More than likely it was going to be sooner.
“All right, maybe I was scared, just a little bit,” she admitted. “It could have been a bear out there, or a patient escaped from a mental institution.”
“At least that would be someone you could identify with,” he said testily, then yelped when she yanked on his ears and pulled his head onto her lap. “Hey, that hurt.”
“Be still and keep quiet.”
He closed his eyes on a grimace, tolerating her ministrations. The light from the lamp hardened his features, sharpened his tightly held jaw and firm mouth. Cara thought he had the fierce look of an outlaw being led to the gallows.
“How did you get here so fast, anyway? Oh, that’s right,” she said sweetly. “I forgot they called you Flash. I hope that doesn’t extend into all areas of your life, Shawnessy.”
He gave a low growl as he started to sit, but she cupped his face in her hands and forced him to be still. A coarse, day’s growth of beard rasped against her palms and sent currents of electricity up her arms. She felt disgusted with herself. She’d wounded the man, now she wanted to jump his bones.
Maybe he was right. Maybe she did belong in a mental institution. Sighing heavily, she touched her fingers to his temple. “Now lie still and let me look.”
And she did, though not at his head. Her gaze dropped to his bare chest, and though it was hardly the time, it was impossible not to admire his physique, the strong masculine angles of solid muscle, sprinkled with dark, coarse hair. Her hands itched to slide over that broad expanse of sinew and feel the touch of his skin under her fingertips. Her attention dropped lower, to his flat, hard stomach, then lower still, to the unsnapped top of his jeans. Heat flooded through her, and she jerked her gaze away, thankful that Ian’s eyes were still tightly closed.
The back of his head was nestled across her thighs, his cheek and ear pressed against her stomach. Soft ribbons of heat curled from her waist downward. She willed her hands not to tremble as she lightly skimmed her fingers through his thick hair and over his scalp.
He sucked in a breath when she touched a rising knot on top of his head. “Oops.”
He frowned. “What, oops?”
“Well, the good news is, there’s no blood. The bad news is, you’ll have a bump the size of a Volkswagen.”
“Gosh, I’m so glad you gave me the good news first,” he mumbled, but the edge of anger that had been in his voice a moment ago was gone now. She felt the tension in his shoulders ease as he relaxed his head on her legs.
Cara knew she should move away. They were both half-naked, lying on the couch with the darkness surrounding them. She in her tank top and boxers, Ian wearing only a pair of jeans. Her fingers moved restlessly through his hair, though they both knew she’d already found the damage she’d inflicted.
And still she couldn’t stop herself.
Nor did he stop her.
Her fingernails lightly scraped over his scalp, and he relaxed under her touch. She was certain he could hear the heavy beat of her heart.
“Did you see anyone outside?” she asked quietly. “Or anything?”
He shook his head, inadvertently rubbing against her belly. She had to remind herself to breathe.
He still hadn’t opened his eyes, and she took advantage of the opportunity to explore his face. She discovered a small, jagged scar over his left eye and a long, razor-thin scar under his chin. A dark shadow of a beard covered his strong, square jaw. Transfixed, she stared at his mouth, and just the thought of running her fingers over those firm lips made her hand tingle.
This was dangerous, she knew. As dangerous as it was foolish. She should get up, or at least move away.
She didn’t.
“Something was out there.” She did her best to focus on what had frightened her, instead of the sensations washing through her body at the moment. “Or someone. I didn’t imagine it.”
“Well, whoever or whatever it was, is gone now. Unlike the bump on my head,” he reminded her.
“I’ll get some ice.”
She started to rise, but he reached up and circled her wrists with his hands.
“No.”
It was not a request, but a command. He opened his eyes and stared at her. She couldn’t breath. Couldn’t think.
The intensity of his dark gaze excited, yet terrified her at the same time. Her previous fear suddenly seemed like nothing compared to what she was experiencing now. She tried to speak, to laugh this craziness off, but her throat felt like cotton. The tension between them felt like a living, breathing creature, an animal coiled and ready to spring from the darkness.
She was hardly a woman of the world when it came to sex, but she wasn’t a virgin, either, in spite of her brothers’ determination that she remain celibate her entire life. They’d been successful deterring her suitors until she’d escaped to college, and by that time she’d been much too curious to delay the experience. She’d chosen her first lover carefully, but with her head instead of her heart, and the relationship was doomed from the start. Not wanting a repeat of that situation, she’d decided not to settle, and had waited for the fireworks she’d heard so much about. And waited and waited.
And now here she was, a regular Fourth-of-July explosion going on inside her, and it was all wrong. He was all wrong.
He brought her hands to his mouth, pressed feather-soft kisses on each palm. Her heart slammed in her chest.
“Ian,” she gasped as his tongue caressed her wrists. “I don’t think this is such a good idea.”
“It’s not.”
He brought her hands to his chest, then slipped his arms around her waist as he turned his head into her stomach and pressed his mouth to her navel. Her head dropped back on a soft moan. Thin cotton was the only thing separating his mouth from her bare skin, and it was all she could do to stop herself from ripping the tank top off.
