by Lisa Kleypas
“Why didn’t you warn me?” she whispered.
Her hands were on his shoulders. So easily, he could have urged her forward and kissed her. But he kept still, holding her in something that was almost an embrace. They were close enough that he could feel her breath stirring the air between them.
“Maybe I wanted to catch you,” he said.
Maggie made a nervous sound of amusement, betraying how thoroughly she’d been caught off guard. He felt the subtle kneading pressure of her fingers, like a cat testing a new surface. But she gave no indication of what she wanted, made no movement toward or away, just stood in helpless waiting.
He moved back and guided her off the step, and led the way into the warm glow of the kitchen.
Sam had finished his wine and was pouring another. “Maggie,” he said fondly, as if they had known each other for years. “My wingman.”
She laughed. “Can a woman be a wingman?”
“Women are the best wingmen,” Sam assured her. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
She shook her head. “Thanks, but I have to get back home. My dog needs to be let out.”
“You have a dog?” Mark asked.
“I’m fostering him, actually. I have a friend who runs an animal rescue program on the island, and she talked me into taking care of him until she can find him a forever home.”
“What breed is he?”
“A bulldog. He’s got everything that can go wrong with a bulldog—bad joints, an underbite, skin allergies, wheezing…and to top it all off, Renfield has no tail. It was an inverted corkscrew and had to be amputated.”
“Renfield? After Dracula’s bug-eating henchman?” Mark asked.
“Yes, I’m trying to make a virtue of his ugliness. In fact, I think there’s something sort of noble about it. Renfield has no idea how hideous he is…he expects to be loved anyway. But some people can’t even bring themselves to pet him.” Her eyes sparkled, and a rueful grin crossed her face. “I’m getting desperate. I may end up being stuck with him.”
Mark stared at her in fascination. She had a quality of uncalculated niceness that was as seductive as it was endearing. She wore the look of a woman who was meant to be happy, who loved generously, who would care for a dog that no one else wanted.
He remembered Maggie telling him that after what she’d gone through with her husband’s death, she had nothing left to give. But the truth was, she had too much to give.
Sam had gone forward to drape an arm around her shoulders. “You saved a life tonight,” he told her.
“Holly’s life was never in danger,” Maggie said.
“I meant mine.” Sam grinned at Mark. “You realize, of course, that one of us is going to have to marry her.”
“Neither of you is my type,” Maggie said, and a startled giggle escaped her as Sam dipped her, Valentino-style.
“You fill the empty void in my soul,” Sam told her ardently.
“If you drop me,” she said, “you’re toast.”
As Mark watched their clowning, he was suffused with jealousy. They were so at ease with each other, so comfortable—instant friends. And Sam’s playful faux-wooing seemed a mockery of Mark’s feelings toward Maggie.
“She needs to get home,” he told his brother curtly.
Hearing the edge in his tone, Sam shot him an astute glance, and his smile widened. He brought Maggie upright, gave her a quick hug, and retrieved his wine-glass. “My brother will walk you out to your car,” he informed her. “I would offer, but I don’t want to lose my drinking momentum.”
“I can find my own way out,” Maggie said.
Mark accompanied her anyway.
They went out into the November night, the black-violet sky smudged by clouds, the air crisp and cold-bitten. Gravel gnawed at the soles of their shoes as they walked to Maggie’s car.
“I have something to ask you,” Mark said as they reached the vehicle.
“Yes?” she asked warily.
“What do you think about dropping the dog off with us tomorrow morning? He could spend the day with Holly. Maybe run a few errands with me. We’d take good care of him.”
It was too dark to see Maggie’s expression, but surprise laced through her voice. “Really? I’m sure Renfield would love it. But you wouldn’t want to be seen with him.” They stood beside the car, facing each other in the ghostly smudge of light that came from the kitchen windows. Mark’s vision adjusted to the shadows. “Honestly, it’s embarrassing taking Renfield anywhere,” Maggie continued. “People stare. They ask if he had a run-in with a weed whacker.”
