by Nora Roberts
He approached the house as a thief would, using the trees and hedges for cover. The well-established grounds added to the ambience, and also blocked any nefarious enterprises from the view of neighbors and street traffic. If he was a smart B-and-E man—and Royce had decided he would be—he'd have already taken the time to study the house, the accesses, the security. He'd have worn khaki work clothes, carried a clipboard and come in broad daylight. No one would have looked at him twice. But instead, here he was in the middle of the night, responding to the "request" of an overly canny, overly protective Scot. He'd have known the alarm system was hot. Of course, if he had a solid knowledge of electronics—and Royce had decided to get into the spirit of the job and assume that he, as thief, had a degree in electronics. Amused at himself, he set to the task of undoing his own work.
Fifteen minutes later, he stepped back, scratched his chin. He was damn good, he decided. Not quite as good a thief as he was a security expert. The system was very close to foolproof, if he did say so himself. If he hadn't designed it personally, he would never be able to work his way through the backups and safety checks to override it.
Since he had designed it, he could have gotten in—if he'd wanted to get in—by working another ten minutes or so. But a thief would have to be very determined, very educated and very lucky to have gotten even this far. The MacGregor, he decided, could sleep easy. Satisfied, he started to step back, when a light flashed on. Laura MacGregor stood in full view on the other side of the atrium door, dark hair down to her waist, a bright yellow T-shirt skimming her thighs and a Louisville Slugger gripped in her hands. He watched her mouth fall open when she recognized him and her eyes catch fire.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Her voice was muffled by the glass, but he caught the drift. "Spot check," he said loudly back. "Customer's request."
"I didn't request any spot check."
"Your grandfather did."
He watched those furious eyes narrow, saw her hands shift their grip on the handle of the bat, as if she were going to swing away regardless. Then she spun around, giving him a blood-pumping view of leg, and snatched up the phone. Royce scratched his chin again, his fingers brushing absently over the ridge of scar. If she was calling the cops, he was going to be in for a long night of explanations. He had enough friends on the force to cushion the worst of it—but he knew those same friends would toss him in a holding cell just for the amusement factor.
The fee for the spot check doubled.
Moments later, Laura slammed down the receiver. She strode to the control unit for the alarm system, punched in the code, then flipped the locks on the door.
"You're both idiots, you and my grandfather."
"You called the MacGregor."
"Of course I called him. Do you think I'm going to take your word when you're standing outside the door wearing breaking-and-entering black and carrying burglar's tools? I ought to bash you with this on principle," she added, before tipping the bat against the wall.
"Your restraint is appreciated." His grin flashed, humor sparking his eyes like summer lightning. "Look at it this way, your grandmother can now sleep peacefully at night."
"My grandmother always sleeps peacefully. It's him." Exasperated, she threw up her hands. The movement had the T-shirt sliding dangerously high. "The man stays up at night dreaming up ways to complicate all our lives. It's his one driving goal—to drive his family insane. At least I have the satisfaction of knowing his ears will be ringing for the rest of the night."
"Busted his chops, huh?" Smiling, Royce took advantage of the situation and moved closer. "If you'd been in bed like you were supposed to be, you'd never have known I was here. I'd have been gone in another two minutes." He reached out to toy with the ends of hair that draped to her elbows in a soft black curtain. "Why aren't you in bed?"
"I was hungry," she muttered.
"Me, too." He moved a little closer, deciding that fate had put the chair exactly there to prevent her from backing away. "Whatcha got?" Her heart was thudding against her ribs now. She felt the winged side of the armchair press into her back. He looked more than dangerous at the moment. With his eyes hot, his smile wicked, he looked fatal. He looked… tempting. "Look, pal—"
"I keep walking in on you in your pajamas." He let his gaze wander down lazily before sliding it up again and placing his hands on the chair on either side of her. "Don't you think it's a little too much to expect me to keep walking away?" Her skin tingled as little pulses of excitement danced over it. "I expect you to take no for an answer."
"Do you?" He leaned in, just a little—a brush of bodies, the feather of breath over her mouth. "I would have sworn you were expecting this."
