by Lora Leigh
Because then Piper would have the majority of the work in the kitchen as their mother fixed coffee, set the long dining room table, and made fresh-squeezed orange juice and the fruit bowls for the guests who came down early to catch the news, read the paper, or just socialize as they checked e-mail before breakfast.
Piper would get together the individual orders that were turned in the night before, prepare all the ingredients as well as the plates and silverware. She would have to do all the cooking and carry all the food out as well if her mother didn’t finish early to help her. And normally it was impossible to finish one job early to help someone else with another when all the rooms were rented out. Lyrica wasn’t even lucky enough that most of the rooms only held a single guest. With the exception of the three long term guests, it was couples.
Eve’s suite didn’t count. It was a smaller suite. The other side was a pantry connected to the kitchen and the large laundry room with two heavy-duty stacking washers and dryers that were used by guests as well as their mother to wash the bedcoverings in.
“So I’m supposed to give up eight hours of sleep so you can go have a girls’ day?” she asked.
“Come on, Eve. The invitation came from Kyleene Brock. I’ve been trying to make friends with her for months now.”
Eve rolled her eyes. “No, you’ve been trying to get close to her brother for months now,” she retorted.
“Same thing.” Lyrica waved the protest away. “If I have to back out because of breakfast, then it’s going to be just horrible.”
“Just horrible, huh?” Eve tucked her feet up in the chair and knew she was just making her sister wait before giving in to her. Because she knew she was going to do it.
Lyrica had had a crush on Graham Brock for years. She’d been plotting just as long to get into that inner circle of friends Kyleene was so careful before making.
As one of the larger land owners in the area, and one of the few influential bachelors since the Mackay cousins’ marriages, Graham was well sought after. Because of his popularity, Kyleene was extremely careful of the friends she made.
“Come on, Eve, please,” her sister asked again, this time quietly, and with much more restraint. “Kyleene has invited all of us back to the house for a late lunch after we’re finished at the spa, and Graham is home on leave.”
Graham was serving his second tour in the Middle East, and Eve knew her sister had been watching for him to come home for months.
“Fine,” Eve agreed impatiently. “I’ll do it. But you owe me big-time, Lyrica.”
“Oh, my God, Eve, thank you so much.” Lyrica jumped across the short distance, reached into the chair, and wrapped her arms around Eve’s neck tightly. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Drawing back, Lyrica threw her fist into the air in a silent victory shout before gripping the porch post and pulling herself up the railing again.
“You can use my door to get to the stairs, Lyrica.” Eve laughed quietly. “You don’t have to risk life and limb climbing like a damned monkey.”
“Where’s the fun in that? Love you, Eve.” Her sister blew her a swift kiss before her gaze swung to the side of Eve’s patio door. “Morning, Mr. Campbell, I hope we didn’t wake you.”
Eve tensed with a silent groan of frustration.
“Not hardly, Ms. Mackay,” he drawled. The spicy sweet scent of his cigar reached her nostrils and had her body reacting to the sensual smell.
She pretended to hate the scent of it, but during those times when she forced herself to be honest, Eve admitted, to herself anyway, that the evocative scent would always be associated with wanting this man.
“Night, sis,” Lyrica whispered again before gripping the post and hauling herself up as she used her feet to push herself the short distance to allow her to grab hold of the railing overhead and pull herself up.
“That girl’s related to apes, or she’s missing a hell of a career in the circus.” Brogan chuckled as she disappeared over the upper balcony railing.
“Probably a little of both,” Eve agreed, swallowing nervously as he moved to the railing in front of her, where Lyrica had stood moments before.
“She knew you’d agree,” he drawled, clenching the slim cigar between his teeth for a moment before removing it and holding it negligently between his thumb and forefinger as he tapped the ash from the tip.
“She probably did.”
“Graham Brock’s too old for her.” He frowned at the sound of the door closing above. “If he even deigned to notice her, he’d break her heart and grind it in the dust without realizing it.”
Eve sighed heavily. “You can’t convince her of that.”
For a moment, she thought he’d say something more before he brought the cigar to his lips and muttered something that sounded strangely like, “Someone needs to talk to him ’bout that.”
“Let it alone,” Eve warned him. “If everyone keeps padding her falls she’ll never learn how to handle the bruises.”
Eve watched him carefully, as if he were a wild animal that could attack at any moment.
Or maybe one she wished would attack?
She kept that amusing thought to herself as she crossed her arms over her breasts and prayed he couldn’t see her hardened nipples beneath the thin camisole.
He made her ache so badly. Just looking at him, seeing the danger and the steel hardness inside him, all she wanted to do was touch him and feel it for herself.
With Brogan standing across from her, his six-foot-four frame wasn’t overly wide or muscle-bound. He had that natural muscled look, iron hard and powerful without being overblown.
The dark shirt he wore was unbuttoned several inches past the collar. The long sleeves were rolled to his elbows, the hem tucked into jeans that fit his thighs perfectly. A leather belt cinched his tight hips, the fit of the shirt hinting at the powerful abs beneath.
A male animal.