Did she think he was intolerant? Narrow-minded? That his standards were so high that he couldn’t handle, even for a day, the company of a creature who was less than perfectly attractive? Hell, had she gotten a good look at the house he lived in?
“Bring him,” Mark said simply.
“Okay.” A little puff of amusement, and then Maggie sobered. “You were supposed to spend the weekend with Shelby.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t she come back with you?”
“She wanted to stay for her cousin’s engagement party.”
“Oh.” Her voice lost its underpinnings. “I…I hope there’s no problem.”
“I wouldn’t call it a problem. But it’s not looking good for us right now.”
An unfathomable silence passed. Then, “But you’re so right for each other.”
“I don’t know that being right for each other is always the best foundation for a relationship.”
“Being wrong for each other is?”
“Well, it gives you a lot to talk about.”
Maggie chuckled. “All the same, I hope it works out for you.” Turning to the car, she opened the door and tossed her handbag inside. She faced him again, her hair backlit from the interior lights of the dash.
“Thanks for taking care of Holly,” Mark said quietly. “It means a lot to me. I hope you know that if you ever need anything, I’ll be there for you. Anything at all.”
Her expression was soft. “You’re very sweet.”
“I’m not sweet.”
“Yes, you are.” Impulsively she stepped forward to give him a hug, the way she had with Sam.
Mark’s arms went around her. At last he knew the feeling of Maggie pressed all against him, breasts, hips, legs, her head against his chest, her weight balanced on her toes. They stayed together, compact and close, and began to let go at the same time.
But there was a shock of stillness, no longer than a heartbeat. And then in a motion that seemed as natural and inevitable as the inrush of a tide, they pulled together in another, even fuller embrace, securing more pressure, more heat. Every part of him strained for deeper contact. He pressed his face into her hair and filled his arms with her.
Her face was partially tucked against his neck, her breath a hot feathery caress on his skin, awakening dormant impulses, irresistible needs, unwelcome in their fierceness. Blindly he searched for the source of heat, the soft seam of her lips. He let himself kiss her, just once.
Maggie was shaking, urging herself against him as if seeking respite from the cold. Furtively he pressed his lips into the hollow behind her ear, drawing in her scent, her softness. Urgency made him clumsy at first, his parted lips dragging along the line of her neck, down to the collar of the pink sweater and back again. The thin skin of her throat lifted against his mouth as she gasped. Finding no resistance, he took her mouth in the full, deep kiss he craved. He searched her, tasted her, letting the sensation blaze into something raw and unrestrained.
Her response was hesitant at first, her mouth moving upward in a questioning stroke. Her body was light and pliant, molding tentatively against him. Feeling her balance faltering, he slid a hand low on her hips to bring her closer. His mouth found hers again. He kissed her until her throat was resonant with small pleasure-sounds and her fingers had climbed delicately into his hair.
But in the next moment she was pushing at him. The word “n
o” ghosted between them, so softly that he wasn’t entirely certain she’d said it.
Mark released her at once, a sharp thrill of protest running through his body at the effort it took to let go.
Maggie staggered back a step, and leaned against her car, so clearly aghast that Mark might have found it amusing, had he not been violently aroused. He drew in deep passion-roughened breaths, willing his tortured body to calm down. And he forced himself not to reach for her again.
Maggie was the first to speak. “I shouldn’t have…that wasn’t…” Her voice faded, and she gave a despairing shake of her head. “Oh God.”
Mark strove to sound normal. “You’re coming back tomorrow morning?”
“I don’t know. Yes. Maybe.”
“Maggie—”
“No. Not now. I can’t…” There was a strain in her voice, as if her throat had constricted against the threat of tears. She got into her car and started it.
As Mark stood on the graveled drive, Maggie maneuvered the car onto the main road and drove off without a backward glance.