He lowered his mouth toward hers, stopping an inch before contact. He saw her eyes darken, heard the long intake of breath, knew she held it. He waited, while his blood surged, waited until he knew they were both suffering.
"Kiss me back," he demanded, and crushed his mouth to hers.
She couldn't have stopped herself. In that long moment when their eyes held, desire had poured through her like heated wine. In the instant when their mouths met, need had slammed into her like a velvet fist. In the shuddering time the kiss deepened, pleasure streaked through her like light.
She moaned, wrapped her arms around him and met greed with greed.
This was no gentle exploration, no easy sampling. It was all heat and hunger, passion warring against passion, strength pitted against strength.
She was wild tastes and silken textures. She was arousing scents and soft sighs. Her mouth was pure sin, and was rapidly driving him beyond reason. His hands tangled in her hair, dragged her head back so that he could have more, still more, of that impatient, erotic mouth.
"Let me have you." He tore his lips from hers to race them over her jaw, down her throat.
"I…" Her head was spinning, her breath came in ragged gulps. "Wait. Just… wait."
"Why?"
"I need to think." She put her hands on his shoulders, straining back. "I wasn't thinking." Blue eyes fixed on her chocolate brown ones, dark hair tousled on both of them, he skimmed his hands in one long stroke down her sides. "I can fix it so neither one of us is thinking again."
"I'm sure you could." She kept her grip firm, locked her arms to ensure some distance. But it wasn't nearly enough. "Back off a minute."
"It won't change anything. I'm still going to want you. You're still going to want me."
"Back off anyway."
It cost him, but he dropped his hands, stepped away. "Far enough? Or should I just back out the door so you can pretend this didn't happen?"
"I don't have to pretend anything." Laura's spine straightened. "If I hadn't wanted that to happen, it wouldn't have happened. I'm responsible for my own actions, Royce."
"Fair enough. Why aren't we rolling around on this fancy rug, finishing what we started?"
"That's blunt."
"That's honest."
"All right. We're not rolling around on the Aubusson because I don't have sex with men I barely know." He nodded, tucked his hands into his pockets. It was lowering to realize they weren't entirely steady. "That's fair enough, too." His lips curved when he saw the surprise, then the speculation, flit over her face. "Didn't expect me to be reasonable, did you, Slim?"
"No, I didn't. Which just proves my point. I don't know you." She braced, but didn't evade when he stepped close again, when his hands slid up her arms to her shoulders, then back down to her wrists.
"Royce Cameron," he said quietly. "Thirty-one, single, ex-cop, currently self-employed. No criminal record. I had a couple of years of college, but it didn't suit me. I like big, stupid dogs, loud rock, Italian food and dangerous women." Amusement darkened her eyes. "That's informative, but not entirely what I meant."
"I figure it's a start. Do you want to know more?"
She knew he had to feel the way her pulse was hammering under his fingers. "Apparently I do."
"Tomorrow night, seven-thirty. We'll try the Italian food."
"All right. We'll try the Italian food." She didn't move, kept her eyes on his when he leaned forward and caught her bottom lip between his teeth.
"I really like your mouth. I could spend hours on it."
She thought his grin flashed before he turned away, but her vision had blurred.
"Lock up, Slim, and reengage the system."
"Yeah." She took two slow breaths, in and out. It occurred to her that the system, so to speak, had already been breached.
Chapter 4
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Gwen burst into the bathroom wearing underwear and full makeup. "I just ran my last pair of black panty hose. I'm a desperate woman."
"Mine'll bag on you," Laura called from the shower. "I'm four inches taller than you are."
"I said desperate. Julia doesn't have any dark hose. I don't have time to run out for any, and Greg will be here in fifteen minutes." Laura poked her head out from behind the curtain. "A date with Dr. Smarm?"
"It's not a date." Snarling, Gwen snatched a pair of hose from the jungle of delicates hanging on the drying line. "It's a hospital function, and he's my escort."
"He's a creep."
"He's chief surgical resident."
"Chief creep," Laura corrected, and turned off the shower. "And all he wants to do is add another notch in his scalpel."
"Then he's going to be bitterly disappointed." Gwen sat down on the toilet lid and began to pull on the hose.
"Why didn't you go with Jim Proctor? He's a nice enough guy."