That was the thought that drifted through her mind every time she saw him.
“I tried to catch up with you while you were on break at the bar earlier,” he stated, his voice quiet, the early morning silence of the land around them lending itself to discreet whispers rather than a normal tone of voice that would carry through the night.
“Why?” Tucking the damp strands of hair falling over her face behind her ear, Eve stared up at him curiously. “Did you need something?”
“A dance.” His lips quirked into a smile as he lifted the cigar and drew in the fragrant smoke before exhaling, all the while watching her between narrowed, red-gold lashes.
“Oh, I can’t dance with customers.” She stood abruptly. “It’s getting late now; I have to go.”
She turned to rush back into her room, then froze, completely still, like prey suddenly aware of the predator lounging lazily just behind it.
His fingers were curved around her lower arm, not really gripping or holding her in place, but the knowledge that he could was clear.
Eve turned her head, glanced at the hand on her arm, then lifted her gaze to his.
He was once again amused. His lips were tilted to the side just a bit. That knowing look on his face had her wondering exactly what it was he knew, and was amused by.
“Why do you keep running from me, Eve?” He moved closer, his head bent, his lips settling at her ear as he asked the question. “Every time I think I can get close enough to touch, you jump and run like a scared little rabbit.”
Her skin was tingling where he was touching her. Sensitivity radiated from his touch, spreading through her body and making her nipples, her clit, throb in protest. Why should he be touching her arm, when the rest of her body hurt to be touched?
“Maybe I have the same instincts for when danger is near,” she suggested with attempted lightness. “I don’t have time for dangerous men.”
He chuckled at that, and the sound sent a rush of sensation washing down her spine.
She couldn’t calm her breathing. It was deep and heavy, rougher than befor
e as her breasts lifted and fell with a quicker rhythm. And no doubt from his position he could see her nipples pressing—
His hand caressed up her arm, the calloused palm and fingertips making direct contact and stimulating already too-sensitive nerve endings.
“I have to go,” she whispered breathlessly.
Something warm and incredibly soft rasped against the top of her shoulder then.
Eve trembled at the realization that it was his beard. He was stroking the skin of her upper shoulder with nothing but the closely cropped growth of his facial hair.
The sensation was incredible. It was lashing heat and a cold storm. It was laying a banquet in front of a starving woman and daring her to eat.
Eventually, she was going to take a bite.
His lips brushed against her shoulder then as he curved his arm around her waist, holding her close to him, warming her back as his lips against the bare skin of her shoulder sent flames chasing over her body.
Nothing should feel this good. Nothing should destroy her defenses and her self-control this quickly.
“Why are you doing this, Brogan?” Her hands gripped his arm; her head fell back against his chest. “Why this and why now?”
“Because I’m damned tired of chasing after you, Eve Mackay,” he growled before delivering a heated little nip against her shoulder. “I’m tired of watching you avoid me, of always being one step behind you and never close enough to touch. Maybe you should have stood still for a second at some point so I could have prepared you.”
Prepared her for that electrical current that zigzagged through her body and struck at areas so sensitive that the heightened sensations were bordering on pain.
“Maybe I’ve been avoiding you for a reason,” she suggested breathlessly.
“Avoiding me while you stare at me with all that heat and need for my touch in your eyes?” he asked, his lips moving against the side of her neck as she tilted her head to allow him access to the oversensitive nerve endings she possessed there.
And there seemed to be a lot of them.
His arm tightened around her waist, pulling her closer against him. She felt his hips at her lower back, the heavy wedge of his erection unmistakable.
What the hell was she doing?
Lifting her arm and curving it around the back of his neck to hold his lips at that supersensitive spot his beard was brushing against, Eve’s lashes fluttered in pleasure.
“Like oil and fire,” he said in a groan. “That’s what it’s going to be like, Eve. Once it starts, we’re going to burn down the night.”
“I don’t have fire insurance on my heart, Brogan,” she whispered, forcing herself to protest what she knew would happen. “This is a really bad idea. Burning down the night can’t be good.”
“Oh, sweetheart, burning down the night is the best.” His hand flattened against her waist as he pushed beneath the camisole, his calloused palm rasping over the rapidly rising area of her upper stomach as she fought to breathe.
She quivered at the feel of his broad palm, long, strong fingers. They stroked up, lifted, then cupped the underside of one swollen breast.
“For over two years I’ve watched those little nipples harden every time I’ve come around you,” he revealed. “I’ve tortured myself wondering if the honey was dripping along your pussy. Every time I see you leave that spa in town I wondered if you had your pussy waxed. If it was all bare, or if you left just a few curls for me to play with. I’ve wondered, Eve, how the hell I was going to keep my head when I finally got close enough to touch you.”
She was shaking.
Eve could feel herself trembling like a schoolgirl finally getting that first kiss from the guy she’d daydreamed about all year. But it wasn’t the captain of the basketball team or the football team, or the most popular guy.
It was that guy from the wrong side of the tracks, and she had fantasized that she was the pampered princess who had no idea how to handle him, how to tame him, but was desperate to try.
