by Nora Roberts
If he'd kept it up for another ten seconds, she'd never have finished the speech, unless it was in incoherent mewings.
"Oh, boy," she managed now, and downed every drop in the glass. The chilly tea cooled the heat in her throat, if not in her blood.
This kind of passion was a new experience. She imagined Shane MacKade would hoot in unholy amusement if he knew just how violently he'd affected her. Her. Dr. Rebecca Knight, professional genius, perennial virgin.
She could congratulate herself that she'd maintained her composure, that she'd maintained at least the appearance of composure while the top of her head was spinning around a good six inches above her cranium. If he had even a hint of her stupidity in the ways of men and women, the slightest clue of her dazzled reaction to him personally, he would certainly press his advantage.
Not only would she get nothing done during her stay, she was dead certain she would leave with a bruised heart.
She was sure wiser women than she had fallen hard for the charm of Shane MacKade. That kind of chemistry could only result in fiery explosions. The safest position was to keep herself aloof, to annoy him if and when it was necessary, and never to let him know she was attracted.
Safe, Rebecca thought with a sigh as she set her empty glass in the sink. She had good reason to know just how tedious safety could be. But she had come to Antietam to prove something to herself. To explore possibilities and to add to her reputation.
Shane wasn't a part of the plan.
His house was, however. She drew another deep breath, tried to settle her jolted nerves. There was something here for her, she was sure of it. She couldn't feel it now, not when her system was sparkling like hot, naked wires.
She would have to come back, she decided. She would have to come back and make sure she had time to explore the possibilities here. The only way to manage that, she decided, was to simultaneously charm Shane and keep him at arm's length.
Dinner at Regan's would be a good start.
It seemed to Rebecca that there were children everywhere—babies, toddlers, older kids, all going about the business of cooing, squabbling, racing. Toys were spread all over the living room rug, where Regan's Nate could compete with his cousin Layla for the best and brightest building block.
She knew who belonged to whom now. Layla, who held her own with her slightly older cousin, belonged to Jared and Savannah, as did the slim, dark-haired boy, Bryan. She knew Jared was the oldest of the MacKade brothers, a lawyer who seemed very at home in his loosened tie.
His wife was quite possibly the most stunning woman Rebecca had ever seen. Hugely pregnant, her thick, black hair twisted back in a braid, dark eyes sultry and amused, Savannah looked, to Rebecca's mind, like some well-satisfied fertility goddess.
Connor was about Bryan's age, as fair as his cousin was dark, and with Cassie's slow shy warmth in his eyes. There was Emma, a golden pixie of about seven, who squeezed into the chair beside her stepfather. Rebecca found it both sweet and telling to see the easy way Devin MacKade's arm curled around the little girl while he held his sleeping baby in the crook of the other.
Wild and tough the MacKade brothers might be, but Rebecca had never seen any men so deeply entrenched in family.
"So, what do you think of Antietam so far?" Rafe stepped expertly over dog, toys and children to top off Rebecca's glass of wine.
"I think a lot of it," she said, and flashed him a quick smile. "It's charming, quiet, bursting with history."
He cocked a brow. "Haunted?"
"No one seems to doubt it." She cast an amused look at Shane, who'd settled down next to Savannah to pat her belly. "Almost no one."
"Some people block their imagination." Casually Savannah shifted Shane's hand to the left, where the baby was kicking vigorously. "There are some places in this area with very strong memories."
It was an intriguing way of putting it, Rebecca mused. "Memories."
Savannah shrugged. "Violent death, and violent unhappiness, leave marks, deep ones. Of course, that's not very scientific."
"That would depend on what theory you subscribe to," Rebecca answered.
"I guess we've all had some experience with the ghosts, or leftover energy, or whatever you choose to call it," Jared began.
"Speak for yourself." Shane tipped back his beer. "I don't go around talking to people who aren't there."
Jared only grinned. "He's still ticked off about when I scared the hell out of him when we were kids, spending the night in the old Barlow place.''
