Commitment (6 page)

Her fingers bit into his sleeve again. For a split second he wondered if she’d leave a bruise. “Now, Tom, she needs a partner, not a knight in shining armor.” She searched the crowd at the bar. “My Maggie can rescue herself.”

She opened her mouth to continue the lecture, but something beyond his shoulder captured her attention. The gleam in the older woman’s eyes melted into a warm smile. Her fingers banded around his arm like a shackle. “There you are!” Sheila extended a bejeweled hand, reaching past him to lay claim to her quarry. “Come here. I want you to meet a dear friend of mine.”

Tom tensed, half-afraid to sneak a peek at Sheila’s choice. Instead, he fixated on her hand. Knobby, age-speckled fingers closed around equally dainty, albeit smoother digits. She pulled his mystery woman closer. The hand Sheila grasped was connected to a fine-boned wrist that gave way to a softly curved forearm and finally creamy skin stretched over a temptingly silky bicep.

He lifted his gaze slowly, praying he wouldn’t have to mask disappointment. After the blows Sheila had dealt his ego, he wasn’t quite sure he had the acting chops to pull it off.

The rounded curve of a bare shoulder. So far, so good. The irresistible hollow of a woman’s collarbone. Delicious. The sensuous undulation of the pulse quickening in her throat made his mouth water.

He milked the moment, letting anticipation build as his gaze swept higher. A flash of persimmon licked at the edge of awareness. Heat prickled his throat. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. A slash of black satin split the field of ivory. His brain sputtered before kicking into high gear. Anticipation. Milk the moment. Milkmaid skin.…

Sheila’s fingernails scraped the wool of his suit coat. Her red lips curved into an encouraging smile. She began to speak, but it could have been Swahili for all he cared. He resisted the pull of her smile and stared straight into the sparkling emerald eyes that fueled a thousand fantasies.

“Darling, I’d like you to meet—”

Holy hell…”Hello, Maggie.”

****

Tom Sullivan. This had to be some kind of a joke. Two years of near radio silence from Tracy, then her old friend drops a giant bomb. Now suddenly
Sullivans
were popping out of the woodwork. Freaking Tom Sullivan. And he looked good. Damn good. Damn him.

“Hello, Tom.”

She matched his polite smile, going for a cool tone, but Sheila’s sharp glance told her she fell short. Not a shocker. Any woman with a pulse would feel a spike in temperature near Tom Sullivan, and Maggie definitely had a pulse. The stupid thing was doing a cha-cha-cha in her throat. She never could pull off the cool bit, but there was something about this guy that made her feel compelled to try.

“You look well,” Maggie said, craning her neck to peer past his shoulder. She wanted to kick herself. Such an obvious ploy. Such a ridiculous idea. As if there could be anything better to look at than the man standing right in front of her.

“I see you already know each other,” Sheila murmured, glancing from Tom to Maggie and back again.

His head swiveled. The startled widening of those beautiful eyes made Maggie’s heart skip two, maybe three, full beats. He’d clearly forgotten they had company.

“Yes, we’ve known each other for years,” Maggie purred. Something hot flashed in his eyes as he turned back to her. Then it was gone. His usual mask of cool indifference slid back into place.

“My brother is married to one of Maggie’s friends,” he explained, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Or so they claim.”

Sheila shot him a puzzled glance, and a slow smile curved Maggie’s lips. The devil made her do it. Resistance was futile. A full team of horses—wild, tame, or rabid—couldn’t have kept her from resting her hand on his broad shoulder and stretching up to brush an unprecedented kiss to his freshly shaven cheek. She held his gaze, forcing her smile to widen as she wiped away an imaginary smudge of lipstick with the pad of her thumb.

“Yes, Tracy was brave enough to snare one of the elusive Sullivan boys.” She turned to Sheila and winked broadly. “Sadly, I hear they don’t do well in captivity. Like giant pandas. Cute, but you wouldn’t want to keep one in your backyard.”

“Excuse me. Mrs. McKenzie?” A young woman sidled up beside Sheila. “I’m sorry to intrude, but there seems to be an issue with Judge Meade’s silent auction bids.”

Sheila’s mouth thinned into a line. She rolled her eyes then closed them tight. “Too much or too little?”

The woman cast a nervous glance over her shoulder then whispered, “He signed each sheet with an opening bid of ten million dollars.”

Tom sputtered, and Sheila blew out an exasperated breath. “If I thought for a moment that drunken old coot had ten dollars to his name I’d let each one of those bids stand,” she hissed. “Excuse me.” She slipped her hand from the crook of Tom’s arm and smoothed her hands over the skirt of her dress.

Maggie tried to seize the opportunity to escape. “I was just going—”

“Do not leave,” Sheila ordered then turned her sharp gaze on Tom. “Stay here. Entertain Maggie. She hates these things almost as much as you do.”

“But—”

“Stay, or I’ll order you file suit on Haven House’s behalf against a senile old judge. Would you call it malicious mischief or fraud?”

“More than likely Johnnie Walker Black,” he muttered.

Sheila set sail, cutting through the throng like a battleship running full steam ahead. Maggie glanced at Tom and raised an eyebrow. “Buy a girl a drink, Sully?”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “My pleasure.
Mags
.”

His smirk more closely resembled a sneer. Unfortunately, it didn’t detract from the overall effect. He was every bit as gorgeous as she remembered. He offered her a gallant arm, and Maggie slipped her hand into the spot Sheila vacated, reminding herself he was still way too hot for her to handle.

They approached the bar. She dropped her hand from his arm and fiddled with the clasp on her evening bag. He kept his gaze fixed on the bartender as they inched forward.

“What would you like?”

