The Rogue (The Moorehouse Legacy #4)(7)

Well, if this wasn’t awkward.

Spike said quietly, “I don’t want to crowd you tonight. I can crash on the couch.”

She shrugged. “If you want to. But bear in mind, I sleep on a boat with twelve men on a regular basis. No amount of snoring is going to get my attention. I can sleep through anything.”

God, the small of her back was beautiful. He wanted to press his lips to the indentation of her spine. Run his hands around to her flat stomach. Reach down and ever so gently stroke her thighs—

“Spike?”

“What?” He looked up, meeting her calm stare as she glanced over her shoulder.

“You just made a funny noise.”

“Did I?”

“Sounded like a groan.”

Well, at least that was better than a squeak of desperation. Much more manly.

Although when it came down to it, he was surprised she couldn’t hear the roar of his blood as the stuff slammed into all kinds of extremities.

“Can I ask you a question?” she said.

“Go ahead.”

“Your eyes. Are they real? I mean, they’re contacts, right?”

Spike looked away. He knew his irises were a peculiar color, but they’d been that way since birth. And most women liked them…thought the yellow was unusual and attractive. She was the first to suggest they were a cosmo-vanity statement.

Which told him a lot about what she thought of him.

And as he abruptly wished his peepers were normal, like a brown or a green or a blue, he got frustrated with himself.

He punched his weight into his feet, standing up in a quick surge. “I’m going to head for the shower. And then I’m hitting the sack.”

“Spike, I didn’t mean to…” Her voice drifted off.

“You didn’t mean to what?”

“Offend you. I’ve just never seen eyes like yours before.”

He shrugged. “I know they’re weird, but, whatever, nothing I can do about it. ’Night, Madeline.”

He put his coffee cup into the kitchen sink and then went down the hallway to the guest room. When he stepped through the door and glanced around, he expected to find her stuff all over the place. It wasn’t. There were no errant hairbrushes or perfume bottles or clothes or shoes dotting the dresser or the desk or the chaise lounge in the corner. All he saw was a black duffel bag at the foot of the bed on the left.

A sailor’s neatness, he thought, wondering what her life must be like.

He took a quick shower and then hunted around the vanity for one of the spare toothbrushes he knew was in there. As he put a high gloss on his teeth, he wasn’t looking forward to getting back into the clothes he’d worn all day long, but he’d left his stuff in his car.

And like naked was even an option in the hypothetical? Not a chance.

Spike went still. On the other side of the door, he could hear her moving around in the guest room. She was probably getting into bed right at this moment.

And wouldn’t that be a picture. Her lithe body bending down to pull the blankets back. Those long legs sliding between cool sheets. Her hair spilling over the pillowcase in waves of deep brown and dark red.

Cursing, he rinsed his mouth out, stepped into his boxers and then pulled on his shirt. While he buttoned the thing up, he eyed his pants. Throwing those on seemed a little much so he folded them and left them on the edge of the tub.

As he swung open the door, he expected to find Mad propped up in one of the queen-size beds, reading and looking wonderful.

Instead, the lights were off. In the glow from the bathroom, he could see her curled on her side with the covers pulled up to her cheeks. And yes, her hair did spill over the pillowcase beautifully.

As he stared at her, he wondered what the auburn waves felt like. Soft, he thought. They would be soft and they would smell like the herbal shampoo she’d left in the shower.

For the first time since his life had changed twelve years ago, he truly mourned the normalcy he no longer had and would never find again.

He thought about the one time he’d tried to have a relationship with a woman. About two years after he’d rejoined real life, he’d found someone he liked enough to want to get to know better. Things had gone well until he’d sat her down and told her about what had happened. She’d said all the right things at the time and he’d hoped they might go on from there. But then she’d stopped returning his phone calls.

He’d understood and let her go.

Ever since then he’d kept himself apart, although he hadn’t been celibate. He’d just done the one-night stand thing when he’d wanted a little company.

Madeline Maguire was not a one-nighter. She was the real deal. A smart, beautiful woman from a high-class family that had a Brinks truck worth of money in the bank. So even if she’d been attracted to him, and she wasn’t, there was no way someone like her would want to be…well, with an ex-con like him.

Spike went over to the bed on the right and got in it. After arranging the pillows the way he liked them, he tried to convince his skin of two things. One, the fact that he was wearing boxers and a shirt to bed was no big deal even though he usually slept in the nude. And two, Madeline Maguire’s hands would in fact not feel like heaven if they were applied liberally over every inch of his body.

He failed. Particularly at the latter.