-nine point nine percent of the time, Maggie felt convinced MacGregor couldn’t have been involved, not even remotely or indirectly. But there remained that shadow of doubt and, if only she’d been honest with him from the start, she could just ask him. But she hadn’t been honest. And if she told him the truth now, he’d hate her. She didn’t want MacGregor to hate her...
“Maggie,” he said, sounding irritated. “Countries have settled wars in less time than it’s taking you to decide on dinner.”
Arrogant man. Asking for a favor and sounding irked. No, that didn’t feel right. Irked, yes, but not at her slow decision. That he’d had to ask her. That she’d forced him to admit his vulnerability, to forfeit his pride. Why had she done that? Tables turned, she’d have hated it. Clearly, he had, too.
Wanting to apologize, she looked into his eyes. Hunger that gnawed soul-deep reflected there. He didn’t just want this, he needed it.
Her heartstrings suffered a fierce tug. God, what should she do? She reached deep for the courage to resist him—one of them had to remain responsible and aware of the possible consequences of crossing the entity. She opened her mouth to refuse him, but a phantom wind suddenly tore through the trees. Its keening grew shrill, ear-piercing, and she steeled herself to hear that ominous whisper.
Take him.
She shut her mouth without uttering a sound. Had it been the man’s whisper? Her own wishful thinking?
She didn’t know.
She didn’t want to know.
Shunning thought, she stood up and clasped MacGregor’s outstretched hand.
He closed his thick fingers around her slender ones, gave them a gentle squeeze, and smiled. “Thank you, Maggie.”
Her heart lighter than it had been for a week, she saw the cut on the underside of his chin and conjured a little audacity-laced lip. “What happened to you, MacGregor? Looks as if you nearly slit your throat.”
He cocked a brow at her. “I expected a sassy redhead had been using my razor.” He fingered the cut with his free hand. “She hadn’t.”
“Let me get this straight. You wrongly assume I’ve been on a revenge binge—while I’ve truly been a virtuous paradigm—and nearly slit your throat.”
“A virtuous paradigm? You?”
She ignored him and went on. “And this inaccurate assumption on your part is somehow my fault?”
“That’s about how I see it.”
He would. She stepped closer, until her breasts rose a hair’s width from his chest. “Now, why doesn’t this bit of twisted male logic surprise me?”
He dipped his chin, his eyes twinkling those beautiful gray flecks that stole her sense. “Guilty conscience?”
That suggestion she hadn’t expected. “I should feel guilty because I didn’t use your razor?”
“No.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. Her hips bumped against his warm thighs. “Because you know how much I’ve missed you and you haven’t admitted that you’ve missed me.”
She nuzzled him, resisting the urge to purr at the soft feel of his sweater against her face, deeply inhaled his scent, and loved it. Pine, sea, and warm man. Could it get any better than this? “You’re definitely suffering from Inflated Ego Syndrome, MacGregor. That, or possibly Acute Arrogant Jerkism.”
“Tacky, honey. Surprising coming from you. You called me a gentleman.”
“I was suffering delusions.” She sniffed.
“You weren’t.”
“So if not either of those, what is your affliction?”
“I’m not sure yet, but it’s specifically attributable to you.”
“I’m one busy lady.”
“Just admit you missed me, Maggie. I won’t gloat, I promise.”
What were his promises worth? “Now, why would I do that?”
“Because it’s true.” He hooked a determined thumb under her chin and lifted it. “Don’t bother denying it. You’ve missed me, Maggie.” His lips hovering over hers, he dropped his voice to a seductive whisper. “Every bit as much as I’ve missed you. Maybe more.”
“Arrogant. And the attitude.”
“Yeah.” He pecked a kiss to her forehead, lingering a second too long to qualify as chaste. “But not acute.” She cocked her head and he added the unasked answer. “Honest, and no snarl.”
A smile curved the corner of her lip. “Still racking up redemption points?”
“All I can get. I figure I’ve got a way to go.”
He didn’t. But she didn’t tell him so. Mainly because the battle between loyalty and desire raging inside her demanded all her attention. His heated breath fanning her face had her senses snapping to, on alert. She shut her eyes, trying to soothe them, angry, resentful. Yearning. Just once. Just once couldn’t her needs come first? Just once?
Yes. The whisper—definitely the whisper. Now, Maggie. You have the chance now. Seize it with both hands and hold tight. Dream. Feel the magic.
