“That’s sweet, but a little fresh air would do me good.” She started to go but turned back to face him. “Maybe we can grab a coffee while I’m in town.”
Kyle reached into his pocket. “Here’s my card. All my numbers are on it.”
“Thanks for driving me back to Langley Park. You were a lifesaver tonight. Do you think…” she trailed off.
“What? Do I think, what?”
She slid the card into her purse and chewed her lip. “I told you. I was going to try and figure out what happened to me the night I was injured.”
Kyle nodded.
“If I have any questions about Sadie’s Hollow or the towns near it, do you think you’d be able to help me with that? It’s been a long time since I’ve been home. I’m just not as familiar with the area anymore.”
He brightened a shade. “Of course. I’ll help you out with whatever you need.”
The clap of her high heels clicked on the pavement as she turned onto Foxglove Lane. The Tudors and bungalows once lit for Halloween trick-or-treaters were now dark with carved pumpkins sitting stoic and still on porch steps.
Michael’s house was dark, and so was his carriage house. She let out a relieved sigh. He must have gone to bed. Something on the sidewalk in front of her porch step twinkled in the light. She bent down and picked up a Kit Kat. Ben Fisher’s daughter must have dropped it.
She shook her head and smiled, thinking of the sassy little girl. She was about to pocket the candy when a man stepped out of the shadows.
9
Em shrieked and hurled the Kit Kat at the dark form looming on her porch.
“Christ, Em! It’s just me.”
“What the hell are you doing out here?”
Michael stepped out of the shadows, and the moonlight lit his face. His features were pinched like an exasperated parent waiting up for an unruly teenager breaking curfew. He rubbed the back of his neck then crossed his arms. “What took you so long to get home? And why the hell were you walking? Did Kyle Benson try to make a move on you?”
Em pushed past him and unlocked the front door. “I’m sorry. I didn’t get the memo that you had any say about what I do or who I do it with. And for your information, I eat guys like Kyle Benson for breakfast.”
Michael put a hand on the doorframe. “We need to talk.”
She ducked under his arm and went inside. “I have nothing to say to you, and there’s nothing you can say to me that would change anything. So, I don’t see the point.”
She went to the sidebar and poured a whiskey. “I’d offer you one.” She held up the glass and tossed back its contents. “But you’re leaving.” She picked up the bottle of Teeling and poured another three fingers.
Michael switched on a lamp. The soft pool of light might as well have been a spotlight magnifying the significance of every stick of furniture and every framed photograph. Em’s gaze rested on the baby grand.
“I bet you could still play that, too,” he said, walking over to the piano, his voice softening. He lifted the cover and ran his fingers soundlessly across the keys.
She joined him and dropped her gaze to where his index finger rested on middle C.
“Em, you know Zoe and I tried to contact you. We wrote letters. We called. We knew there was no way to make it right, but you cut us off. It really wrecked Zoe. She had to come back home after her first year of college.”
Em skimmed her index finger over the keys, leaving it to rest only millimeters from Michael’s.
“Em,” Michael continued, “I’m sorry. Zoe is sorry. If you’d only read our letters, you’d have seen. You would have understood. We never wanted anything to happen to you.”
She set her empty glass on the piano and licked her lips. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light, and she met his gaze. His green eyes were clouded with guilt and pain. Had she not come armed with anger, she may not have been able to resist him.
She took his hand and pulled him to sit on the piano bench. He complied. She released his hand and stood between his thighs and rested her palms on his shoulders. Now they were eye to eye.
“You’re sorry?” She said the words like a black widow weaving her web.
He nodded.
She ran her fingertips down his jawline. The scruff tickled the pads of her fingers, and a warmth grew inside her core. But this wasn’t about sex. This was about power. This was about showing Michael MacCarron he didn’t get to dictate her forgiveness. The anger that had sustained her all these years snarled and writhed with delight. She lifted a leg and hooked it around Michael’s. His expression turned to confusion as she hooked her other leg around his. She straddled his lap, her tiny skirt riding dangerously high up her thighs. His hands fell to her waist, and she circled her hips.
