the place had. Not enough.
He eyed the couch. Pushed at it with his hand.
Good to go, he thought, imagining himself stretched out with his head on one of the cushions.
“Don’t even think about it,” Sean said.
“What?”
“Sleeping out here. There are two perfectly good beds in that guest room and you guys are going in them. She’s already said she has no problem with it.”
Him and Madeline Maguire in the same room? Alone? For like, six, seven hours? He’d be lucky if he wasn’t limping by the time it was morning. All the pent-up desire in his blood would probably turn him into a pretzel.
Abruptly, Sean snorted and stared over the brim of his cup. “Why’d you have to spend so much time with Paige and Whitney?”
“They’re easy.” Spike picked up his coffee again. “I mean, they’re simple. You know, just two women. And why do you care?”
“You should have spent more time with Mad.”
Spike narrowed his eyes on his friend once again. “Are you trying to set us up?”
“Yes, I am. So the least you can do is be a gentleman about it and try and kiss her after the lights go out.”
Spike nearly spit out what was in his mouth. “What the hell—”
“It’s obvious you’re into her.”
He coughed, trying to clear his windpipe. “How do you figure I like her? I didn’t talk to her all night long.”
“Precisely. She was the only woman you were not comfortable around. And that spells attraction, buddy. At least the way I see it.”
“You are deranged.”
“True. And I’m right, aren’t I? You like her. And like her, like her. Not just like her.”
Spike rolled his eyes. “Holy hell, I feel like I’m in elementary school with this conversation. Where’s my lunch box?”
“Same place your head is at.” Sean’s voice dropped down low. “I have it on good authority she’s into you.”
“And this is because she didn’t talk to me, either? Sean, buddy, stick to finance. You’re a rotten social worker.”
“No, she—”
At that moment, Mad came back into the room, sipping from a mug.
Sean put his coffee aside and clapped his hands on his thighs. “I’m turning into a pumpkin. ’Night, all.”
As the man left, he shot Spike a don’t-you-dare-screw-this-up look.
And then Spike was alone with Mad. She didn’t look at him, just walked over to the windows and stared out at the city. Silence elongated until he wasn’t sure whether they’d been in the room fifteen minutes or ten days.
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