Recognizing the look in Shane's eye, Devin decided to step in as peacemaker. "Scared the hell out of all of us," he said. "Rattling chains, creaking boards. I imagine you're looking for something a little more subtle, Rebecca."
"Well, I'm certainly looking." It surprised and pleased her when Nate toddled over and crawled into her lap. She hadn't been around children enough to know whether she appealed to them, or they to her. "I'm anxious to get started," she added as Nate toyed with the tourmaline pendant she wore.
"Dinner in five," Regan announced, her face prettily flushed, as she hurried in from the kitchen. "Let's round up these kids. Rafe?"
"Jason's asleep. I already put him down."
"I'll get Layla." Shane shot Savannah a wicked grin. "It's going to take Jared at least five minutes to haul you up from the couch."
"Jared, make sure you punch him after we eat."
"Done," Jared assured his wife, and rose to help her up.
As exits went, it was a noisy one, as was the meal that followed. The big dining room, with its tall windows, held them all comfortably, the long cherry-wood table generous enough to make room for the necessary high chairs.
The choice of spaghetti with marinara sauce, platters of antipasto and crusty bread was, Rebecca thought, inspired. There was enough for an army, and the troops dug in.
She wasn't used to family meals, to spilled milk, scattershot conversations, arguments, or the general, friendly mess of it all. It made her feel like an observer again, but not unhappily so. A new experience, she thought, one to be enjoyed, as well as assessed.
She found it oddly stimulating that, while not everyone talked about the same things, they usually talked at the same time. Both toddlers smeared sauce lavishly on themselves and over their trays. More than once during the meal, she felt the warm brush of fur against her legs as the dog searched hopefully for dropped noodles or handouts.
She couldn't quite keep up as conversations veered from baseball to the late-summer harvest, from teething to town gossip, with a variety of unconnected subjects in between.
.
It dazzled her.
Her memories of family dinners were of quiet, structured affairs. One topic of conversation was introduced and discussed calmly and in depth for the course of the meal, and the meal would last precisely one hour. Like a class, Rebecca mused now. A well-organized, well-constructed and well-ordered class— at the end of which she would be firmly dismissed to attend to her other studies.
As the careless confusion swirled around her, she found herself miserably unhappy with the memory.
"Eat."
"What?" Distracted, she turned her head and found a forkful of pasta at her lips. Automatically she opened her mouth and accepted it.
"That was easy." Shane rolled another forkful, held it out. "Try again."
"I can feed myself, thanks." Struggling with embarrassment, she scooped up spaghetti.
"You weren't," he pointed out. "You were too busy looking around like you'd just landed on an alien planet." He reached for the wine bottle and topped off her glass before she could stop him. She never drank more than two glasses in an evening. "Is that what the MacKades look like, from a scientific viewpoint?"
"They look interesting," she said coolly. "From any viewpoint. How does it feel to be a member of such a dynamic family?"
"Never thought about it."
"Everyone thinks of family, where they come from, how they fit in, or don't."
&n
bsp; "It's just the way it is." Shane helped himself to another generous serving from the communal pot.
"But, as the youngest, you'd—"
"Are you analyzing me, Doc? Don't we need a couch and a fifty-minute clock?"
"I'm just making conversation." Somehow, she realized, she'd gotten out of rhythm. And she'd been doing so well. She made an effort to settle herself, took a slow sip of wine. "Why don't you tell me about this hay you're going to mow?"
He angled his head. He knew when a woman was yanking his chain, and he knew how to tug back. "I'll have the mower out tomorrow. You can come on by and see for yourself. Maybe lend a hand. I can always use an extra pair of arms—even skinny ones."
"That sounds fascinating, but I'm going to be busy. My equipment came in." She twirled her fork and neatly nipped pasta from the tines. "But later on, when I set up at your place, I'm sure I can find the time now and then to help you out. In fact, I'm looking forward to observing you in your natural milieu."
"Is that right?" He shifted, turning to face her. The hand he rested on the back of her chair brushed her shoulder on the way. And her quick, involuntary jolt did a great deal to smooth out his ego, which was still raw from their earlier encounter.