Michael shifted. “What are you doing, Em?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” She lifted her hips a fraction. He was responding to her advances. The evidence of his arousal pressed hard against her center.
She smirked. This power trip made her core buzz with excitement.
“You don’t like this?” she asked, whispering into his ear.
His fingers flexed and tightened around her hips. She was winning. She was in control—or at least she thought she was.
She inhaled, and Michael’s scent filled her nostrils, evoking the memory of their kiss at Sadie’s Hollow. It took every ounce of anger she had to bury those thoughts deep in her mind. She closed her eyes and focused. She would treat him like she treated all the men she fucked—like a toy, like something she used to scratch an itch.
Em slid her hand down and palmed his cock through his pants. It twitched and begged for her touch.
She lowered her head and met his gaze. His shallow breaths came in soft puffs against her lips. She unbuttoned his fly, and his hand moved from her hip and into her hair. He laced his fingers into her braid and cradled the back of her head with his large palm.
She had Michael MacCarron right where she wanted him.
“Em,” he said. The word came out in one tight syllable.
“Hmm,” she replied, swiveling her hips and grinding as she worked to release the next button on his fly.
He wrapped his fingers around the tail of her braid and pulled like he’d done with her grandmother’s pearls. Her resolve slipped a fraction. The anger driving this escapade was dangerously close to collapsing into full-blown desire, and she couldn’t surrender to that emotion.
“Em,” he whispered. He pulled harder, forcing a moan to escape her lips.
“Yes,” she answered, her shallow breaths meeting his.
He maintained his grip and met her gaze. “You’re not in charge here.”
“I think I am,” she answered, grinding into his cock until another swift, deliciously painful yank of her braid forced her to stop.
“I’m not some boy you can manipulate, Mary Michelle.”
She shivered at the sound of her real name and bit her bottom lip. She narrowed her gaze in an attempt to regain the upper hand. She had to turn the tables. The only way she could overcome her feelings for Michael MacCarron was to make him a conquest and use him like she used all the other men she had dominated.
Michael MacCarron as her equal was too frightening a prospect.
“I watched you all night, Em. I know your game. I know you think you’re in control right now, but I have some fucking bad news for you.” He released her braid and moved his hands to grip her ass.
She inhaled sharply.
He pressed his lips against the shell of her ear. “You’re not in control. Not even close.”
In one clean movement, Michael stood and lifted her into the air. She tightened her legs around his waist as he turned and pressed her back against the wall. The sharp contact sent electric pulses racing to her core. Her center grew hot and wet. Anger was losing, and desire was taking over. She softened her gaze, but Michael’s eyes hardened. He took a step back, and his hands moved from her ass to her waist. Her boots made a sharp c
lick against the wood floor as he pried her body away from his and set her down.
“We’re going to talk, Em, but not like this.”
She parted her lips to respond. But she couldn’t speak. A pang of anxiety burst through her chest. None of her tricks were going to work with him. All she could do was stare into his eyes for one brief moment before he turned and walked out the front door.
Michael unlocked the door to the MacCarron law office Monday morning and set three steaming cups of to-go coffees and a bouquet of sunflowers on his desk. It was still early, but he knew the occupants of the architecture office next door would already be in. He clicked his computer to life and checked his appointments.
His father, E. Noland MacCarron, Esq., had opened the law office more than three decades ago and quickly became the lawyer Kansas City families turned to for all their trust, will, and estate planning needs.
He saw his dad in every corner of the space. Pictures of his father receiving Kansas City’s Most Prestigious Lawyer award and golf trophies lined the shelves. A photograph of his mother and father on their wedding day sat next to a vase of wilted sunflowers.
After his mother passed away seven years ago, his father had insisted on keeping the vase filled with his dead wife’s favorite flower. Michael discarded the drooping sunflowers into the trash and replaced them with the fresh bouquet. He stared at the flowers. It had been ages since his father had stepped foot into the office. Michael didn’t have to continue the sunflower tradition. But come Monday morning, his first stop was always to the florist in Langley Park’s town center.