Ten
The alarm clock awakened Maggie with indignant beeps, starting at a measured pace and then increasing in frequency and volume until it reached a series of voltaic shrieks that forced her out of bed. Groaning, stumbling, she reached the clock on the dresser and turned it off. She had deliberately set it far away from the bed, having learned in the past that when the alarm was on the nightstand, she was capable of repeatedly hitting the snooze button while still mostly asleep.
A scrabbling sound of claws on wood, and the bedroom door swung open to reveal Renfield’s massive, square face with its pronounced underbite. Ta-da! his expression seemed to say, as if the sight of a half-hairless, wheezing, dentally challenged bulldog was the best possible way to start someone’s day. The bald patches were a result of eczema, which antibiotics and a special diet had helped to calm down. But so far the fur hadn’t grown back. Bad conformation had given him an awkward appearance when he walked or ran, a kind of diagonal lurch.
“Good morning, weirdo,” Maggie said, bending down to pet him. “What a night.” Fitful sleep, tossing and turning, vivid dreams.
And then she remembered why she’d gotten no rest.
A groan escaped her, and her hand stilled on Renfield’s loose-skinned head.
The way Mark had kissed her…the way she had responded…
And there was no choice, she had to face him today. If she didn’t, he might draw the wrong conclusions. The only option was to go to Rainshadow Vineyard and act like nothing had happened. She would be breezy and nonchalant.
Trudging into the bathroom of her one-bedroom bungalow, Maggie washed her face and blotted it with a towel. And she held the towel against her eyes when she felt the unexpected sting of tears. Just for a moment she let herself relive the kiss. It had been so long since she’d been held in passion, gripped hard and sure against a man’s body. And Mark had been so strong, and so warm, that it was no wonder she’d given in to temptation. Any woman would have.
Some of the sensations had been familiar, but some had been entirely new. She could not remember ever having felt such pure hundred-proof lust, the astonishing heat shimmering all through her, and that seemed like a betrayal—and a source of danger. It was more than a little alarming to a woman who’d had enough upheaval for a lifetime. No wild, crazy, heart-wrenching affair for her…no more hurt, no more loss…what she needed was peace and quiet.
All moot points, however. Maggie had every reason to think that Mark would get back together with Shelby. Maggie had been a momentary diversion, a brief flirtation. There was no way that Mark would want to deal with the baggage Maggie carried; she herself didn’t want to sort through it. Last night had meant nothing to him.
And she had to convince herself, somehow, that it had meant nothing to her.
Setting aside the towel, Maggie looked down at Renfield, who was panting and snorting beside her. “I’m a woman of the world,” she told him. “I can handle this. We’re going over there, and I’m dropping you off for the day. And you’re going to try to be as nonweird as possible.”
After dressing in a denim skirt, low-heeled boots, and a casual fitted jacket, Maggie applied a light touch of makeup. Pink blush, mascara, tinted lip balm, and concealer all helped to soften the ravages of a sleepless night. But was that too much?…Would it appear to Mark as if she was trying to attract him? She rolled her eyes and shook her head at her own absurdity.
Renfield, who loved to go places, was overjoyed when Maggie lifted him into the Sebring. He strained to push his head out of the car window, but Maggie kept a firm hold on his leash, fearing that her top-heavy companion might accidentally fall out of the vehicle.
The day was clear and cool, the sky pale blue with a thin froth of clouds. Feeling her nervousness increase the closer she got to the vineyard, Maggie took a deep restorative breath, and another, repeating the process until she was nearly as wheezy as Renfield.
The figures of Sam and his workers were out among the harvest vines, pruning the growth of the previous year, shaping the vineyard before they put it to bed for the winter. Pulling up to the house, Maggie stopped the car and looked at Renfield. “We’re going to be casual and confident,” she told him. “No big deal.”
The bulldog pushed his head at her affectionately, demanding a petting. Maggie stroked him gently and sighed. “Here we go.”