Miss Hattie’s remark reverberated in Maggie’s mind. I’ve seen lots of miracles inside these walls. I’m hoping for another one, one for you and Tyler.
A miracle? No, Maggie didn’t dare to hope for a miracle. In their situation, a forever after kind of miracle was impossible.
“I haven’t thanked you,” MacGregor said.
She blinked. “For what?”
“Hot water.”
“No, you haven’t.” She smiled and looked up at him. “But that wasn’t a gift. We made a deal, remember?”
“I remember. But you didn’t welsh on it.”
“I don’t do that.” She grunted. “And you don’t thank someone for not cheating you, MacGregor.”
“You do if you’re trying your damnedest to get yourself kissed.”
Her breath swooshed out on a sexy little puff. “Is that what you’re doing here?”
He nodded.
“Oh.”
“Just oh?” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Does that mean I get my kiss?”
“Yes.” She swallowed. “I guess it does.”
His eyes filled with tenderness, and he slid his hands up her back to her shoulders. “Thank you, anyway, Maggie, for not welshing. You’re restoring my faith in womankind.” He pressed his lips to hers, urged her mouth open, then slipped his tongue inside.
Her, a liar, restoring his faith? She wanted to stop him, to tell him she didn’t deserve his faith, but his tongue rubbing gently with hers, his hands kneading her sides, his lips so eagerly mating with hers, she couldn’t stop him. She couldn’t think. But, oh, could she feel. And the things this man made her feel... .
It’s like quicksilver. Don’t let it slip through your fingers.
No, that was love. This wasn’t love. This was... wonderful, but it wasn’t love.
I’d hoped you’d have the courage...
Courage? Yes, enough courage for today. If only just for today. Maggie stretched higher, onto her tiptoes, wrapped her arms around MacGregor’s shoulders, then broke their kiss long enough to rub their noses. “I’ve missed you, too, MacGregor. I really have.”
His pleasure at her honesty shone in his eyes, and she did what she’d ached to do, what she’d dreamed of doing every night for the past week. She kissed T.J. MacGregor unstintingly, greedily. For the first time, taking all he cared to give.
Chapter 10
“Finally.” T.J. clasped hands with Maggie at the boundary line. “I was beginning to think we’d never get out here.”
“Oh, chill out, MacGregor. So my timing w
as off a little. It’s not as if being punctual is critical, and I’m supposed to be on a resting vacation, remember?”
“Forty-five minutes—over and above the additional fifty minutes I’d allotted because I happen to know you—is a little more than not being punctual. It’s being late.”
She gave him a level look. “Too bad you didn’t use the time to work on improving your disposition.”
He returned the look with one of his own. “Sorry, too busy cooling my heels. I’ll just add this to the list.”
Cocking her head, she looked up at him. “What list?”
“The one of your debts.”
“What debts?” The collar on her royal blue blouse was stuck half-in, half-out of her jacket. She tugged at it. “I don’t have any debts.”
“Using my razor.” He ticked off items on his fingers. “Clipping coupons and ads out of my travel magazines. Promising to save me a little hot water then using it all anyway.” He swatted at an insect buzzing his neck. “Those are just a few.”
“I didn’t steal all the hot water.”
“You did. Three times, so far.”
Flustered and giving up on getting her shirt collar straightened, she jammed it down inside her jacket. “Is it my fault that the inn needs a bigger hot water tank?”
“It is when I’m still working at racking up redemption points.”
“Oh, I see what this is all about.” She let out a grunt. “You’re stacking the deck so you can use it against me, aren’t you?”
Quick on the uptake, as usual. He smiled to himself and feigned an innocence he didn’t dream for a second would fool her. “Would a gentleman do that?”
“You would.” She sidled up against him and drifted an errant fingertip down the slope of his nose, her tone turning whiskey-husky. “So tell me, MacGregor, what exactly do you plan to do with these redemption points, once you acquire them.”
“I’m shooting for a rendezvous with you in the bathroom’s garden tub.” A pang of longing slithered through him. “After that, well, it depends.”
Her cheeks flushed. “I... see.”
She lowered her lids, but too late. He glimpsed a flash of longing in her eyes, a flicker of curiosity. “Looks like you might be beginning to.” She wanted an explanation of that it depends but she’d cut out her tongue before asking for it. “Question is, what’s your opinion about that rendezvous?”