The problem was, she was, in reality, also the one from the wrong side of the tracks, as well as the wrong side of the blanket. She wasn’t pampered or spoiled, and he was far too dangerous.
His thumb raked over her nipple, suddenly shocking her with the burning pleasure that lanced from the sensitive peak to the swollen, saturated bud of her clitoris.
Her vagina clenched.
Her juices were spilling along the sensitive channel, slicking the bare lips, because yes, she did wax. The dampness gathered and built, preparing her for his touch, for his possession.
And she couldn’t stop it.
She couldn’t stop him.
He began turning her in his arms, eroticism filling the night, the scent of dark cherry and spice from the cigar he had been smoking wrapping around her senses. One hand slid into her hair, clenched in the damp strands, while the other wrapped around her back and dragged her to him.
She stared up at him, watching the usually icy gray-blue gaze darken and flame and swirl with heat as her lips parted.
In that second, just as she was certain she was going to feel his lips against hers, feel the kiss she’d ached for, dreamed of, fantasized about, the harsh, strident buzz of his cell phone suddenly shocked her back into awareness.
Eve jerked away from him, her breathing harsh, staring at him in disbelief as something dangerous, something dark and sensual flashed across his expression a second before that tilted smile curled one side of his lips.
“Run, little lamb,” he whispered. “Hurry and escape before the big, bad wolf gobbles you up.”
She turned and did just that.
Rushing into her room and quickly closing and locking the door, she glimpsed the light of his cell phone suddenly flaring on as he answered the call, casting his expression in sharp relief.
A chill raced over her body.
As he stared at her, as the glare of the phone’s light revealed the shadows and contours of his expression, a flash of pure trepidation rushed through her senses. In his face, in his eyes, she saw hard, certain determination.
He had let her get away this time.
He had let her get away each time he’d been close in the past two and a half years.
The next time . . .
She wouldn’t be nearly so lucky—the next time.
TWO
It was so hot in the room, she was dying.
Or was she so hot she was dying?
Eve tried turning the AC down, hoping the additional cold air would help cool her body, but she wasn’t quite lucky enough for that to help.
This was killing her.
What the hell had she done to deserve this? To want a man, to ache for him until it felt like her body was on fire, and to know—know to the tips of her toenails—that allowing herself to have him would only end badly.
There were some men a woman just knew weren’t good for her. Brogan Campbell had the potential to be just such a man.
It was there in that cynicism that wasn’t quite hidden. The mockery that lingered at the edge of every smile she’d ever seen on his lips.
He watched the world as though he knew all its cruel, bitter secrets and merciless games. He knew them, practiced them, used them.
Not that he was a deliberately cruel person, she didn’t think.
Oh, hell, no, she was taking that damned thought back. Only a cruel, merciless, coldhearted, soulless man could have done to a woman what he had done to her outside.
Fists clenched in the blankets, she fought the need to relieve a little of the tension. Just marginally. Just enough that she could survive the aching burn in the depths of her pussy.
She’d never wanted a man like this. What the hell was up with it?
All he had to do was be in the room to make her crazy to have him touch her, and now it was just going to be a hundred times worse. As far as she was concerned, she simply didn’t deserve the torture.
She was aware of her fingers loosening, releasing the blankets bene
ath her and moving to her lower stomach. Aware of it, but helpless to stop it.
She had to get up in less than an hour, dress, and fix breakfast for a dozen guests who took the “breakfast” part of “bed-and-breakfast” very damned seriously. And that didn’t count the occasional friend of her mother’s who stopped by. When she entered the kitchen there could be more orders waiting than the ones Piper and her mother collected from the guests’ doors each morning.
Mercedes Mackay didn’t run the typical bed-and-breakfast. Along with the regular breakfast fare, guests could choose how their eggs were prepared or if they wanted no eggs at all. They could request toast over biscuits, grits over gravy. Each plate was prepared individually and brought out rather than all the food laid out on the table or a buffet set up.
Breathing out roughly, she let her fingers push beneath the thin camisole top she wore. Her other hand pushed beneath her shorts.
Her nipples were swollen tight, so sensitive she had to bite her lip to hold back a moan as she gripped one between her thumb and the side of her forefinger. Rolling it slowly, exerting enough pressure to make the little tip burn with sensation, she fought to breathe through the pleasure.
The fingers of her other hand pushed beneath the elastic of her panties, sliding over the small area of curls that covered just the top of her mound before pushing further between her thighs to find the saturated folds of her pussy.
She was so wet, so sensitive and swollen that her own touch sent a rush of tingling sensation sizzling through her womb. Capturing her swollen, throbbing clit between her thumb and forefinger, careful to keep the hood covering her clitoris between it and her fingers, she began to work the swollen bud slowly, gently.
A whimper slipped past her lips as her hips lifted involuntarily, jerking beneath her own touch as she imagined Brogan’s fingers there.
His touch would be firmer.
Tightening her grip on the tender bundle of nerves, feeling her pussy clench and weep in need, she caressed it slowly.
She wanted to push her fingers lower.