Keeping Renfield on his leash, Maggie took him to the front door, pausing patiently as he lumbered up each step. Before she could knock on the door, it opened, and Mark stood there in jeans and a flannel shirt. He was so sexy, his shirt rumpled, his dark hair disheveled, that Maggie felt a responsive pang deep in her stomach.
“Come in.” His scruffy, early-morning voice was pleasant to her ears. She led the dog into the house.
A smile entered Mark’s blue-green eyes. “Renfield,” he said, and lowered to his haunches. The dog went to him eagerly. Mark petted him more vigorously than Maggie usually did, roughing up the rolls of his neck, rubbing and scratching. Renfield adored it. In the absence of a tail, he wagged his entire back end, managing something resembling a Shakira dance.
“You,” Mark told the dog conversationally, “look like a Picasso painting. In his Cubist period.”
Panting ecstatically, Renfield licked at his wrist and flattened slowly onto his stomach, his legs pointing in the four cardinal directions of the compass.
Even in her anxiety, Maggie had to laugh at the dog’s slo-mo collapse. “Sure you won’t change your mind?” she asked.
Mark glanced up at her with a lingering trace of amusement. “I’m sure.” He unfastened the leash from the collar, stood to face Maggie, and gently took the handle from her. As their fingers brushed, she felt her pulse quicken to hummingbird speed, and her knees threatened to wobble. She thought briefly about how good it would feel to slide bonelessly to the floor as Renfield had.
“How is Holly?” she managed to ask.
“Great. Eating Jell-O and watching cartoons. The fever spiked one more time during the night, and then it was gone. She’s a little weak.” Mark studied her intently, as if he was trying to absorb every detail of her. “Maggie…I didn’t mean to scare you last night.”
Her heart began to pump hard and fast. “I wasn’t scared. I have no idea why it happened. It must have been the wine.”
“We didn’t have wine. Sam had wine.”
Heat shot to the surface of her skin. “Well, the point is, we got carried away. Probably because of the moonlight.”
“It was dark.”
“And it was late. Around midnight—”
“It was ten o’clock.”
“—and you were feeling grateful because I’d helped with Holly, and—”
“I wasn’t grateful. No, I was grateful, but that isn’t why I kissed you.”
Her voice was strung with desperation. “Basically, I don’t feel that way about you.”
Mark gave her a skeptical
glance. “You kissed me back.”
“As a friendly gesture. The way friends kiss.” She scowled when she saw that he wasn’t buying it. “I kissed you back out of politeness.”
“Like an etiquette thing?”
“Yes.”
Mark reached out and pulled her against him, his arms wrapping around her stiff body. Maggie was too stunned to move or make a sound. His head lowered, and his mouth was on hers in a firm, slow, devastating kiss that sent pleasure shuddering through her limbs. She went weak in a flush of heat, opening helplessly to him.
One of his hands wove gently into her hair, toying with the curls, shaping to her head. The world fell away, and all she knew was pleasure and need and a sweet, subversive ache that went all through her. By the time his mouth broke from hers, she was trembling from head to toe.
Mark looked directly into her dazed eyes, his brows lifting infinitesimally, as if to ask, Point made?
Her chin dipped in a tiny nod.
Carefully Mark eased Maggie’s head to his shoulder and waited until her legs regained enough strength to support her.
“I’ve got to take care of some things,” she heard him say over her head, “and that includes resolving my situation with Shelby.”
Drawing back, Maggie looked up at him anxiously. “Please don’t break up with her because of me.”
“It has nothing to do with you.” Mark brushed his lips over the tip of her nose. “It’s because Shelby deserves a hell of a lot more than to be the woman someone settles for. I thought at one time that she would be right for Holly, and that would be enough. But lately I’ve realized it won’t be right for Holly if it’s not right for me, too.”
“You’re too much for me to handle right now,” she said baldly. “I’m not ready.”
His fingers played in her hair, combing slowly through the curls. “When do you think you’ll be ready?”
“I don’t know. I need a transitional person first.”
“I’ll be your transitional guy.”