He ran his hands through his hair and shook his head. He’d barely slept a wink last night, and when he did manage to sleep, his dreams exploded with images of Em. Her eyes wild, blue, and flashing. Her body pressed against his. Her sweet scent like the tang of freshly cut oranges. It had taken every ounce of strength to resist her last night.
It wasn’t like he hadn’t been with other women. He dated different people through college and law school. But nothing ever stuck. Every relationship lacked something he couldn’t put his finger on. When his father’s health deteriorated, his dating life went from sparse to nonexistent.
He blew out a frustrated breath, picked up the coffees, and headed next door. A petite, older woman’s eyes lit up as he entered the architecture office of Fisher Designs.
“Morning, Mrs. G,” he said, handing the woman a coffee.
“Benjamin tells me Em is back.”
Mrs. G wasn’t one to mince words.
Mrs. Rosemary Giacopazzi, known to everyone in town as Mrs. G, had been the beloved third-grade teacher at Langley Park Elementary School before retiring and coming to work as the office manager for Ben Fisher’s architecture firm, Fisher Designs. There was hardly a person in Langley Park who wasn’t touched by her kindness. Michael himself had been her pupil along with Ben, Zoe, his cousin, Sam, and Em.
Michael took a sip of his coffee, and his shoulders relaxed a fraction. Just being near Mrs. G made him feel better.
“I had no idea she was coming home. Dr. MacCaslin didn’t mention anything to me—not even when I helped him move into the assisted living cottage.”
“Well, honey,” Mrs. G said, giving his forearm a squeeze, “you know he wouldn’t say anything about Em. That man’s never gotten past what happened to his daughter. I’m sure he blames himself. I don’t think he’s spoken a word about her to anyone in over a decade.”
Michael nodded. Mrs. G was right.
“And how’s your father doing?” she asked, but before he could answer, Ben Fisher emerged from behind the closed conference room door.
“Thank God for coffee,” Ben said with a smile. He picked up the steaming cup and took a sip.
“Late night?” Michael asked, grateful for the change of subject.
Ben’s grin widened. Michael marveled at how the once rigid and stoic architect had changed since Jenna had come into his life six months ago. Ben’s first wife had committed suicide leaving him to raise his young daughter, Kate, alone. Michael was glad to see that Ben and Jenna had found each other. He envied the contented grin that came so easily to his friend these days.
“I think there should be a law that if the day after Halloween happens to fall on a weekday, they cancel school,” Ben said with a chuckle.
“Amen to that,” Mrs. G echoed as she organized a stack of blueprints on her desk.
“Kate was a bear to wake up this morning and demanded Kit Kats for breakfast.”
“It’s your wife I feel sorry for today,” Mrs. G said. “It takes the patience of a saint to deal with children coming down from Halloween sugar hangovers.”
Ben’s wife had previously worked as a traveling reading specialist going city to city setting up a reading program that targeted inner city elementary students. Now she worked as the reading intervention teacher at Langley Park Elementary.
“I agree. I hope you have something nice planned for Jenna tonight,” Michael added.
A mischievous look crossed Ben’s face.
Michael shook his head. “Christ, Ben! I meant like you cooking dinner or bringing home a bottle of her favorite wine.”
Mrs. G looked up from her perch at the reception desk. “First of all, watch your language, Michael Edward MacCarron.”
Ben and Michael shared an amused look, but like good little boys, they straightened up and bit back their smiles.
“Second, here’s your stair design, Michael,” Mrs. G said, handing Michael a piece of paper.
Michael looked at the paper and swallowed hard. The phone rang, and he was grateful Mrs. G’s attention was pulled to the call.
“I better get this day started, too,” Michael said. He tucked the paper under his arm and picked up his coffee.
Ben walked him out. “I hope you don’t mind me bringing this up, but it seemed pretty tense with Em last night. I could tell it was a complete shock to Zoe. Do you know why Em’s back?”
