by Joss Wood
Mac shifted on the bed. “Where do you live?”
“I have an apartment in Eastside.”
“I live in Kitsilano, not far from here actually. Commuting to my place three or four times a day is unnecessary. I have a spare room. You should move in.”
Yeah, no way. Ever. That was far more temptation than she could handle. She needed to keep as much distance between them as she possibly could and if that meant trekking across town daily, or three or four times a day, then that was what she would do. She and Mac together in a house, alone, was asking for trouble. Trouble she needed like a hole in her heart.
Rory slowly shook her head.
“C’mon, Rory, it’s not a big deal.” Mac was obviously used to women moving in to his house on a regular basis but she wasn’t going to follow those lemmings off a cliff. Nope, she’d deal with the devil if it meant the chance to run her own clinic, to treat her patients the way she wanted to, but she’d keep this particular devil at a safe distance.
“I’ll live with the driving.” She pulled her cell from her back pocket. “What’s your address?”
Mac told her and also gave her his cell number, handing his phone to her so she could input hers into his state-of-the-art phone. When they were done, Rory looked at the door. She should leave. She picked up her bag and pulled it over her shoulder. “I’ll see you later this evening. Around five?”
Mac nodded. She was almost at the door when Mac spoke again. “Are we not going to discuss it? At all? Pretend it didn’t exist?”
Rory turned around slowly and lifted her hands. “What’s the point? You insulted her on national television, we almost kissed, my sister heard us talking. She had to deal with a broken heart while she was stalked and hassled by the press. And she didn’t talk to me for months.”
Mac’s jaw tightened and his lips thinned. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think of that.”
“You weren’t thinking at all that day,” Rory told him, her voice tart. “Admittedly, I wasn’t either.” Rory exhaled. “Look, it happened a long time ago and there’s nothing to talk about.”
Mac released a laugh that was heavy with derision and light on joy. “You’re right. Nothing...except that the chemistry hasn’t gone away. We’re still attracted to each other.”
She wished she could deny it but that would be a bald-faced lie, and she suspected Mac could still read her like a book. “I don’t sleep with my patients.”
Mac didn’t look convinced. “You think we can resist each other? We’ll be spending an enormous amount of time together and biology is biology.”
“Unlike you, I can control myself,” Rory told him primly.
Mac lifted an arrogant eyebrow. “Really? You think chemistry like ours just evaporates?” Mac snorted. “So if I kiss you, right here, right now...you can resist me?”
Rory rolled her eyes. “I know you find this hard to believe but there are women who can.”
Mac smiled slowly. “You’re not one of them.”
Unfortunately he was probably right. Not that Rory would allow him to put his theory to the test. He’d already kissed her once and, despite the fact that he’d been as high as a kite, the kiss had blown her boots off. There was no way she would confirm his suspicions.
“Get over yourself, McCaskill. You’re confusing me with those pretty, brainless bunnies that drop in and out of your life.”
Mac took a step closer and his hurt arm brushed her chest. “Jealous?”
She wasn’t even going to ask herself that question, mostly because she wasn’t a hundred percent convinced that she wasn’t jealous. Rory made an effort to look condescending. For good measure, she patted his cheek. “Bless your delusional little heart.”
Mac’s eyes darkened with fury, or lust, who knew, and he wrapped his good arm around her waist and pulled her up onto her toes, slamming his mouth against hers. No drugs affected his performance this time. This was Mac, pure and undiluted.
He didn’t tease or tangle. The kiss was hard, demanding, harsh and urgent. Hot. On his lips she could taste her own bubblegum-flavored lip balm mixed with his toothpaste and the stringent tang of the mouthwash he must’ve used earlier. Rory felt his hand drop down her back to palm her butt, kneading her cheek until she was squirming, trying to get closer, needing to climb inside his mouth, his skin, to feel wrapped up within his heat...
Mac jerked back. “Dammithell.” These words were followed by a string of others and it took Rory a minute to realize that his pale face and harsh breathing wasn’t a result of the kiss, but from her bumping his injured arm.
She winced and lifted her hands to do something to help. When he took another step back she realized she’d done more than enough. Of everything.
Rory watched as Mac slowly straightened, as his breathing evened out. When she was sure he wasn’t about to fall over, she slapped her hands on her hips. “That’s not happening again. Ever.”
One corner of Mac’s mouth lifted to pull his lips up into a cocky smile. “Of course it won’t,” he replied, his voice oozing sarcasm. “Because we have no chemistry and you can resist me.”
Lord give me patience. Rory yanked the door open and barreled into the passageway. Because if You give me strength I’m going to need bail money, as well.
Four
She’d had her hand on his crotch.
His life was currently a trash fire—messy and ugly—and all he could think about was how Rory’s fingers felt brushing across his junk, how much he wanted her hand encircling his erection, how nobody had ever managed to set his blood on fire like that pint-size fairy who needed her attitude adjusted.
Mac glared at the half-open door, dropped into the chair and leaned his head back against the wall. He was not having a good day; it was just another day from hell in a series of hellish days in Hell City. He hadn’t felt this crazy since that disaster ten years ago.