Maggie bit her lip. She wanted the biggest, fattest bottle of
Malbec
ever made and her hula girl pajamas, but it looked like she was going to get was another dose of Tom Sullivan’s infuriating indifference. She snapped her bag shut and tipped her chin up. “Champagne, please.”

Without sparing her another glance he stepped to the bar. “
Chivas
neat and a glass of the bubbly stuff,” he muttered, stuffing a bill into the brandy snifter that served as a tip jar. “So, did you and Tracy have a good time the other night?”

She blinked and reared back. “How did you know I saw Tracy?”

He turned at last, shooting her an exasperated glare. “How do you think?”

There were tiny flecks of brown in his deep blue irises. Somehow the disconcerting combination made his eyes as purple as pansies. How had she never noticed that before? Oh yeah, he’d never stood this close before. Maggie frowned as snippets of Tom Sullivan sightings flickered through her brain. They attended the same pre-wedding festivities, three baptisms, and dozens of backyard barbeques over the past decade and a half, but she could have swung all fifteen pounds of Fred and never come close to hitting him.

It was galling. The guy was the consummate player, flirting with every woman from eight to eighty, but he barely ever spoke to her. He screwed his way from Lincoln Park to Lincolnshire, but he never bothered to give her a second look. That fact alone was more than vaguely insulting.

Resisting the urge to smooth her hands over the clingy black dress she wore, Maggie observed others of the species. The bartender blatantly ogled her cleavage as he filled her champagne flute. A guy with a paunch and thinning blond hair practically crawled onto the bar to peek around Tom’s arm. Some pervert standing behind her kept trying to grope her ass. She gave brief consideration to hitting the ass grabber with a whirling backhand but dismissed the thought. At the moment she needed every ounce of validation she could get.

Maggie accepted the glass of sparkling wine Tom presented and raised it in a silent toast, inching away from the bar but keeping him in her sights. The bubbles made her tongue tingle. His index finger brushed the bump on the bridge of his nose when he took a greedy slurp of his scotch. The urge to brush her finger over that bump had her tapping a sharp staccato against her glass. He spared her a glance more effective than a cease and desist order and she reined in her nerves.

“How is Sean?” she asked, tracing the rim of the champagne flute with her fingernail.

“How do you think?”

He glowered at her finger. She tapped the glass with her nail to capture his attention and he met her gaze at last. “I hate that this is happening to them,” she said softly.

Those indigo eyes flashed hot. Then they froze, icing over like Lake Michigan in January. He drained the rest of his drink. “It isn’t happening to
them
.
She’s
doing it
to
him.”

His glass smacked on the bar, but it was the sharp edge in his voice that made her flinch. Rather than allowing him the pleasure of intimidating her, she bristled. Her fingers tightened around the glass. “It takes two people to make a marriage work.”

Tom turned his head, scanning the crowd with supreme indifference. “And only one to blow it all to shit.” Before she could work up a suitable retort he pinned her with a challenging glare. “Trust me, I should know. I see it every day.”

She pulled her shoulders back, refusing to be the first to look away. “I suppose that’s the only angle you would know,” she said derisively. “Excuse me. I think I’ll slip out while Sheila’s not looking.”

Her retreat was blocked by the
handsy
pervert stationed behind her. Maggie planted her stiletto on the toe of the man’s gleaming wingtip and whirled to glare at him. “Next time you touch my ass you’ll lose a finger. Got me?”

A woman gasped. The rumble of masculine laughter rolled after her. Keeping her head held high, she focused on the ballroom door as she wove her way through the crowd.

“Maggie!”

Tom’s voice carried over the hum of conversation, smothering the tinkle of glasses, and cutting through the haze of indignation making her see red. She squeezed past a knot of over-perfumed women and their
olfactorally
-challenged escorts. Someone grabbed her elbow. Angry, annoyed, and all out of patience, she whirled.

“What?” she hissed. “After fifteen years of pretending I don’t exist you finally have something to say to me?”

He dropped her arm, but the square toes of his polished shoes dared to bump her precious
Louboutins
. His Adam’s apple bobbed. Tom spared a quick glance at a cluster of silk and satin-clad women inching closer for better reception. He ran his hand through his thick sable hair. A tiny tuft at his crown broke free from its carefully styled restraint. Maggie curled her fingers into her palms, raking her nails over tender skin to resist the itch to smooth it into place.

“Maggie—” His hand reclaimed her elbow. His palm was disturbingly warm against her cool skin. Long, strong fingers pressed into her arm. Ebony lashes lowered, shielding his vibrant violet eyes. “I’m sorry.” His voice was hushed, tinged with a boyish sincerity that caught her off guard. “I’m sorry. I was rude. I just…I know she’s your friend, but he’s my brother….”

Maggie lowered her gaze. His golden-brown fingers glowed in sharp contrast against the whiteness of her skin. A sprinkling of fine, dark hairs peeked from his cuff. She wet her lips and swallowed the urge to stroke them. The differences between them were too stark. This man was the antithesis of everything she ever wanted. She needed to remember that. She
had
to remember that because his hand looked too damn good on her.

“Sean is my friend too,” she managed at last. Maggie chased the simple statement with a defiant lift of her chin and his grip relaxed then fell away. Her arm tingled. Faint pink imprints marked the spot.

His gaze lingered on the marks for a moment before he raised his head. His lips parted. His pupils dilated, inky black overtaking the precious millimeters of midnight blue. “She’s the only sister I’ve ever had.”

Maggie took a bracing breath and stared straight into those fathomless eyes. “I’m not Tracy.”

The corner of his mouth twitched then lifted. His eyes crinkled at the corners as his smile bloomed. He shook his head slowly, eying her with frank admiration for the first time since they met. “Oh no. I know you’re not. You’re Maggie McCann, the most dangerous woman in the world.”