“I’ve been helping Dr. MacCaslin with all the legalities of moving to the Senior Living Campus. He’s going to be selling the Foursquare.” Michael didn’t mention that Em’s father had to sell his home to afford the assisted living cottage. “I assume Em’s here to go through the home’s contents and decide if there are any items she’d like to keep.” Michael also kept to himself that he’d glimpsed inside Em’s room. It was trashed, and the layer of dust coating each broken trophy and photograph suggested the damage had been done many years ago.
Ben shook his head. “It’s a shame what happened to Em.”
Even though Ben was Zoe’s older brother, Michael knew Zoe never shared the details of Sadie’s Hollow with him. Ben knew as much as the rest of the town—Em got hurt while partying, ending any chance of a career in music, and she had left Langley Park to go and live with her mother in Australia.
“It is,” Michael answered, but his attention was pulled to an approaching red Mercedes coupe.
A woman holding a large to-go cup from The Drip Coffee Shop with a map spread out over the dash passed by oblivious to their presence on the sidewalk.
It was Em. But where was she going?
“Looks like Dr. MacCaslin’s old coupe is still drivable,” Ben said as both men watched the car pass.
Michael frowned. “The tires are bald, and I’d bet it’s been at least five years since the oil was changed.”
“She’s probably going to visit her father,” Ben said, patting his shoulder with a good-naturedly, big brother kindness he’d shown Michael since they were kids.
Michael nodded, but his mind was racing.
Em wouldn’t need a map to find her way to the Senior Living Campus.
10
Em passed by Michael’s office every morning that week, and the scene had been the same each day: Em holding a giant to-go coffee from The Drip with a map spread wide across the dashboard of the coupe. She wouldn’t get home until late at night. He would hear the Mercedes pull up the packed gravel driveway and the slam of
the garage door as she locked the car inside her carriage house situated three feet from his.
He would be inside his carriage house tinkering around with his digital audio workstation when she would finally return. A hobby he practiced in secret.
Who would trust their estate planning to a lawyer who spent his free time mixing techno beats?
No one.
His father never supported his love of music and especially didn’t understand his affinity for thumping bass layered with electronic melodies. Em’s talent was something his father could understand. Of course, it was all right for Mary Michelle MacCaslin to follow her dreams. She was a renowned classical violinist. And what was he? According to his father, just some kid making noise.
Michael had given everything to the MacCarron law practice. For the last five years, he had not only run the business, he had made it even more profitable. But it didn’t come easy. He’d worked his ass off day in and day out. His father had started the firm almost forty years ago and built a rock solid reputation. People would come from all over the state to have E. Noland MacCarron Esq. comb through their finances and craft meticulous wills and trusts.
Michael drummed his fingers on the dashboard. He kept his Audi parked in the driveway and was sure Em would recognize it. So today, he opted to take the car he drove all through high school and college—his trusty old Range Rover. Em had only ridden in it once, and he winced remembering that drive from the Hollow to the Midwest Medical Center.
It was ten past seven in the morning. Em had gone by around this time every day this week. Now Friday, a cold November drizzle peppered the air and darkened the pavement. He adjusted the car’s rearview mirror. Like a hunter waiting for its prey, he sat and watched for the Mercedes to pass by. He’d rescheduled all his meetings until next week. His Friday was wide open, and he needed to find out where the hell Em was going every day.
A jolt of adrenaline heightened his senses when he spotted the cherry red car. Built for summer drives, it looked silly traversing the slick late-autumn road. He would insist she drive his Audi or even his Rover while she was home. The coupe would be paralyzed in an inch of snow and was no match for the ice storms that could ravage the state in a matter of minutes. Then he remembered the fire in Em’s icy blue eyes and the way she thought she could so easily seduce him. She wasn’t the innocent girl next door anymore. It would be a fight to get her even to consider borrowing one of his cars.
The Complete Langley Park Series (Books 1-5) Page 32