Messing With Mac (12 page)

Taylor stuck her tongue in her cheek. Oh good God, was Mac magic with his hands. “I know.”

“But something's wrong,” he repeated, studying her closely.

“No, it's nothing.” She looked into Ty's worried gaze and managed a smile. “Nothing. Everything is great, you should see it.”

“Yes, let's see it,” he said firmly, making her sigh. She'd learned there was nothing more protective than a man who was going to marry your best friend. “It's blocks out of your way,” she protested, but Ty merely kept walking.

“Well, at least slow down,” she grumbled after
him. “I'm not doing a marathon in these three-inch sandals simply because you're feeling overprotective.”

“I wouldn't be feeling overprotective if you'd tell me what's wrong.”

“Nothing!”

“We're just making sure, darlin'.”

They passed by several restaurants that had such delicious scents wafting from them Taylor could only inhale deeply and dream. Her budget meant dinner tonight consisted of a can of soup.

They turned the corner and passed three clothing stores that had her drooling, but the next shop, called Accents, had her wrinkling her nose in snobbery.

The “accents” for decorating were all new, cheap and in her opinion, tacky.

On her street now, right across from her building in fact, they came to a flower stand. Before they crossed, Ty touched a pot of daisies. He sniffed at the dozen wrapped roses, and smiled at the lilies.

“Sentimental fool,” Taylor murmured, having to smile when he shot her an admitting grin.

“Nicole has a soft spot for flowers,” he said.

What the rough and tough, cool-minded Nicole had was a soft spot for this man. “Go for it,” she said, her heart sighing.

He bought a dozen red roses and held them out to Taylor to smell.

Instead she leaned in close to the man, who in her opinion smelled better than any flower. “You are the sweetest fiancé in town, you know that?” He looked so shocked, she laughed. “You
are,
” she insisted.

“Sweet.”
He laughed, too. “Well, that's a new one.”

“Trust me, these are going to get you very lucky tonight.” Then she kissed him, one quick smacking kiss on the lips.

With a laugh, he wrapped an arm around her and squeezed her tight. “Aren't I just?”

He set her down, and Taylor put one hand on her head to steady her hat, and one on his chest to steady herself. Still smiling, she craned her neck and checked the street before crossing.

And went utterly still.

Mac stood out front of her building, looking right at her. Funny, how her heart leaped. Or maybe it wasn't funny at all.

He wore the Levi's with the hole over the knees, a dark T-shirt and a scowl the likes of which she hadn't seen since that very first day when he'd looked at her as if she were the bug on his windshield.

She hadn't seen him yet today, so she couldn't be
the cause of the scowl. Honestly,
men
…she had
no
idea what had crawled up his—

Ty still had an arm over her shoulders as he peered past her contractor to the building behind him. “What a beauty she's turning out to be. Wonder who your genius architect is?” Grinning, he set his cheek to hers.

Mac's scowl deepened, and with delightful understanding, Taylor grinned, too.

Oh, yes, she'd just figured out that frown.

Ridiculous as it was, the fool man was jealous.

M
AC STOOD THERE
out front of Taylor's building, envelope in hand, watching the woman he'd rushed over to show it to hug and kiss another man.

That he knew and respected that man and his work didn't help. He didn't care if Ty Patrick O'Grady was her architect or her trash guy, the impact of seeing them cozying up was the same.

God, he felt like an ass standing there, when only a moment ago he'd been giddy, and hot as hell. He had figured he'd tell her the news, then start off by kissing her senseless, and from there talk his way right up the stairs to her apartment and her very frilly bed.

They'd make good use out of all those ridiculous pillows she had, and burn off some badly needed tension while they were at it.

And then afterwards, they'd go on their merry way as they had before, sated and relaxed, until the next time the tension got to be too much.

In which case he'd gallantly offer his body yet again.

It was a system that would work well for both of them, he had decided, and no one need get hurt. In fact, the only regret he had was wasting the past few days thinking instead of doing.

Bottom line, Taylor had been hurt, too, and she, more than any other woman, understood not wanting to get hurt again. They could be together without really being together.

All parties happy.

Or so he'd thought. But that was before she'd moved on, and had climbed into another man's arms.

He understood, they hadn't had anything exclusive. Hell, he'd made it crystal clear he hadn't wanted exclusive, but damn, his bed was barely cold from the night they'd spent in it.

He remembered everything. No doubt he still had the fingernail marks on his butt from her eager, demanding hands. She'd mewled and clung and cried out his name, and if memory served right—and he knew damn well it did—she'd woken him up,
twice,
with her own hungry demands for more.

So it hadn't been all him, damn it.

Screw it. Since Taylor was still hugging Ty, Mac spun on his heel and went back to his truck. He got caught in traffic, which really topped off his mood,
then stalked through his dark house and stared down at his bed.

Unmade and lit by the moon, all he could remember when he looked at it was tangled limbs, breathless pleas and a pleasure so great it had been painful,
physically
painful, to let her go.

