Messing With Mac (4 page)

“Wow, my name,” she marveled, cocking her head. “You
do
know it.”

His jaw tightened. “You're doing this, aren't you? No matter what I say.”

“I'm doing this.” She had no choice. “No matter what you say.”

S
OUTH
V
ILLAGE'S NIGHTLIFE
rivaled the Sunset Strip as the busiest, most energetic area in Southern California. And yet the crowds it attracted weren't wild or aggressive. Instead the attitude was a sort of laid-back and easygoing elegance.

The town's founders had perpetrated this atmosphere with one goal in mind.

Wealth.

The old adage turned out to be correct—build it and they will come. The place had roared in the twenties, declined in the thirties and forties and rebelled in the fifties and sixties. True to the circle of life, it had been given a face-lift, slowly over the past twenty years, and had been turned into a gold mine.

As a result, there was never an available parking spot. Swearing, Mac circled the block. Then again.
Damn it,
he'd had a long day, all he needed was one little spot. Somewhere. Anywhere.

The heat was going to kill him. If Taylor didn't kill him first, that is. She could do it with just her eyes, those amazing green eyes she thought hid every
thing from to the world and yet seemed so expressive to him.

Then there was her calm and cool, sophisticated, elegant exterior, which he hated. But he also was be ginning to understand all that was really just a front for a boiling pot of stubborn orneriness, and where there was stubborn orneriness, there was heat and passion.

And damn if he wasn't a sucker for heat and passion. Oh yeah, he enjoyed a woman who knew what she wanted and how.

Or at least, he used to.

But his and Taylor's fate was sealed, no matter how explosive he figured they'd be in bed, because she was everything he would never go for again.

And she was hiding something, he knew it. Some thing more than living in the building when he'd told her not to. God help her if it had something to do with this job, which he was depending on far too much for his own comfort.

Damn, letting himself feel again was a bitch.

And what he felt right now was hungry and tired, but attending tonight's monthly Historical Society meeting was necessary. Rubbing elbows with the powers that be made him want to grate his back teeth into powder, but it had to be done, because
though no one would ever admit to it, it truly wasn't
what
you knew, but
who
you knew.

He needed to mingle.

Much to his perpetual disgust, the meetings were always run more like a cocktail party than the gathering and exchange of information they were supposed to be.

He hated cocktail parties.

The “meetings” were held at city hall, a building that could trace its roots to 1876, when it had been built as a grand hotel. In its day, it had housed miners, western settlers and Spanish royalty. Tonight the Spanish-style building was decorated in gold and silver, with froufrou food on platters that made him wish for a beer and a sloppy piece of pizza, New York style. The music came from a live quartet of musicians who didn't understand that being able to talk was important.

But at least air-conditioning blasted through the place. Early summer in Southern California hadn't disappointed, the temperature was in the nineties, the humidity off the scale.

In spite of the heat, anyone who was anyone in South Village was already there, schmoozing away. He counted three city councillors, the commissioner and the mayor before he worked his way past the entry hall.

There was a good reason for the crowd. Besides official business, and South Village did take its official business very seriously, the meeting's
true
underlying purpose was as a meat market.

The
single
meat market.

His mouth twisting cynically, he looked around.

Oh yeah, singles galore, mostly hungry-looking socialites, circling the crowd, checking out the potential fixer-uppers—meaning the men they could live with, the men they could make putty in their well-manicured hands, the men whose names and expensive bank accounts they could take and be set for life.

Mac should know. After all, it had been a meeting just like this one when he was doing a little contracting on the side where his ex had scoped him out.

She'd decided his last name was synonymous with money, and without bothering to figure out that Mac lived his own life as he damn well pleased
despite
his family's money, Ariel had gone after him with dollar signs in her eyes.

He was still ashamed to admit she'd caught him with little more than a toss of her perfect hair, a come-do-me smile and a crook of her red-tipped pinkie finger.