Wah, wah, wah... Admittedly, he sounded like a whiny ten-year-old, but wasn’t he allowed to? Just this once? He hadn’t been this unsure of his future since he’d hitched a ride out of his hometown fifteen years ago. And even then, he hadn’t been that worried. He’d made excellent grades in school and a rare talent on the ice had translated into a full scholarship to college. He’d then been recruited to play for the Mavericks and earned serious money. By investing in companies and start-ups, he’d earned more. Considerably more. He was, by anyone’s definition, a success. He was living the life, incredibly wealthy, popular, successful.
Despite his rocky upbringing, he believed he was, mostly, a functioning adult, fully committed to steering his own ship. He had an active social life; he genuinely liked women, and while he didn’t “do” commitment, he wasn’t the player everyone assumed him to be. Sure, he’d dated one or two crackpots but he’d managed to remain friends with most of the women he’d dated.
So, if he was a successful adult, why was he so insanely pissed off right now? Bad things happened to good people all the time...
He’d be handling this better if his fight with the fridge had only impacted his own life, his own career. Like that long ago incident with Shay, his actions had not only hurt himself but could hurt people he cared about too. He knew what it felt like to be collateral damage. He’d been the collateral damage of his mother’s bad choices and perpetual negativity.
To this day, he could still hear her lack of enthusiasm for anything he said or did. His mother was the reason he had no intention of settling down. In his head commitment equaled approval and he’d be damned if he ever sought approval from a woman again. He didn’t want it and he didn’t need it...
Wanting approval was like waiting to catch a boat at an airport. Constantly hopeless. Endlessly disappointing.
It was far easier not to give people, a woman, the opportunity to disappoint him. Rory—funny, loyal, interesting—was a proble
m. He didn’t care for the fact that he liked her, that this blast from his past excited him more than he thought possible.
You are overthinking this, idiot. This is just about sex, about lust, about attraction.
It had to be because he wouldn’t allow it to be anything else.
That being said, he was playing with fire in more ways than one. Yes, Rory might be the best physiotherapist around and eminently qualified to treat him, but she was also his famous ex’s sister. If the press found out about this new connection, they would salivate over the story. If they then found out he and Rory were attracted to each other they’d think they’d died and gone to press heaven.
There were many reasons to downplay his injury, but the thought of putting Rory through the same hell Shay experienced at the hands of those rabid wolves made him feel sick. Not happening, he decided.
Not again.
Thank God she’d refused his asinine suggestion to move in with him. Wasn’t that a perfect example of how his brain shut down whenever she was around? If she moved in he’d give them, mmm, maybe five minutes before they were naked and panting.
He had no choice but to keep his attraction to her under control, keep his distance—emotionally and physically. He had to protect himself and protect her, and the only way to do both was to put her in the neutral zone—that mental zone he’d created for people, events, stuff that didn’t, or shouldn’t, impact him.
So he’d put her there, but he wasn’t convinced, in any way, shape or form, that she’d actually remain there.
* * *
Rory stood on the pavement outside Mac’s Kitsilano home, the key Mac had given her earlier in her hand. The house wasn’t what she’d expected. She’d thought he’d have a blocky, masculine home with lots of concrete and steel. She hadn’t expected the three-story with its A-pitched roof, painted the color of cool mist with dark gray accents. It looked more like a home and less like the den of sin she’d expected.
Rory walked up the steps to the front door, slid the key into the lock and entered the house, stopping to shove the key back into the front pocket of her jeans. There was good art on the wall, she noticed as she moved farther into the living area, and the leather furniture was oversize and of high quality. A massive flat-screen TV dominated one wall, and apart from a couple of photographs of the three Maverick-teers, there wasn’t anything personal in the room. Mac had no hockey memorabilia on display, nothing to suggest he was the hottest property on ice. She’d expected his walls to be covered with framed jerseys and big self-portraits. Instead his taste ran to original art and black-and-white photographs.
“Rory?” Mac’s voice drifted down the stairs. “Come on up. Top floor.”
She walked back into the hallway and up the stairs. She reached the second floor, looked down the passage and wished she could explore. Instead she jogged up the short, second flight that ended at the entrance to an expansive bedroom. The high pitch of the roof formed the paneled ceiling. The room was dominated by a massive king-size messy but empty bed. Rory looked around and saw Mac sprawled on a long sofa on the far side of the room. His head rested against the arm and his eyes were closed. Pain had etched deep grooves next to his mouth. His normally tanned skin was pale and he was taking long, slow, measured breaths.
His eyes didn’t open but his mouth did. “Hey, were there any press people outside when you let yourself in?”
“No, why?”
“Just asking.”
Rory dropped her gaze and her eyebrows lifted at his unbuttoned white shirt, his unzipped gray suit pants and his bare feet. An aqua tie lay on the seat next to him, on top of what was obviously a matching suit jacket. Black shoes and socks sat on the wood coffee table in front of him.
Oh, hell, no! “Going somewhere?”
“Planning on it.”