It was still painful.

 

H
E WAS GONE
. Taylor couldn't believe it. By the time she crossed the street, Mac had left. She calmly finished her business with Ty, then went upstairs, because this was going to require a clothing change. She prepared herself with a sort of adrenaline rush she didn't think she should be proud of. Amusement and fury.

Fury and amusement.

She would wear siren red because it suited her. The matching do-me shoes with the five-inch spiked heels were a bonus because she figured she could always take them off and hit the stubborn, idiotic lug over the head with them to make herself feel better.

Oh, he had some nerve, shooting her that scathing look and then vanishing.

She washed up, waxed, shined and polished, all the silly female rituals that usually made her feel better. Calmer.

And pictured him suffering the entire time. She re
ally shouldn't be proud of the fact she wanted him to suffer.

The sight of his truck in his driveway made her giddy with relief. He was home, and he would listen to her while she told him all the reasons she was mad at him, and then she'd walk back out to her car in her sexy little dress, picturing him cross-eyed with lust behind her, solid in the knowledge that she drove him as crazy as he drove her.

She'd sleep well knowing he was lying awake staring at his ceiling, calling himself every kind of name for letting her walk out of his life.

That's right, she'd sleep well. Then she would wake up tomorrow and move on. And now that she knew her heart worked again, she'd go find a man who could appreciate that.

And her.

He didn't answer her knock. The fury built back up. Ignoring her, was he? She knocked again, harder, determined to see this out.

She simply had to share this anger, or she was going to blow up.

She lifted her fist again, but the door opened so unexpectedly she almost solidly rapped him on the nose.

He didn't even flinch, not this man with nerves of
steel. No, he just cocked a brow and propped the doorway open with his shoulder.

His naked shoulder, because all he wore was a… She gulped hard and struggled to maintain eye con tract.

A damn towel. His entire body was pebbled with water drops. Given that, and the fact his hair was wet, too, and she realized she'd gotten him out of the shower.

Her traitorous body quivered at the thought of his long, leanly muscled body in the steam, water cascading down his tanned, sleek skin, his head back, his eyes closed in ecstasy as the hot water beaded over him.

Oh good Lord, now she could hardly breathe.

His eyes, those light, light eyes, traveled slowly up her body. “Fancy meeting you here,” he said.

“Fancy that.”

“What is it you need?”

“It's…rather complicated.”

“Is it? That's a shame then, as I'm running a bit late.”

“This can't wait, Mac.”

“Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug. “But I'm going to get dressed.”

She followed him down the hall to the very bed
room where he'd once upon a time rocked her entire world.

Casual as he pleased, he dropped his towel.

“What are you doing?” she croaked, but didn't look away, not even to blink as he shoved those long, long legs and mouthwatering ass into a pair of pants.

Turning to her as he zipped them up, she had a moment to wish he'd shifted around just a second sooner—

“I'm dressing for my parents' anniversary party.”

A white dress shirt came next, covering that wide chest that hadn't come from any gym, but years of hard labor.

She struggled to maintain her composure and sauntered over to him, telling herself
now,
give it to him
now,
trying desperately to remember all the reasons why she was so angry. But instead of wrapping her fingers around his neck and squeezing, she slid them into his wet hair and pressed her body to his.

He jerked, proving he was not immune. “What are you doing?”

“I came over here to yell at you, but apparently I'm going to kiss you instead.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Before she could move, he grabbed her,
whipped them both around and captured her between the hard wall and his harder body.

Trapped, she gave one startled yelp before his mouth slammed down on hers. His body was like iron, his hands hard and hot as they slid from her hips to her back. And his mouth…oh, his mouth. All of her fantasies of a down and dirty, knock-out-fight paled in significance against the reality of what was happening between them now. Nothing,
nothing
could have prepared her for the ruthless, ravenous, reckless, unrestrained, raw sexuality of the man holding her to the wall, or her own ruthless, ravenous, reckless, unrestrained response.

His hands molded her body, sculptured her, and only when they were both shuddering, sighing, lost in the driving, pulsing need, did he pull back. Chest heaving, he lifted his head enough to look into her eyes and grate out, “Who are you kissing?”

Stunned by the overwhelming emotions rocketing through her, she could only blink.

His hands held her jaw, his thumbs teasing the lips that wanted his back on them. “Say my name, Taylor. Say it so I know you're right here, with me and no one else.”

Oh, but if that didn't remind her she was furious at him! Shoving him away, she straightened her shoulders and glared at him. “I know who I kiss. And if
you think I don't, then you don't know me near well enough for me to see this through.”

With her pride on her shoulders like a ball and chain, she stalked right out of his bedroom, back down the hall and out to her car. It took her shaking fingers a few tries to get the key into the ignition, but she succeeded, and peeled away from the curb with a satisfactory screech.

It was the only satisfaction she had that entire night.