Damn memories.

Beating them back, he pasted a smile on his face and moved forward, determined to make nice and be seen.

 

A
N HOUR LATER
, Mac figured he'd done his job. He'd nodded, talked, even smiled with the board members he knew mattered most—Mayor Isabel W. Craftsman, known as a ruthlessly tough bitch, but widely tolerated because she'd done the city better than any mayor in history, Councilman Daniel Oberman, a man who used to be a builder, and was known for his genuine love of the renovation projects.

And so many others his head spun.

Not only spun, but pounded. It was little wonder, when he considered the hours he'd put in this week, and now that he'd bared his teeth into a smile and played nice, he was out of here.

Or would have been, except that he saw her. Taylor Wellington, current bane of his existence.

She wore a haltered shimmery dress that came to midthigh in the exact color of a summer sky. Her legs were bare and tanned, and longer than the legal limit. She stood surrounded by a group of women who also looked as if maybe they made a career out of looking spiffed up and polished. Each of them could have graced any cover of a glossy magazine, and yet to Mac they all looked plastic.

Taylor, too. He wanted her to be plastic. He really wanted that.

Then she looked up, her eyes unerringly finding his. And in a flash that came so quick he figured he had to be seeing things, she shifted from cool as a cucumber to hot as a wildfire.

His heart clutched. It wasn't a pleasant sort of clutch either, but the kind that took hold and squeezed.

What was she doing, looking at him like that?

Her gaze stayed locked on his, despite the fact that people were talking to her, despite the fact there were people smiling and nodding at him as they passed. The music, the hum of conversation, everything, seemed to fade away.

Then she controlled that flash of heat, smoothing her expression as if it'd never happened, leaving her cool as rain. She had a real talent for that, for hiding her thoughts.

Good,
he decided. He didn't want to know them.

But she kept looking, every bit as much as he was, and as if he was attached by a bungee cord to her eyes, her body, he started moving toward her, away from the front door he'd been so eager to get out only a moment ago.

She watched him come.

And when he was close, his other senses came
back. He could feel the cool air, could hear the sculptured, glamorous redhead on her left say, “I'm surprised to see you here tonight, Taylor. We'd actually heard you'd…how should I put it? That you'd come down on the social ladder a bit.”

“All the way down,” said the perfectly groomed country club woman on her right. “Like to the bottom rung.”

Several of the other women laughed, the kind of laugh that assures everyone you're only laughing
with
the person at the butt of the joke, but was really a crock because there was no doubt.

They were laughing
at
Taylor.

She broke eye contact with Mac to stare at them, her eyes distant and assessing as if she felt far above such mockery.

“We heard about the will,” Country Club Chick said, making an effort to look solemn instead of cruelly gleeful, and failing miserably. “Did your grand father really cut you off without a cent and give everything to your mother?”

Taylor gave her a long stare. “What does it matter?

I don't need anyone's money.”

As if she'd told a great joke, they all burst out into collective laughter.

Taylor simply tightened her glossy mouth.

“You're so funny,” the redhead said. “You always make me laugh.”

“Your mother looks good,” Country Club Chick number two said, looking out into the crowd at someone Mac couldn't see. “No doubt she's guaranteed a successful campaign for the next election with all her daddy's money.”

“No doubt,” Taylor said.

Mac didn't know what the hell they were talking about, but as he hadn't taken his eyes off Taylor, he saw something that shocked him.

Though it didn't show in her casual stance, he saw it in her eyes. She was letting them get to her. She cared what these women thought. She cared a lot.

Oh, man. He should have run out the front door and never looked back. Why hadn't he done that?

Another of the Sorority Bunch patted Taylor's arm. “Well, I for one think it's very brave of you to keep your chin up.”

“And at least you still have all your amazing clothes.” This from the redhead, who was eyeing Taylor's gorgeous dress. “You can just learn to repeat wear.”