“The only place you are going is back to bed.” Rory folded her arms against her chest. “You need a full-time nurse, McCaskill.”
If she moved in then she could stop him from making stupid decisions. But would she be able to stop herself from making stupid decisions, like sleeping with him?
“I don’t need a nurse, I need a morphine drip,” Mac responded, finally opening his eyes and squinting at her.
“Would you care to explain why you are all dressed up when you should be in bed, resting that injury?” Rory demanded, annoyed. This was what she’d been worried about. Mac thought that he was a superhero, that the usual consequences of surgery and injury didn’t apply to him.
Despite the fact that he was a very intelligent man, the wheel was turning but the hamster seemed to be dead.
“Don’t give me grief, Rory,” Mac said, sounding exhausted. “Trust me, there is no place I’d rather be than in bed but something came up.”
“A wine auction? A ball? A poker game?” Rory asked, her eyebrows lifting. Mac was very active on the Vancouver social scene and he was, with the women who spun in and out of his life, invited to all the social events.
Mac, despite his pain, managed to send her an annoyed glance. “Myra Hasselback, current owner of the Mavericks, is holding an end-of-season cocktail party for the sponsors, management and staff. I can’t miss it. As Captain, I am expected to be there.”
“But...” Rory looked from him to his arm and back again. “Does she know that you are hurt?”
Mac’s smile was grim. “Oh, she knows, but she doesn’t know how bad it is. Kade told her it’s a slight sprain, nothing for her to worry about. She told Kade to tell me she was looking forward to seeing me tonight. Besides, she knows I would move heaven and earth to be at the cocktail party. It’s a tradition that was important to Vernon.” Mac sat up slowly. “She’d suspect something if I wasn’t there.”
“Judging by your pale face and pain-filled eyes she’s going to suspect something anyway.” Rory sighed her frustration. “What do the other two Maverick-teers have to say on the subject?”
“They wanted me to fake a stomach bug or an allergic reaction to medication.”
“Not a bad idea. Why not go with that?”
Mac looked uncomfortable. “I suppose I could but I don’t want to give her an excuse to arrive on my doorstep after the party is over to check on me.”
“She’s done that before?” Rory asked.
Mac looked uncomfortable, and not from the pain. “Yeah, once or twice.”
Rory turned his words over, recalling the thirty-year difference between Myra and her dead husband. Ah, the widow wanted naked comforting.
Rory wanted to ask if he’d slept with Myra but she mentally slapped her hand across her mouth. She had no right to ask that but... But nothing. She had no right to know.
“Anyway, about the party, I need to be there. The speculation will be endless if I don’t attend. It would raise a lot of questions, questions I do not want to answer.” Mac looked stubborn. “No, it’s better for me to act like everything is normal as far as I possibly can. So, will you please help me finish getting dressed?”
“I’m not happy about this, Mac.”
“I know. I’m not either.”
But he’d go, Rory realized. He needed rest and time for that injury to heal but he would do what he always did. If this was his intended pace, they were in for some serious problems.
Rory walked across his bedroom to stand in front of the huge windows and watched a container ship navigate the sound. But her thoughts weren’t on the gorgeous view, they were on that stubborn man who didn’t know the meaning of the words slow down, take it easy. To heal, Mac needed rest and lots of it. It was that simple, that imperative.
That difficult.
Dammit, she was going to have to move in here. His arm, his career, the Mavericks were at risk and she was balking because he had the ability to melt the elastic on her panties. She was better, stronger, a great deal more profession
al than that.
She was a smart, independent, focused woman who could say no to what wasn’t good for her. Who could, who would, keep their relationship strictly professional.
“Don’t even think about it. You are not now, or ever, going to move in.”
Dammit! Had he started reading her mind now? When? How? “But you suggested it earlier.”
“I changed my mind. It would be a terrible idea. Moving on, are you going to help me or not?” Mac demanded, sounding irritable.
She wanted to be petty and tell him to go to hell but she knew he was stubborn enough to dress himself. One fight at a time, Rory thought.
“Yes. If you take some painkillers,” Rory stated, her tone discouraging any arguments. “You look like a breath of wind could blow you over, Mac, and there is no way anyone will believe you have a slight sprain if you walk into that room looking like that. Painkillers...that’s my demand.”
“They make me feel like hell. Spacey and out of control,” Mac muttered.
“I have some in my bag. They aren’t as strong as yours but they’ll take the edge off.” Rory looked at her watch. “What time do you need to leave for this party?”
“Kade and Quinn should be here any moment.” A door slammed below them and the corner of Mac’s mouth kicked up. “Speaking of the devil and his sidekick...”
“Who is the devil and who is the sidekick?” Rory asked.
“Depends on the occasion. We all have our moments.”
Now that she could believe. Rory jammed her hands into the pockets of her jeans and rocked on her heels. “I’ll run downstairs to get those painkillers and one of your sidekicks can come back up and help you dress.”
“Aw, they aren’t as pretty as you. Nor do they smell as good.”
“I’m not so sure...they are both very pretty and they do smell good,” she teased.