He took his time nuzzling her. The heat of his mouth and breath stoked the fire building inside her. Her fingers curled over his neck and upper shoulders; his skin was damp, the scent woodsy, masculine. She heard the sound of her own labored breathing, then the low groan from deep in his throat as he pulled her closer to him.
She’d never experienced anything like this before; passion that consumed so completely, so thoroughly. She hadn’t known it even existed beyond the movies and books. Sex had been pleasant enough, but never earth-shattering, never overpowering.
Never devastating.
That thought flew apart when he used his teeth to push the unwanted fabric out of his way and bared her stomach to him. His mouth was hot on her skin; he nipped and tasted the soft flesh as he slowly moved upward. She felt herself melt under his touch, her bones soften like warm taffy.
His hands slid under soft cotton and cupped her breasts. She arched upward on a gasp when his thumbs caressed her hardened nipples. Sensations, as exquisite as they were intense, rippled through her. She burrowed her fingers into his scalp, wanting more of this incredible pleasure.
He gave it to her. His mouth replaced his thumb, and she caught her breath on a soft, low moan. His wet, hot tongue swirled over the sensitive peak, sending hot currents of pain-pleasure through her.
She had to touch him, it was absolutely necessary. Her hands roamed over the solid muscles of his upper arms, slid over his wide, strong shoulders. He felt like a raging river of liquid steel under her, and she let herself be swept up in the current of passion engulfing them both.
“Ian.” His name was a soft, breathless whisper on her lips. “Ian, oh, my—” Her words were cut off as he moved to her other breast and offered the same delicious attention with his mouth and tongue.
It felt as if she were on fire; flames licked at her skin. She needed him closer. Impatient, she cupped his head in her hands, then dragged her fingers over his scalp.
He sucked in a sharp breath and swore, then slowly sat as he dropped his head into his hands.
In her dazed state, it took a moment to realize why he�
�d moved away from her, then she groaned and dropped her head back against the sofa. His head. She’d completely forgotten she’d bashed in his head with a frying pan. Of course he’d be in pain. And she’d just dug her fingernails directly into the source of that pain.
Embarrassment flamed on her cheeks. Not only because she’d hurt him, but because of what had just happened between them—not to mention what would have happened. She quickly pulled her tank top back into place.
“Oh, Ian, I’m so sorry. I…I wasn’t thinking.”
Still holding his head in his hands, he let out a long, slow breath. “That makes two of us.”
“I’ll get some ice.”
She started to rise, but once again he snagged her hand and pulled her back down. “Cara,” he said quietly. “I opened the package.”
The package? The package. She hadn’t thought of it once since she’d smashed him over the head. Her body was still humming from his kisses, and she was finding it hard to think about the package even now that he’d reminded her. Especially with his hand still touching her arm and his thigh pressed against hers.
She had to dig deep, but she mustered up a light tone. “So you caved, did you? How long did you hold out?”
He chuckled at that, then winced from the effort. “Do you know what was inside?”
“Margaret didn’t tell me.” She wanted to brush the hair off his forehead and kiss his temple. Instead, she tugged at the edge of her cotton knit boxers, wishing she’d worn sweats or flannel pajamas. Anything that would have covered her, that would have made her feel less vulnerable.
“They were birthday cards.”
“Birthday cards?”
“She’d bought one for me, every year, from my first birthday on, and kept them all.”
Cara frowned. “But she didn’t know about you, if you even existed.”
“She didn’t know my name,” he said with a sigh, “or even if I was a boy or girl, but she believed that I—her grandchild—was alive.”
The thought made Cara’s eyes tear. All these years, even though there’d never been one shred of evidence to prove that her grandchild had lived after birth, Margaret had clung to her hope, to what she believed in her heart. Every card was a symbol of that hope. And of her love.
“Ian—” she scooted to the edge of the couch and turned to face him “—you’re Margaret’s only grandchild. Don’t you see how important you are to her, how much she needs to see you, if only once before she dies?”
He shook his head slowly. “If I go, she’ll just want to see me one more time after that. Then it will be Thanksgiving and Christmas, long, chatty phone calls every Sunday. Vacations. I can’t give her any of that, Cara. If I go even once, I’ll only end up hurting her more.”
It was the first time he’d acted like he gave a damn at all. If only a little, maybe that whack on the head had softened him, she thought with a smile. She knew he wasn’t going to like her observations on the subject one little bit, but that hadn’t stopped her before, and it wouldn’t stop her now.
“It scares you, doesn’t it?”
Eyes narrowed, he glanced over at her. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’re afraid that it isn’t just Margaret who might want a relationship,” she said evenly. “You’re afraid you might want one with her, too.”
His laugh was dry. “You’re crazy.”
“You’re safe where you are right now,” she went on, even though she saw his expression darkening. “No serious commitment or responsibility, just a couple of old chums you get together with now and then. But a grandmother, that’s an entirely different story. You might care about her, worry about her, maybe even love her. She might matter to you. And that, Killian Shawnessy Muldoon, absolutely terrifies you.”
A muscle worked at his jaw. “Was this some kind of a setup, Blondie? Call me over here in the middle of the night, then get me in your bed so I’ll agree to go to Philadelphia? Some girls will do anything for twenty bucks.”