“Hey, and don't worry, we'll pick up your tab on our monthly lunches,” offered yet another.

Mac's fingers itched to wrap themselves around a few necks. The urge made no sense, as only a few
moments ago he'd have sworn Taylor fit perfectly into this not so cozy little circle.

But suddenly she didn't look plastic like the others, she looked…real.

And, damn it to hell, she also looked hurt.

“Really, it's touching how concerned you are about my financial affairs,” she said in a voice dripping with chill. “Truly touching.”

No one but Mac grinned.

“But don't worry about me. I'm going to be just fine.” She turned and walked away, away from the women, away from him.

Head high, she avoided any more conversation by striding with direct purpose to the veranda doors, which led to the botanical gardens kept by the Historical Society.

She walked right out the doors and into the night. And like a puppy needing a belly rub, he followed.

T
AYLOR DREW A DEEP BREATH
as she stepped into the hot, hot summer night, refusing to react. If she remained numb, then she wouldn't feel her burning throat and eyes, or the ache in her chest. If she remained numb, she wouldn't feel the fist around her heart, squeezing, squeezing.

It wasn't just the pettiness that upset her, or that she'd thought of those women as friends.

She didn't care about them. She didn't care what they thought.

It simply all came back to that
alone
thing. And she felt so damn alone. Ironic, when she considered her own mother had been inside the party. Oh, they'd kissed hello, air kisses of course, not daring to wrinkle their clothes with a hug. They'd smiled and had made light conversation.

How are you?

Fine, thanks.

Oh, good. You look great.

Surface stuff that meant nothing.

The night was hot, the air thick with the humidity
that hadn't faded from the heat of the day, but that was good. She needed the warmth after the chill of the past hour.

The noises of the party followed her onto the veranda as she walked to the railing and looked down onto the gardens that were considered the most beautiful in all of South Village.

They were stunning, lovingly tended to by generous Historic Society volunteers. Volunteers not afraid of getting their hands dirty or their silk wrinkled.

Which meant a Wellington had never gotten on their knees and so much as pulled a weed in those gardens, including Taylor. Oh sure, she'd volunteered in other ways, by attending expensive charity functions and writing big, fat checks backed by her grandfather.

What kind of woman did that, got to the age of twenty-seven completely supported by someone else's money? She deserved the pity she'd gotten from those women tonight, but not for the reasons they thought.

She'd never actually worked hard at anything.

Until now.

Leaning on the railing, she rubbed her temples, shedding her tough shell and half her makeup by swiping beneath her damp eyes. Poor little rich girl,
she thought with loathing for the moment of self-pity.

Ex
-rich girl.

Was it so odd that she'd wanted something from her own mother tonight, after all this time? A real hug? A real smile? Even a real touch? She shouldn't have bothered coming, should have stayed home.

At the thought of what awaited her there, an empty building stripped down to the studs and a stack of bills so high it made her head spin, her eyes filled again.

God, she felt so alone. So damn alone.

“Taylor.”

At the low, gruff voice she was beginning to know all too well, she stilled. He had a terrible habit of coming up on her in the most vulnerable of moments. “Go away.”

“Yeah, about that.”

She heard his footsteps. Coming closer, damn him. “Mac—”

“You'd like me to vanish, I know. And believe me, I'd like that, too.

In direct opposition to those words, he came even closer. Then closer still, until he set a lean hip against the railing, facing her, his chest brushing her shoulder as he stared down at her while she did her best
impression of someone desperately interested in the flowers.

“I wanted to leave before I even got here,” he said.

“So what's holding you?” She wouldn't look at him, couldn't. No one saw her vulnerable and lived. She didn't care how big he was, how warm— Oh God, he was warm. Heat radiated off him, and despite the hot, sticky night, she wanted more of it.

The need alone made her eyes sting all over again, and released a few of the tears she couldn't blink back. And then, because she'd been holding her breath, she gave herself away with one horrifyingly obvious sniff.

