Dangerous Waters (10 page)

She was gratified to see alarm on his face. He set his fork down. "You're kidding."

"Nope," Megan assured him, with a certain amount of malicious pleasure. "She wants to meet you."

Mac looked as if he would have liked to groan. Instead he said reluctantly, "I guess she has the right."

"I told her we'd be there." Megan coolly took a bite.

He raised an eyebrow. "What if I had said no?"

Megan smiled. "I'd be delighted to go alone."

"Like hell." His mouth twitched. "Point made."

"Good," she said provocatively. "Just think what a social calendar I could make up, and here I have a guaranteed escort."

"Until you get blown away for being stupid," he agreed.

"By you?"

"I'm tempted to do something almost as drastic," he muttered.

"Oh?" God, had she batted her eyelashes at him?

His dark gray gaze raked her face. "Take three guesses."

Belated self-preservation and an accelerating pulse was enough to make her back pedal. "I'd just as soon not. I know I rank low on your list of favorite people right now."

His eyes met hers, shocking her with the blatant sexual hunger she saw in them. "I wouldn't say that." His expression became hooded and he returned his attention to his dinner. "I'm doing my damndest to keep you alive, aren't I?"

"Mac..." She hesitated. "Are we going to go on like this forever?"

"I'd rather not," he said impassively.

Megan felt a stab of something she was dismayed to recognize as hurt. What, did she want him to pretend this wasn't a duty? Sure, he liked sleeping on the too-thin mattress of her sofa. He liked following her around like Zachary on a leash. He had nothing better to do, no ambitions for the rest of his life.

More cynically, she thought, he's probably tired of this identity. Time to become somebody else.

She lifted her chin in a challenge he couldn't mistake and said, "Then what are you doing about it?"

He met her gaze warily. "You know what I'm doing about it."

"Those two men didn't come from Devil's Lake, did they." It wasn't really a question.

He carefully buttered a biscuit. "I never thought they were year-round residents. Joe Carlson at the marina would have recognized them. That doesn't mean they weren't weekenders, or even summer renters. Or hired hands for somebody who does live here."

"People in this town aren't like that."

He snorted. "For God's sake, Megan, you know better than that."

"No, I don't," she said stubbornly.

He pushed his chair back from the table in a sudden burst of frustration she recognized as a match for hers. "All right, damn it! They don't live here. What the hell difference does that make?"

Her stomach was in knots and her hands were curled into fists underneath the table. "This is your problem. You brought it here. You have to get us out of this."

His eyes narrowed. "I could do a hell of a lot better job if you weren't complicating it. Right now, I'm a bodyguard. You're tying my hands."

Now she pushed back from the table and stood up, suddenly angry. "Who is complicating whose life? This is my home! My car, my job, my town! You want me to go sit in a hotel room somewhere staring at the walls for weeks or months, so you don't have to worry about whether I might catch some fallout from your problems. Well, guess what? I have no intention of doing that!"

"No kidding." Mac's mouth had a sardonic twist. "Somehow I figured that out."

"Good." Megan shoved the chair in and began gathering dishes, clattering them together. "Are you done eating?" she snapped.

"I have to admit I've kind of lost my appetite."

"If you want dessert, there's ice cream in the freezer." What a perfect little hostess, she thought, exasperated.

"Megan." He rose from his seat with an effortless grace that always tweaked some sexual cord in her makeup. Before she had a chance to argue, Mac took the pile of dishes out of her hands. His jaw was set, but his face was expressionless. "I'll clean the kitchen. You've been waiting on me hand and foot. It's my turn to do some of the dirty work. Why don't you go take a bath. Read a book. Call a friend. Just don't pay attention if you hear things breaking."

When she didn't move, he smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Don't you have any sense of humor? I won't break anything."

Did he think she'd melt at one little smile? Knowing she sounded grumpy, still she said, "I used to have a sense of humor."

He set the dishes on the counter and turned to face her. "Yeah, well, it's hard to find anything funny in somebody trying to kill you, I will admit."

"Or in somebody trying to save you from nothing," she said, with no softening in her voice.

