smiled.
She frowned. “Why won’t you take no for an answer?”
“Because I want you. I want you to admit you want me.”
Simple. Honest.
“What difference will it make if I admit it? I still won’t sleep with you.” Raising her arms above her head, she stretched, a languorous display of skin, a move meant to tempt him with the very thing he wanted.
Her move pressed her smooth abdomen into his fingertip, and he knew she was teasing him, inviting him, a boldness inspired by alcohol. But Mac couldn’t resist the opportunity to touch her. Rounding the mound of her sex, he tested her heat through the scrap of sheer silk.
She was hot, moist, definitely aroused.
“You want me.” He bent forward, pressed his mouth to that lacy triangle, breathed a hot breath through the silk.
Her muscles contracted sharply. “I do, but it doesn’t make any difference.”
Hearing her admission was such a bittersweet relief that he almost laughed at the irony. He wanted this beautiful woman sprawled before him more than he’d ever wanted before. His erection throbbed so hard he ached and he couldn’t even test her claim, tempt her as much as she tempted him or try to change her mind.
Because Mac knew she meant what she said.
She might want him, but it didn’t make a difference. She wouldn’t let it. Not when she was sober. Not even now when those heavy-lidded eyes, so lazy with arousal, reminded him that she’d been drinking.
It was over. No matter how Mac came at this, he was pushing the limits of polite behavior. Harley might be arching that smooth body against him. She might be rubbing her sex against his hand and purring breathy little sighs, but her actions didn’t change the fact that had she been clearheaded she’d probably be pointing her gun at his head.
Dragging his fingers from between her legs, he grazed them along her smooth stomach, a safe zone amid all that skin. Then with disappointment bitter in his mouth, he motioned her to roll over so he could pull the comforter out from under her.
She complied without argument, another reminder that she wasn’t in her right mind, and burrowed her face in the pillow. Her red hair waved around her face like a vision from one of his fantasies and he covered her, feeling a sense of loss wildly out of balance with anything he’d ever known before.
“Another question, Harley, and then I’ll leave you alone.” When she nodded, he continued. “What upset you tonight?”
“What makes you think I’m upset?” Her eyes shuttered closed.
“You let me drive you home. If you hadn’t been upset, you’d have drop-kicked me and told me to take a hike.”
She gave a sleepy laugh. “I don’t like you.”
“I know. I don’t like you, either.” He paused. “Well?”
“Bad news. Now go away, Gerard.” She gave an exasperated sigh. “And you were…decent.”
He wondered if she realized just how decent he’d really been. Gazing down at her sleepy expression, he figured probably not, so he accepted her thanks and retreated from the bed. “Sweet dreams, Harley.”
But Mac didn’t go away. Walking from room to room, he searched for clues to help him understand this woman. He wondered what sort of bad news would drive her to drink.
He didn’t have a clue. Companion problems? Ill health? Financial disaster? Death in the family? Now that he thought about it, he didn’t recall ever hearing she had a family. Amazing how two people could work so closely together, butting heads at every turn… He’d have to find out a lot more about Harley’s life if he intended to slip past her defenses.
And he did. Tonight had only fueled his resolve.
Flipping on a table lamp in the living room, he took in an elaborate computer system and a low-slung leather couch. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked an arbor that appeared to back up to the wall of the property. There was expensive music equipment housed in a unit on one wall, but no television.
Given the obvious age of the architecture, Mac suspected the walls had been recently refinished to their pristine condition and the wood beam floor had been brought back and polished to a gleaming luster.
The kitchen appeared to be a work in progress, with partially bald walls half stripped of dated wallpaper. And something about the way a wallpaper scraper and trowel sat side by side in the drainboard with coffee mugs and water glasses made him suspect Harley had been doing the work herself.
Another surprise—he wouldn’t have pegged gun-toting, black-belt, chopper-riding Harley for the home-improvement type. Which went to show how much Mac needed to find out about her before he stood any chance of convincing her to let their attraction make a difference.
While checking out Harley’s desk, Mac felt the first flutter against his cheek. He swatted away the offending critter and, as it was Louisiana in September, just assumed he’d left the door open too long when he’d carried her inside.
It wasn’t until the third bug dive-bombed at him that he took a closer look. Grabbing the lamp from an end table, he noticed a spray of spider veins along the seam of one of her nicely refinished walls.
He hoped that whatever bad news she’d received today hadn’t pushed her too close to the edge, because she was facing even more if she hadn’t already figured out that she had termites.
Making his way back into her bedroom, Mac sat down and considered his best course of action while he watched her sleep.
A headstrong woman with household pests. Well, he’d wanted a challenge.
4
HARLEY’S FIRST HINT that something was wrong came with the feeling someone had unloaded an assault rifle inside her head.
Her second came when the floorboard by her bed creaked.
She zoomed to awake in a second, but didn’t open her eyes. Instead, she flexed her fingers under her pillow, touched the butt of the gun she kept there for emergencies. With a barely perceptible curl of her fingertips, she drew it into her hand. A perfect fit. She thumbed off the safety.
Her heart didn’t pound with fear. Her pulse didn’t rush on an adrenaline wave. Harley just felt…quiet. As if all distractions stopped to let her focus on the matter at hand.
She could hear the fine whoosh of breathing—a man’s, she thought—could feel the air beside her bed stir as he leaned close.
Her muscles flexed in readiness, and in one blast of motion, she aimed the gun exactly where she heard the breathing, opened her eyes to find herself staring at…
“Anthony!”
He didn’t look happy to be staring down the barrel of a gun. Arching a tawny brow, he used a scuffed finger to shift the muzzle away from his face. “Trigger-happy this morning, aren’t we, princess? Must have been a rough night.”
Her