Deliberately he leaned closer, just a little closer. "If that's what you want, Rebecca, why don't you come on home with me tonight? We'll—"
"Shane, stop flirting with Rebecca." Regan shook her head as she looked down the table. "You're embarrassing her."
"I wasn't flirting. We were having a conversation." His lips curved, his dimple winked. "Weren't we, Rebecca?"
"Of sorts."
"Shane can't keep his eyes, or his hands, off the ladies." Too logy and sluggish to do justice to the meal, Savannah pushed back her half-finished plate. "The smart ones don't take him seriously."
"Good thing Rebecca's one of the smart ones," Devin put in. "I tell you, it's a sad thing to watch the way some women come sniffing around him."
"Yeah, I get real depressed about it." Shane grinned wickedly. "I can hardly hold my head up. Just last week, Louisa Tully brought me out a peach pie. It was demoralizing."
Rafe snorted. "The trouble is, too many of them haven't figured out the way to your heart isn't through your stomach. It's through your— Ow!" He winced, laughing, when Regan kicked him hard under the table. "Mind. I was going to say mind."
"I'm sure you were," Regan said primly.
"Shane's always kissing somebody." Bryan shoveled in the last bite of his third helping, and used his napkin rather than the back of his hand to wipe his mouth only because he caught his mother's eye.
Enjoying herself now, Rebecca leaned forward to smile at the boy. "Is he really?"
"Oh, yeah. At the farm, at the ballpark, right in town, too. Some of them giggle." He rolled his eyes. "Con and I think it's disgusting."
Shane had always thought that fire was best met with fire, and he turned to his nephew. "I hear Jenny Metz is stuck on you."
Bryan flushed from his sauce-smeared chin to the roots of his hair. "She is not." But the humiliation of that, and the primal fear of girls, was enough to shut his mouth firmly.
Jared sent his stepson a sympathetic look and steered the conversation onto safer ground.
From her vantage point, Rebecca saw Shane lean over, murmur something to the hunched-shouldered Bryan that made the boy grin.
The sound of fretful crying sounded through one of the baby monitors almost as soon as the meal was over. After a heated debate, Rebecca started on the dishes. Babies needed to be tended to, as she'd pointed out. Children put to bed. She was better suited to washing dishes than to fulfilling either of those responsibilities. And—and that clinched it-was she a friend or a guest?
While she worked, she could hear voices from the living room and more sounds through the other monitor that stood in the kitchen. Some soft, some deep. Soothing, she mused. A kind of routine that dug roots, honed traditions. She could hear Rafe talking to Nate as he readied him for bed, Regan murmuring to the baby as she nursed him.
Someone—she thought it was Devin's voice—was calmly directing children to pick up the scattered toys. Jared poked his head in once, apologizing for skipping out on kitchen duty, explaining that Savannah was exhausted.
She waved him away.
She was sure that if anyone else had to face a mess like this, the piles of pots, pans, dishes, glasses would be daunting at best, tedious at worst. But for her it was a novel chore, and therefore entertaining.
Shane strolled in, thumbs hooked in his pockets. "Looks like I'd better roll up my sleeves."
"You don't need to pitch in." Rebecca was working the problem of fitting everything into the racks of the dishwasher into a geometric equation. "I've got it."
"Everybody else is tied up with kids or pregnant wives. I'm all you've got." So he did roll up his sleeves. "Are you going to put the dishes in there, or study it all night?"
"I'm working on a system." Fairly satisfied with it, Rebecca began to load. "What are you doing?"
"I'm going to wash the pans."
She paused, her eyes narrowing a bit as she recalculated. "That would be simpler." She caught a whiff of lemon from the soap he squirted into the hot running water. But when she bent over, her bottom bumped his thigh and had her straightening again.
"Close quarters around the sink," he said with an easy grin.
To offset it, she merely walked to the other side of the dishwasher and worked from there. "So, is flirting with women a vocation or an avocation?"
"It's a pleasure."