His eyes narrowed. "Well, let me tell you something. Right this second, I'm trying to save you from me, so I suggest you take my advice and get the hell out of this kitchen." Just like that, tension was pulled so tight between them one wrong word would snap it.

Megan's outrage was mixed with something that scared her a little. Did she want to push him a little too far? But this was her house, her kitchen. She couldn't let him order her around like this, all in the name of being chivalrous. "I'll go when I'm good and ready," she said childishly.

"Fine." Mac's voice was as gravelly as the bottom of Devil's Lake. He strode by her and grabbed dishes from the table, then slapped them on the counter. She heard a crack and started forward.

"You said you wouldn't break ..."

He swore under his breath. "God, you make it hard to keep my temper."

"So lose it!" she snapped, forgetting the dish. "Just once I'd like to see you act like a real human being."

Without once looking away from her, he picked up a glass from the counter and flung it against the wall. It shattered and fell in glittering shards on the floor.

Openmouthed, Megan stared at him.

"You think I'm not frustrated as hell?" he asked. "You think it's easy following you around like a goddamned dog every day? How do you think I like tossing and turning every night, knowing you're right upstairs?"

Her voice sounded a little squeaky when she said, "What's that have to do with anything?"

His gray eyes burned hers. "Everything," he said. "And you know it."

"No." Was this why she had pushed? she wondered wildly. So that he would tell her how badly he wanted her? Was her ego so starved? "I'm...not exactly irresistible," she whispered.

He made a despairing sound in the back of his throat and then pulled her into his arms. She recognized, just before his mouth claimed hers, that this was what she had wanted, not the words.

And then he was kissing her with intent, white-hot desire that seared her. She couldn't think, or even respond, only leaned against him and accepted his savage need. His teeth hurt her lips, but the pain sent heat shooting through her veins. Somehow her arms had wound themselves around his neck and she was so close to him that the ridge of his arousal pressed against her stomach. Megan whimpered and her head fell back.

The next instant, he pushed her away. She wobbled, and he said hoarsely, "Unless you want to clean up this kitchen by yourself, you'd better get out of here."

"But ..."

Except in his eyes, which glittered, she could see no trace of the lover. His expression was grim, his face hard. "Now," he said implacably.

Without a word, she turned and fled. Just as she reached the doorway, his rough voice stopped her. "I will get out of your life one of these days."

She nodded, hiding the sting in her eyes, and left him in the kitchen. Safely in her bedroom, Megan sagged into a rocker. Dear Lord. After everything that had come before, he had meant to reassure her with his words. Why, oh, why couldn't she find some comfort in the thought of his departure? she wondered desperately.

Was it because she didn't believe he ever would leave?

Or because she didn't really want him out of her life?

*****

Megan had told her parents about Mac the day after the attempted break-in. She'd made the announcement with some trepidation. Mac was the target of cold-blooded killers, not exactly an ideal roommate from a parent's point of view.

Actually, it had been her mother she had spoken to on the telephone. Megan's announcement that a strange man was now living with her—strictly for her safety, of course—was followed by a moment of silence during which Megan winced.

Then her mother said, on what was clearly a rush of relief, "Oh, thank goodness! We've been so worried."

Of course, Megan thought on the way to her parents' house that next evening, they hadn't met him yet. She had a feeling their relief at having her guarded day and night might dissolve once they saw what Mac looked like. Presumably they prized her safety above her virtue, but what mother in her right mind wanted a killer whale in the bay with her minnow?

Mac had let her drive, which always made her nervously conscious of her impulsive style. One of the world's great drivers she was not. Mac never talked much when they were on the road, and his silence usually quelled her own chatter. She guessed he didn't want to be distracted from his watchfulness. She would see his gaze flick from the side-mounted rearview mirror to the road ahead and then back, never pausing for long. Maybe his presence should have made her feel secure, but it had the opposite effect. All she could think about was what he expected to happen. A car bomb? A rifle shot through the windshield? A fiery crash?

Worse yet, since last night they had scarcely exchanged a word. What was there to say? Yet the silence had become thick, charged with a quality as dangerous as any car bomb.