"Engaged. Two weeks ago. Kindergarten teacher."
"Oh." Hooking a towel at her breasts, Laura stepped out. "Better to go alone than with Greg the Operator."
"Cocktails and dinner at Dr. and Mrs. Pritchet's. Mrs. Pritchet frowns on extra women at her table." Gwen stood, swore. "Damn it, these bag on me."
"I told you they would."
"Found a pair." Julia came in waving a package of hose like a flag. "These are why my drawer wouldn't close all the way. They were stuck behind it."
"Thank God." Gwen grabbed them and sat again to make the exchange.
"You're all dressed up," Laura commented, noting Julia's long velvet gown of deep green.
"Country-club deal. Peter."
"Ah, old reliable." Laura walked out into the bedroom to contemplate her own closet.
"Peter's all right, just a little too earnest." Julia wandered out, watched Laura debate between red silk or blue wool. "Now you seem to have the hot date of the evening."
"We're just going to hear some music."
"Dancing. Third date in two weeks." Julia wiggled her brows. "The red, definitely."
"It's a little…"
"It's a lot," Julia corrected. "A lot everything. His eyes'll pop out of his head and plop on his shoes." Feeling stubborn, Laura pulled out the blue. "We're not really dating. We're just seeing each other." Gwen stepped out. "Well, when you're tired of seeing him, can I have him?"
"Ha, ha."
"It is the third date," Julia pointed out. "First date is the test. Second is a review. But the third, well, that's the big one. That's when you move from dating to relationship."
"We don't have a relationship. I don't want a relationship."
"Can I have him?" Gwen asked again, then bubbled with laughter at Laura's seething look. "Come on, Laurie, what's wrong with being interested in a gorgeous, available, intriguing man? Count your blessings." Then she rolled her eyes as the buzzer sounded. "That's Greg. Jules, go entertain him for a minute, will you?"
"If he comes on to me again, I'm going to knock his caps loose."
"Five minutes," Gwen promised, rushing out "Just hold him off for five minutes."
"I don't know why she doesn't knock his caps loose," Julia muttered, then, taking a deep breath, fixed a bright smile on her face and turned to Laura. "How's this?"
"Try to make it look less like a grimace."
"Can't. Wear the red," she ordered, then headed down to do her duty.
She wore the red. Laura told herself the outfit was simply more suited to an evening at a club. She hadn't worn it because it was sexy, or because the blend of Lycra turned the silk into a curve-clinging statement of female confidence. And she only wore the high, thin heels because the dress demanded them.
This third-date business was nonsense, she told herself as she hooked on thick gold hoops. Who was counting, after all? They were just seeing each other because they enjoyed each other's company, because they found a lot to talk about and they made each other laugh.
And when he kissed her, her brain exploded.
She pressed a hand to her jittery stomach. Okay, she admitted, yes, there was a strong physical attraction. But he hadn't pressured her to take it any farther than those brain-draining kisses.
Why the hell wasn't he pressuring her? It was driving her crazy the way he left her shuddering, all but gulping for air, and never attempted to lure her into bed. Not since that first time.
She was crazy, Laura admitted. Hadn't she told him she needed to get to know him? Wasn't he giving her the time and space to do just that? And she was sulking because he wasn't grabbing her by the hair and dragging her off to his cave. Pitiful.
When the buzzer sounded, she shook her cloud of hair back. Just seeing each other, she repeated as she started downstairs. Just getting to know each other. Just two people enjoying each other's company for the evening. Steady now, she opened the door, smiled. He looked good in black. The black jeans, jacket and shirt suited his dark-angel looks. "You're right on time," she told him. "I'll just get my—"
"Hold it." He'd grabbed her hands, his own sliding up to her wrists like cuffs. He indulged himself with a long look. The stoplight red fit like skin, riding high on smooth thighs, dipping low and straight over firm breasts. His lips curved slowly. "Excuse me a minute." With one hard tug, he had her in his arms, and his mouth was branding her, devouring hers. She made a little sound of shock as the heat punched into her. Then she was free, breathless and teetering.
"What was that for?"
"To thank you for the dress you're almost wearing." His smile was quicker this time. It was impossible for him not to be pleased by that dazed look in her eyes. "You'll need a coat, Slim. It's cold outside."