His crude verbal blow struck her square in her chest, sucked the air from her lungs. Her impulse was to slap him, but then he’d know how deeply he’d hurt her, and she refused to show him weakness.
She drew in a slow, deep breath and stood. “I apologize for calling you, and for hitting you. What happened between us after that was unprofessional of me, and I assure you it won’t happen again.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Cara, look, I—”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d leave.” She moved toward the front door and opened it. “Now.”
He rose stiffly from the couch, picked up his gun off the floor and moved toward her. When he paused at the front door, she lifted her chin and met his heavy gaze, dared him to speak, to say just one thing. This time she wouldn’t hold back, and she sure as hell wouldn’t apologize.
His eyes went black with a mixture of anger and frustration, then he clamped his lips tightly together and stormed out the door.
It took tremendous restraint on her part not to slam the door after him. She closed it quietly, then leaned back against the cold wood and fought the threatening tears. He wasn’t worth it, she told herself over and over. He wasn’t.
He wasn’t.
She looked down at the doorknob and frowned. Ian had just walked in, but she was certain she’d locked the door before she went to bed.
Hadn’t she?
She didn’t know what she was doing these past couple of days. It was easy to forget things when her mind was so preoccupied with Ian. And now, after what had just happened between them, she’d be lucky if she remembered how to tie her shoes.
With a sigh she locked the door and headed back to her bed, but she had the distinct feeling she wouldn’t be getting much sleep.
Seven
Ian was certain that a tiny little man with a great big hammer was trying to get out of his skull. The pounding centered in his temples and radiated upward to the top of his throbbing head. He attempted to move, and the pain shot through his brain like a red-hot pinball racking up championship points.
Very, very carefully, he opened his eyes, then slammed them shut again when he felt the burn of sunlight on his eyeballs. He imagined that vampires went through the same agony when their skin met daylight.
He reached for his pillow, but found empty air instead.
Confused, he shifted his weight from his back to his side, then gave a strangled yelp as he fell face first onto the floor. With a groan he opened his eyes again, blinked several times until the room came into focus.
What the hell was he doing on the sofa in the living room? Well, actually, he was now on the floor, if a person wanted to get technical. He just couldn’t quite remember how he happened to be here.
Closing his eyes, he laid his cheek on the cool hardwood and drew in several slow breaths. When the pain in his head began to ease, he rolled to his back and carefully opened his eyes to stare up at the open-beam pine ceiling.
On a groan he closed his eyes again.
And remembered.
Damn.
Cara’s phone call, her bashing his head in. Her fingers sliding over his scalp, the feel of her soft, silky skin under his hands and mouth…
Oh, yes, he remembered, all right. In detail. He’d downed half a bottle of whisky after that, trying to wash the sweet taste of her out of his system. The need and the longing. It hadn’t worked, of course. And now he had to pay the consequences of his stupidity. Stupidity that went much farther than a cotton-dry mouth and pounding skull.
Some girls will do anything for twenty bucks.
Swearing, he sat slowly, brought his legs up and rested his pulsating head on his knees. What had possessed him to say something so completely out of line? He knew she hadn’t pretended someone was breaking into her cabin just to get him over there. She might have lied to him the first time he’d laid eyes on her, when he’d caught her watching him from across the lake, but she’d been honest since then. She wasn’t the kind of woman
who played coy games of seduction, and even as much as she wanted him to come to Philadelphia, he didn’t believe for a second she’d go to bed with him as a means of persuasion.
So why had he said it?
He could still see the slash of hurt and shock on her face when he’d accused her of lying. She’d recovered quickly, her face expressionless as she’d stared him square in the eye and asked him to leave. He wished she’d yelled at him, cried, hit him with that frying pan again—anything but given him that cold, empty stare.
Well, fine then, he thought irritably, lifting his head and testing the extent of the damage he’d done to himself. Maybe he’d be rid of her now. Maybe she’d stop bothering him about going to Philadelphia to meet Margaret. He was sure she was a nice old lady, but he wasn’t going. Nothing, and no one, was going to change that.
When the phone rang from the end table beside the sofa, he covered his ears and moaned. He wasn’t going to answer it. He didn’t want to talk to Jordan, she’d only increase the throbbing in his head with one of her tirades. It might be Nick, though, calling to remind him about dinner tonight at Lucas and Julianna’s house, but Ian decided he definitely needed some aspirin before talking to Nick.
But what if it was someone else, someone with fiery green eyes and silky blond hair…
He had to crawl to the phone, which seemed fitting if it was Cara. He picked it up on the fourth ring.
“Yeah,” he mumbled, because that was all he could manage given the dust-dry state of his mouth.
“That you, Ian?”
“Walt?” The mechanic’s drawl was unmistakable.
“The one and only. You still sleeping at eleven o’clock, son?”
He hadn’t realized how late it was. “You call for a reason, or just to see what my sleeping habits are?”
Walt’s chuckle was deep and gravelly. “Well, I tried calling Miss Sinclair first, but couldn’t get an answer. I thought it might be important, so seein’s how you’re friends and all—”
“Walt,” Ian said with a sigh, “could you please get to the point?”
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