Baddest Bad Boys(55)

She frowned.

“There’s nothing out there.” The lie rested easy on his conscience. He peeled off his wet shirt, then headed for the stairs—and his rifle. From here on he wanted it ready, willing, and able—and close at hand. “Put a hold on the hot chocolate, will you? I’m going to get out of these clothes.” He forced a smile. “Want to help?”

She hesitated, then smiled back. “Tempting. But I think I’ll stay here and keep the chocolate warm.”

“Chicken.”

“Absolutely.”

“It’s going to happen.”

“The ‘it’ being?” She slanted him a gaze.

“You. Me. Sex.”

“You’re awfully sure of yourself, Mac Fleming.”

He went back to where she stood by the door and lifted her face to his. “Part of me is. Damn sure.” He was caught by her eyes, the edge of melancholy in them. His stomach knotted. “Or maybe I want you so bad I can’t imagine you don’t feel the same.” He drew her to him, kissed her with all the restraint he could muster. When neither of them could draw an even breath, he released her.

They looked at each other for what seemed an hour.

Finally, Tommi, her face unreadable, her skin flushed, said, “Can we—” she stopped.

“Go on,” he urged.

“Slow down.”

He heard the catch in her breath, but couldn’t figure out why the air between them now filled his lungs like glue.

She touched her fingers to his lips, looked directly into his eyes. “I’m scared, Mac.”

“There’s nothing out there,” he lied again.

“Not that. I can handle that!” She looked all tensed up again. “It’s this thing between us…I don’t want to make another mistake.”

“Sex is never a mistake.”

“Spoken like a true male.” She touched his jaw, ran a finger over the seal of his mouth. “For me, sex has been a mistake most of my life. The best decision I ever made was not to sleep with your brother. I got a valuable friend out of that.” She looked up at him, her expression thoughtful, remote. “What will I have after I sleep with you, Mac?”

Mac sensed the question was meant more for herself than him—and impossible to answer either way. But he sure as hell liked the positive sound of it. He forked his hands deep into her blond hair, made her look at him. “You think too much.” He kissed her deeply, let her go while he still could, and headed for some dry clothes.

When he looked back from the top of the stairs, she was still looking at him. He’d have given his first million to know what she was thinking.

The night closed in on the lodge with a tight fist, windy, black, and wet. If there was a threatening world beyond the walls they were enclosed in, it was safely distant. Mac had built the fire to a hectic, crackling roar, and Tommi, curled in one of his big chairs, tried hard to concentrate on the book she’d taken from his shelves.

Tried even harder to ignore the quiet man in the chair across from hers. A man who didn’t seem to be having any trouble at all concentrating on the file he’d opened, while leaving another pile neatly stacked at his feet.

The only light in the room came from the fire and the lamps they were reading by, the only sound the hiss and crackle of the flames and the night wind rapping for entry at the windows.

When Tommi lifted her gaze to look at Mac—for the thousandth time—she gave up her attempts to read and rested the book in her lap.

Since Mac came back down from his bedroom, hours ago now, his hair damp and curling around his ears, his athletic body clad casually in fresh jeans and an olive-colored cashmere sweater, she’d been mesmerized, rapt in every detail, down to his long feet and white sport socks.

Her mind went to those white cotton briefs he’d worn in the pool this morning, and what she knew was under them—all for her.

If she wanted it.

Oh, yes, she wanted it, wanted Mac. Her body reminded her of that wanting with every stolen glance.

Her imagination set his hands on her breasts, his mouth at suckle…

At the graphic images, her breathing shallowed. Heat suffused her, made her limbs and torso limp with want of him. Burn with need for him. Her heart, a stone these past few weeks, lightened in her chest.

She stared into the fire. Maybe she had grown too cautious. Maybe she did, as Mac said, “think too much.” Even Hugh told her she’d “elevated picky to an art form.”

She shot another glance at Mac. She wanted him. Here in a time out of time, in a place at the back of nowhere.

And she could have him. All she had to do was put aside unreasonable expectations and go for it. Sex for sex’s sake, then let it go. Mac was definitely worth it.

She wondered what Hugh would think of his baby brother passing her picky test and smiled at the thought.

“What’s funny?” Mac’s voice brought her back to the present.

“Nothing. Just something I read.” She nodded at the abandoned book.

He craned his neck, strained to look. “Renaissance Theology,” he read aloud. “Unless they’ve put in a foreword by Dave Barry, I must have missed something.” He got to his feet, walked over, and picked up her wineglass. He raised it and lifted his eyebrows in silent question.

“Sure, although I think I’ve already had one too many.”