The club was hot, and so was the music. Laura had regained her balance over a glass of white wine at the tiny corner table, with its single flickering candle. She hadn't thought him the type to sit and listen to blues.
But he was constantly surprising her.
"Why did you leave the force?" She hadn't realized the question was there until she asked it. "Is that too personal?"
"No. I figured out I wasn't a team player, that I was lousy at politics, and that I'd lost the passion you need to keep going out on the streets to do the job."
"What made you lose it?"
Light eyes under dark brows flicked over to hers, held. "Lawyers."
In automatic defensiveness, her chin angled. "Everyone's entitled to representation under the law."
"Yeah, that's the law." He picked up his club soda, rattled the ice in the glass. "But that's not justice. You've got a client right now who'd agree with me."
"Really? And who is that?"
"Amanda Holloway."
"I thought you didn't approve of what she'd done."
"It's not up to me to approve or disapprove. I wasn't inside her head that night. But to me, she's just one more example of a system that's defective."
"Her trial begins in ten days. You might be able to help."
"There's nothing I can tell you."
"It's obvious you didn't like him."
"I don't like the guy in the apartment across the hall from me. There's not a lot I can tell you about him, either. Your mother knows her job, Laura, or she wouldn't be where she is."
"I don't see how you can back away from everything you must believe in. You wouldn't have joined the force if you hadn't wanted t
o help."
"And a few years on it showed me I wasn't making much of a difference."
She heard something in his voice, just a hint of disappointment, of disillusionment. "But you wanted to."
"Yeah, I did. Now I'm making it my own way.
Without the politics and restrictions. And I'm better at electronics than I was at toeing the line."
"You just like being your own boss."
"Damn right I do."
"I can't blame you," she said with a sigh. "Working for my parents, well, it's a dream. They're wonderful. I don't think I'd have done well in a big firm, with all the agendas and carved-in-stone policies. In so many, it's all about billable hours and corporate or high-profile clients. MacGregor and MacGregor is about making a difference."
"I'm surprised they haven't been disbarred for a surplus of ethics."
Her eyes narrowed. "It's so easy—and so trite—to bash lawyers."
"Yeah." He grinned. "Why resist? I should tell you something else."
"What?"
"You're incredibly beautiful."
She eased back, angled her head. "You're trying to change the subject"
"And smart, too. If we sit here and talk about law, we're going to argue, because it's something we come to from different angles. Why waste the time?"
"I like to argue. That's why I'm a lawyer."
"I like to dance." He took her hand and stood up. "That's why we're here." She stared at him. "You dance?"
"Well, I never achieved my lifelong dream of joining the Bolshoi," he said dryly as he led her toward the dance floor. "But I manage."
"You just look more like the type to go five rounds with the champ than to—" The words slid down her throat as he spun her out, then whirled her back until her body meshed intimately with his. "Oh, God."
"We'll box later."
The heels brought her face-level with him so that eyes and mouths lined up. He guided her over the floor with smooth, intricate steps. She didn't have to think to follow. Couldn't have thought, with the way her heart thudded, the way the sax wailed, the way his eyes stayed focused on hers.
"You're very good," she managed.
"Dancing is the second-best thing a man can do with a beautiful woman. Why not do it right?" She had to moisten her lips. "You've had lessons."
"At my mother's insistence. Which is why I can also go five rounds with the champ. In my neighborhood, if a guy took dance lessons, he either got the stuffing beat out of him on a regular basis or he learned to use his fists."
"That's quite a combination. What neighborhood was that?"
"South Boston."
"Oh." Her head was swimming, her pulse pounding. "That's where you grew up then. Did your father—" He dipped her, low and slow. "You talk too much," he murmured, and closed his mouth over hers as he brought her back up. And kept it there as he moved with her, as the music pumped over them, as her hand slid over his shoulder to cup the back of his neck. She felt her stomach drop away, her knees turn to water, and murmured his name, twice, against his mouth.
"Do you know who I am?" He waited until her eyes fluttered open and met his. "Do you know who I am now, Laura?" She knew what he was asking, and understood that every moment they spent together had been a dance with steps leading to this.