"Thank God," she muttered, once she'd parked the Civic in her parents' driveway.

Mac raised a brow.

"Nothing," Megan said. "Come on."

"Wait here for a minute."

She rolled her eyes but obliged. He climbed out of the car, his hand just inside the faded jean jacket that looked so casual but presumably hid a shoulder holster. His restless gaze scanned the block while she waited. At last he nodded. "Okay."

"Thank you," she said sweetly, her sarcasm provoking a twitch of that hard, sexy mouth.

"Never say I don't do anything for you," he commented, surprising her.

Some demon drove her to respond in kind. "Would I say that? After all, you washed the dishes last night."

"Your priorities never cease to amaze me."

"Ditto," she retorted, then opened the front door and raised her voice. "Hi, Mom, Dad."

"Oh, Megan." With suspicious alacrity, her mother appeared in the kitchen doorway. "How nice. You must be Mr. McClain."

"Mac," he said, holding out a hand. "Nice to meet you."

Megan's mother smiled and took his hand. "I'm Anne. And my husband..." She glanced over her shoulder. "Oh, there you are, dear. Mac, this is Megan's dad, George."

"George." Another handshake as the two men appraised each other. Megan waited with a certain amount of apprehension for the result. Not that she would be able to tell what Mac was thinking, or her dad, for that matter.

Eventually they moved on into the big country kitchen, where Mrs. Lovell was working on dinner. "Chicken with artichoke hearts," she announced. "One of Megan's favorites," she told Mac. "She does so little cooking on her own, I worry about her. Those TV dinners don't have enough nutritional value to keep a mouse alive! She'd never eat a decent home-cooked meal if she didn't come here."

Mac's amused gaze met Megan's, and she cursed herself for blushing. Thank you, Mom, she thought.

"Actually," Mac said judiciously, "she might surprise you. She's been feeding me decently."

Obviously startled, her mother turned to look at her. "Really?"

Megan mumbled, "Well, it never seems worth the effort when it's just me. But Mac has an appetite like a horse. I have to feed him, don't I?"

"You could starve me out," he suggested.

"What an idea!" Mrs. Lovell sounded shocked. "I'm sure Megan appreciates what you're doing for her."

Megan crossed her arms. "No, I don't! This whole thing is ridiculous. Why do I have to keep saying that? This is Devil's Lake, for crying out loud! You all sound like you think we live in New York or something! I mean, when's the last time we had a murder here?"

"If it weren't for you," her father put in quietly, "we'd have had one last week."

"Yes, but—"

"No ‘but’," her mother interrupted. "If someone wanted to kill Mac once, there's no reason to think they won't try again."

"Which is all the more reason for him to go away," Megan said defiantly. She wasn't altogether sure who she was arguing with. Was it her parents, Mac—or herself? And what was the point? She had resigned herself to Mac's presence. Hadn't she?

She was dismayed to see her father—her calm, even phlegmatic father—shake his head. "You saw them, Meg. If they were willing to kill once, why not twice? Only makes sense, from their side of the whole thing."

Defeated, Megan said, "Okay, okay. I'm just being hysterical. Ignore me. Hey, Mac does, anyway."

"I wouldn't say that." In a moment of stillness weighted by unacknowledged emotions, Mac and Megan looked at each other.

Megan tore her gaze away, only to catch an odd expression on her father's face as he watched Mac. Sadness?

"Megan," Mrs. Lovell said briskly, "why don't you set the table. George, do you suppose Mac would like a glass of wine or a beer?"

"I wouldn't mind a beer," Mac agreed, smiling at Mrs. Lovell. With resignation Megan observed her mother's blush. On the receiving end of that devastating, sexy, yet somehow sweet smile, what woman wouldn't blush?

By tacit agreement, the whole subject of Mac's reason for staying in Devil's Lake was dropped over dinner. They ate on the back porch, coolly shadowed in the early evening, with a magnificent view over the lake. Megan was unpleasantly reminded of the night she had stopped beside the road after work; of the purple shadows and shimmering glow, the stark backdrop of mountains and the gathering quiet. So impulsive, so unimportant that decision had been— and how frightening the consequences.