"Mmm... Isn't it awkward, in a small town, to juggle women?"
"I guess it would be, if you thought of them as rubber balls instead of people."
She nodded as she meticulously arranged dishes. It would be, she mused, interesting and educational to delve into the mind of a ladies' man. "I'll rephrase that. Isn't it awkward to begin or end a relationship in a small town where people appear to know a great deal about other people's business?"
"Not if you do it right. Is this another study, Rebecca?"
She straightened again, battling a flush because it had been just that. "I'm sorry. Really. That's a terrible habit of mine—picking things apart. Just say, 'Butt out, Rebecca.'" . "Butt out, Rebecca."
Because there had been no sting in the order, she laughed and got back to work. "What if I just say I think you have a wonderful and interesting family, and I enjoyed meeting all of them?"
"That would be fine. I'm fond of them myself."
"It shows." She looked up, lips curved. "And it almost makes me think there's more to you than a woman-chasing farm boy. I enjoyed watching all of you together, the interaction, the shorthand conversations, the little signals."
He set a pan into the drainer. "Is that what you were doing when I caught you at dinner? Making observations on the MacKades in their natural milieu?"
Her smile faded a little. "No, actually, I was thinking of something else entirely." Suddenly restless, she picked up a damp cloth and walked away to wipe off the stove. "I do need to talk to you about making arrangements to work at the farm. I realize you have a routine, and a private life. I don't intend to get in your way."
But you will, he thought. He'd suspected it before, but that quick glimpse of sadness in her eyes moments ago had confirmed it. He was a sucker for a woman with secrets and sad stories.
"I told Regan you could come and work there, so I'm stuck with it."
She shrugged her shoulder. "It's important enough to me that I can't worry overmuch about it making you uncomfortable." When she glanced back at him, her eyes were cool again, faintly mocking. "You'll be out in the field most of the time, won't you? Baling hay, or whatever?"
"Or whatever." Damned if she wasn't pulling his strings, he thought. Both of her. For he was certain there were two women in there, and he had a growing fascination with each one.
Though he hadn't quite finished the pans, he picked up a towel, dried his hands. Maybe it was tha
t slim white neck, he mused. It was just begging to be touched, tasted. Or it could be those odd golden eyes that hinted at all sorts of elusive emotions, even when they shone with confidence. Or maybe it was just his own ego, still ruffled from her mocking response to him that morning.
Whatever it was, he was compelled to test her, and perhaps himself, again.
He moved behind her, quietly. Following impulse, he lowered his head and closed his teeth gently on the sensitive nape of her neck. She jerked, came up hard against him with a shudder that seemed to rack her from head to toe. As surprised as he was pleased, he took her shoulders firmly in his hands and turned her to face him.
"Not so cool this time," he murmured, and crushed her mouth with a kiss of practiced skill and devastating intensity.
She hadn't had time to brace, to think, to defend. His mouth quite simply destroyed her. Her head spun, her knees jellied, her blood went on fast boil. Never in her life had so many sensations battered her at once. The smooth, warm demand of his mouth taking from hers, the hard, confident hands moving over her, the smell of lemon and soap and... man.
Her mind simply couldn't compute it, so her body took over. Some weak, accepting sound purred out of her throat. She couldn't stop it, couldn't stop the trembling or the heat or the sudden and baffling need to let everything she was melt into him. One shock of pleasure sparked another, then another, until there was nothing else.
His first reaction was of arrogant delight. Indifferent to him? Like hell she was. She was hot. She was trembling. She was moaning. The woman he kissed that morning had been cool and amused and mocking. Not this one. This one was...
Deliciously warm. He could have tasted that mouth endlessly, so smooth, so soft, so silky. He eased deeper, aroused by each throaty moan and murmur. His mind went blissfully blank with pleasure when he slid his hands under her sweater and found only Rebecca beneath it.
She quivered, her breath catching in her throat as he skimmed those rough palms over small, firm breasts. His thumbs scraped lightly over her rigid nipples, and he swallowed her gasps, absorbed her shudders.