that kiss.
That’s why he hadn’t gotten drunk since. Too many questions. Too much wondering if she was as hot as he’d thought, or if it was an alcohol-induced fantasy. A fantasy lady for a fantastic kiss.
Mike dropped onto the couch in his living room and poured himself a shot of the Scotch. He wasn’t “waiting up” for Callie, he was just enjoying a pleasant drink as he watched the view. He’d paid a lot for that view and was entitled to watch it anytime he wanted. For that matter, Callie had been awfully impressed with the entire house.
His eyes narrowed. She’d made it clear she didn’t want his protection, but if she came in crying, he’d make Donovan pay.
Hours later Mike was still “not waiting up.” The sun had set shortly after 10:00 p.m. They hadn’t reached the summer solstice yet, but it wouldn’t be long. A wide yawn split his mouth and he realized he was dead tired. They’d been pulling double shifts lately, trying to cover the office and fly and run the business at the same time.
“Mike, why are you sitting in the dark?” Callie asked from behind him.
The question made him jerk upright. He’d fallen asleep and hadn’t heard her come in. Mike lifted the bottle and blinked at it. Almost full. That’s right, he’d only had two drinks. Unfortunately the alcohol had gone straight from an empty stomach to his weary head.
“Just watching the view, doll.”
“In the dark?”
He tried to shake himself wider awake, but his brain wouldn’t cooperate. “I’ll do it my way, and you do whatever you want. That’s what you said, isn’t it?”
“Actually…I said we should keep out of each other’s way.” Callie switched a table lamp on and he sighed. While it was dim, the extra light hurt his head, and he wasn’t too tired to ignore the exhilaration in her eyes, or the mussed condition of her hair.
She certainly wasn’t crying, so he wouldn’t have to kill Donovan after all.
Even if he wanted to.
Callie had certainly flung him into a highly illogical state. Of course, women had been doing that to men for thousands of years; why should anything be different now?
“Turn that off,” he ordered. And to his complete astonishment, she complied.
“Have a little to drink?” she asked.
“Just a little, and it’s quality Scotch, not a bender,” he said defensively, though she didn’t seem offended. “I’m just tired.”
“I know. Elaine says you hardly drink at all.”
Had his sister volunteered that information, or had Callie asked? For some reason Mike liked the idea of Callie keeping tabs on him. She’d always been a nice person.
Nice…? Wrong. His brows drew together. She didn’t want to be called nice. “Did you have a good time?” he asked, keeping his tone neutral.
“The best.” Callie sat on the end of the couch and tucked her feet beneath her. “The northern lights were really wild. Donovan said it was unusual this time of year, so he took me up in his plane to see them better. We opened the windows up and the wind blew in…. It was incredible.” She laughed and shook her hair across her shoulders. “I’m all tangled, but it was worth every minute.”
Hmm. Mike felt better. At least Donovan had kept his hands to himself for that part of their date—even Donovan had never mastered the art of flying a Cessna with his feet.
“I hope you wore a coat. It gets pretty cold up there.” He yawned again and his eyelids drooped.
“Don’t worry—I won’t get pneumonia and deprive you of an office manager.” The slight edge in her voice hinted she was still angry over their earlier “discussion.”
“I’m not worried. You’re a pal to help out.”
Callie glared at Mike, getting provoked all over again. He’d been dopey and endearing, and she’d been almost ready to forgive being called trashy—almost. And now he was calling her a pal. She wasn’t his pal. Why couldn’t he simply see her as a desirable woman?
Maybe she could throw herself at him. Kiss him senseless. But that would be rather obvious. And it might ruin things altogether.
What if she got up and slipped on her high heels…? She could fall across him and see what happened.
Yeah, it was a possibility.
Callie stretched. “It’s late. I’d better get some sleep so I can start work early. Donovan says the office is a horrible mess.”
“Uh-huh.”
Mike sounded awfully sleepy, so Callie put her hand on his leg to help herself upright. His eyes shot open.
“Yikes…” She laughed. “Sorry about that. I didn’t realize how deep the couch was.”
Trying to make her “fall” look good, Callie twisted her ankle as she tumbled over Mike, letting out a genuine yelp of pain.
That hurt, she informed herself. I hope it was worth it.
The bottle he’d been clutching clunked to the floor. “Are you okay?”
“Sure. I love bruising my dignity.”
His chest rumbled with a chuckle and waves of heat rolled through Callie. Brother, this was disgusting. She got close to the man and her body went crazy. She hated acting like a spinster stereotype, but she did feel rapacious and love starved, especially sprawled all over him.
Mike’s hands slid over her waist and Callie held her breath. He was going to push her away, do the gentlemanly thing and help her up.
Dammit.
Callie ruefully acknowledged her level of frustration with the mute curse. She didn’t often swear, but when she did, it was for a good reason…or at least a strong reason.
But she gulped when Mike’s hands closed over her bottom, hard and sensuous at the same time. She didn’t say anything. Talking might bring him to his senses, and that was the last thing she wanted at the moment.
The unmistakable outline of Mike’s arousal pressed into her abdomen, making her dizzy.
His hands seemed to be urging her up his body. She was glad to comply, especially when one of those hands reached up to stroke her face—strong fingers, combing through her hair, pulling her into a kiss.
Dear heaven…the moan from Callie’s throat was lost in his mouth, drowned in the unique flavor of Mike and Scotch. This is what she’d been craving. Even when she’d succeeded in pushing him from her mind—sometimes for months at a time—she’d craved the excitement and passion of his embrace.
She straddled Mike’s waist and stroked her tongue over his lips, an erotic invitation to deepen the kiss. It was instinctive, a knowledge born of hope and longing and feminine intuition.
He rewarded her urgency, his fingers