 

S
HE WAS WOKEN
at six in the morning by the sound of a power tool, which really fried her, because she'd only just managed to fall asleep an hour ago.

Furious all over again, that he would
dare
to interrupt her beauty sleep—and she made no mistake, she knew exactly who was down there making the racket—she stalked out of her apartment and down the stairs.

The first thing she saw when she entered the storefront was the antique hat stand, all dark oak and brass. It stood in the center of the room that was empty except for a makeshift work table.

Unable to help from touching the beautiful thing, she ran a finger down the unusual stand, guessing it was over a hundred years old.

“Incredible, isn't it?”

Turning, she faced Mac, who stood in the doorway covered in sawdust. Hanging from his hand was the offending noisemaker, a saw of some kind. “Suzanne told me you're not selling off your entire antique collection,” he said. “That you're hoping to open a store right here.” He lifted a broad shoulder. “My grandmother left me a few pieces of furniture, most of which I've sold, but this piece I kept because of the beauty of the wood.”

“So it's yours.”

“No, it's yours. I'm giving it to you.”

He was giving it to her. No one gave her anything, or hadn't since Jeff. She braced herself for the sharp pain from the thought of him, but all she felt was a nice warm fuzzy. She'd thought about that a lot lately. Somewhere along the line, she'd stopped comparing the two men, stopped putting Jeff on a pedestal. As for where she'd put
this
man, she didn't yet know. “Why are you giving it to me?” Her voice wasn't the angry one she'd imagined on the walk downstairs, but she felt sucker punched at the look in his eyes as he set down the saw, dusted himself off and moved closer.

There wasn't any matching anger in his eyes. None. Instead, what she saw was a deep brooding that came from sorrow and regret.

He cared. He cared deeply.

Yes, he thought that caring was strictly physical. He thought that caring could be set on the back burner until it boiled over, and then with one night of amazing sex, it could be taken care of.

Until the next time it boiled over.

But he was wrong, dead wrong, and she was going to prove it to him. She ran her hands up his tense, hot, slightly damp arms.

“What are you doing?” he asked hoarsely.

“Touching you.”

“Don't,” he grated out through clenched teeth when she danced her fingers over his chest. His hands fisted at his sides. “I've had a really shitty morning.”

She would have said the same of herself only a few moments ago. “So you'd say you're…worked up?”

“Yes.” His jaw bunched. “I'd definitely say that.”

“Well, that would make two of us, Mac.” She smiled at him beneath her half-closed eyes and squirmed against him, just a little, just enough to have the breath hissing out from between his teeth. “I'm worked up over you.”

“Well, that's convenient. I'm worked up over you. I got approval from the town council. I'm renovating two of their projects in the next phase.”

“Oh, Mac!” She knew how much it meant to him, and her heart hitched. “Let's celebrate.”

His eyes raked over her, hands still at his sides. “You're wearing my T-shirt.”

“You left it here. I've claimed it as my own.” Backing away from him, she shimmied in a little circle to ensure he caught the full effect of his T-shirt on her body.

Mac caught the full effect all right. He caught the way the torn neck made one sleeve fall off her creamy shoulder, exposing the top of one breast. He caught the way the hem lifted, revealing a peekaboo hint of tantalizing twin cheeks, making him wonder what the hell, if anything, she had on beneath.

She did another circle and his eyes glazed. She ran her own hands down her body. Her breasts beaded beneath the cotton. Then she turned her back to him again, running her hands through her hair. As she did, the hem of the shirt slipped up another inch, showing another flash of her tight, rounded cheeks.

No panties.

With a low growl that reverberated in his chest, he lunged forward, pressing her between the makeshift work table and his own body.

Trapped, she let out a low hum and bent forward, gliding her hands up the table, thrusting her butt against his crotch. “Mac,” she murmured. “Mac…”

The sound of his name murmured in that helpless little pant on her lips spurred him on, even as it
soothed. She was here, with him, not with anyone but him.

“Yeah.” His hands slid up her spine, then back to her hips, grinding her against the hard-on to beat all hard-ons.

“Mac…”

“I know.” Gripping the cotton of the shirt she wore, he shoved it up to her waist.

And groaned at the sight of her bare, sweet ass rubbing against his jeans. He could feel the heat of her through the denim, and imagined her soft, bare flesh getting more and more aroused at the friction. Groaning again he reached around her to cup her breasts.

Thrusting back against him, her hands fisted on the edge of the wood table, gasping as he rasped his fingers over her nipples, capturing them, stroking, pulling, stroking again until she was chanting his name over and over, her hips pumping in a rhythm old as time.

He was as close to coming in his jeans as a horny teen with his first erection, but it wasn't enough. He needed to see her face, taste her mouth, watch her go over for him, only him.

Pulling back, he heard her sound of protest and smiled grimly as he whipped her around. “I'm not going anywhere, Princess, and neither are you.”