The Rogue (The Moorehouse Legacy #4)(9)

Instead, the men had preferred her half sister. And proved it beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Shortly after the second time someone she cared about ended up in Amelia’s bed, Mad had put her dating life on hiatus. For one thing, if she wanted to be respected in her sport, she couldn’t be with any of the men on the sailing crews she worked on or any of her competitors, either. But more to the point, there had been no way in hell she was getting vulnerable again.

Her life had gone on. A couple of years had passed. And now she was on the verge of being twenty-five years old and she’d never made love all the way.

It hadn’t seemed like a character defect. Until now.

Spike let out another low rumble and his hand fisted against the sheets. In a flowing arch, his body bowed off the bed as if he were rising up to receive something. Then his hips moved in a tight circle, grinding, surging. Her eyes drifted downward.

Good Lord. He had an…

Well, it was clear what he was dreaming about, at any rate. And wow, she really needed to leave the room.

Spike’s hips stopped moving, but his legs scissored restlessly and his calves turned into knots. He threw his head back and bared his teeth, inhaling with a hiss. As his chest and thighs went through a wave of contractions, the muscles tightened and relaxed under his smooth skin.

He murmured something that sounded like, “More.”

Oh, man, he was beautiful. All male. Sexually aroused. In the throes of passion.

For a moment, she imagined she had the guts it would take to wake him up with the kind of sensuous caresses he was clearly getting in his dream. Would he turn to her? Probably. At least until he realized she wasn’t the woman he was fantasizing about.

She wondered who was in his mind right now, who he imagined was pleasuring him so acutely.

Without any warning, his eyes flipped open and he looked right at her. The yellow of his irises was so bright against his long, black lashes, it was as if his stare glowed. And the heat in it was like being hit with a blowtorch.

Mad jerked back. Then blurted, “I’m sorry.”

Because watching him seemed voyeuristic.

The sound of her voice seemed to confuse him. His black brows dipped low and his head went back and forth a couple of times. He mumbled something, closed his eyes and rolled away.

Mad left in a hurry. She used the bath down the hall and then went to the kitchen, relieved to find that Sean wasn’t up yet; she was not feeling particularly coherent.

Sean’s kitchen was all stainless steel and wrought iron, halfway between a professional setup and a neo-classical café. After sitting for a while at the table in the alcove, she went hunting for a bag of coffee. She was about to get some brewing when she heard a yawn.

“Hey, woman.” Sean walked in wearing a pair of plaid boxers low on his hips and a New England Patriots T-shirt. His dark hair was a tousled mess and his beard had grown in a little. He looked like a frat boy in his early twenties, not the thirty-five-year old Wall Street powerhouse he was. “So how’d you sleep?”

Mad looked away, just in case her blush was noticeable. “Fine.”

“Spike keep you up?” As if Sean hoped that was the case.

“No, and don’t start, okay?”

Her friend nodded, clearly sensing she was in no mood to play. “You know, this is heaven. You and my coffeepot, sharing a meaningful moment. Just beautiful.”

“What have you got for breakfast around here?” She always kept her meals light and was hoping he had some fruit she could slice up.

“I don’t know. I never eat at home. But the caterers cooked out of this kitchen all afternoon yesterday so there’s got to be something.”

The two of them cracked open the refrigerator and stared into it. There were all sorts of things crammed in there, a dizzying array of gourmet leftovers. Too many to choose from.

“I know exactly what this calls for,” Sean said. “Wait right here.”

He disappeared and returned a little later. “Help is on the way.”

“You ordered takeout breakfast?” she asked as she poured herself some coffee.

“Better.”

“You ordered breakfast delivered.”

“I ordered us a classically-trained French chef.”

“And this paragon is where?”

“Right behind you,” Spike said.

She wheeled around.

Her eyes did a quick head-to-toe on him, she couldn’t help it. He’d shaved and had all his clothes back on, but she still saw him on that bed in those sheets. His chest. His ribbed belly. His strong arms—

She realized was staring. And figured she better say something.

“You…are a chef?”

A bland look crossed his face and he went to the fridge. “I’m more the hash-slinger type, is that it?”

“No, I—”

“So what do you feel like chewing on, SOB?” he asked Sean sharply.

Shoot, she’d offended him. But she’d just been surprised that he would do something so traditional and rule-based. It wasn’t that she thought he didn’t have the intelligence and discipline it took to become a chef.

But Sean answered his question before she could explain herself. “Surprise me, buddy. Work your magic. In the meantime, Mad, you and I need to talk. And I’m leaving to go to Japan for two months this morning so it’s here and now.”