“Ah, hell,” he muttered. His big hands settled on her bare upper arms as he turned her to face him, and for the life of her, she couldn't look away. “What's going on?” he asked.

What was going on?
Only everything.

“Princess?”

Suddenly his pet name for her didn't seem like an insult, not when uttered in the husky, slightly rough voice that was far softer than she imagined he could ever be. Unable to talk without making a bigger fool of herself, she just shook her head.

With the rough pad of his thumb, he stroked a tear off her cheek. She hadn't worn waterproof mascara, so she probably looked like a raccoon, but even more
worrisome than that was the way she reacted to his touch. His thumb continued to make lazy passes over her cheek, his other fingers sank into her hair, and she stood there fighting the most insidious need to sob her heart out.

Silent and strong, he waited, not rushing her, not freaking out because she was crying, not doing anything but waiting patiently for her to pull herself together.

And suddenly she didn't want to pull herself together, she wanted to bury her face against his shoulder and let go. It was humiliating, appalling, and as if he could read her mind, he made a low, soft sound of empathy in his throat that completely undid her.

“Everything they said was true,” she whispered. “I grew up a spoiled brat.” She waited for some sort of recrimination but he said nothing.

His fingers on her temple were the most soothing touches she'd ever felt. And maybe because of it, or maybe because it was the dark, her mouth ran away with her good sense and she spilled it all. “My family…we're not close. I don't know why really, we're just…different from one another I guess.”

“Not every family is super tight.”

“We're not even in the realm of tight. Growing up, I was given the fanciest education. On Grandfather's money. Every few years or so he'd come around and
see how his investment was doing, but other than that, we didn't have much contact. I always thought it was because I disappointed him somehow. Or that he just didn't have much sentiment in him, but he seemed to enjoy my sisters' company.”

“Taylor—”

“No.” Not wanting his pity, please God, not his pity, she didn't look at him. “You know what? Just forget it.”

“You started it, finish it.”

It was amazing how private the veranda was for how many people were just inside. Maybe nobody but the two of them dared the evening heat and humidity.

Mac didn't mention it one way or another, he seemed focused on her, and only her, and having that much man, all tall, gorgeous and listening to her, really listening, was…well, a fairly intense experience. “My grandfather died,” she said to the night. “And the will was rather…interesting.”

“How interesting?”

“Well, for one thing, he left me the building you're working on.”

“It's a beauty.”

“Oh yes,” she agreed. “And a money pit.”

He nodded.

“He…took away the funds that had always been
available to me. Every penny. Gave it all to my mother knowing she'd never share.” She closed her eyes and admitted the last painful truth. “Leaving me flat broke.”

“Why wouldn't your mother share?”

“She's been saving for a rainy day all her life, she's…frugal.” She let out a harsh laugh. “The richest frugal person you'll ever meet.”

“What about your dad?”

“He's remarried. Lives in Europe, and I don't see him very often.”

“They were talking about your mother as if she were there tonight.”

“She was,” she said. “She's Isabel Craftsman.”

Mac's eyes widened. “The mayor?”

“The one and only.”

“So you're one of
those
Wellingtons.”

“That would be me. One of
those
Wellingtons.” It usually went one of two ways from here. Either the person would stare at her in awe, because her mother, cold and precise as she was, had done excellent things for the city, or the person would sneer, because let's face it, her mother hadn't gotten to where she was by making friends.

But Mac looked neither awed nor disgusted. “You really can't go to her if you need help?”

“I could, but…”

“You won't,” he finished for her, his eyes filling with something she hadn't seen from him before. Respect. “What about your sisters?”

“Like I said, we're not that close.”

“The building is worth a fortune.”

“If I sold it.” She opened her eyes and with fierce determination said, “Which I'm not doing. I'm not walking away from this. I'm not like them, Mac, those women in there, I'm not going to be like them if it kills me.”

“You're not anything like them,” he agreed.

She'd wanted someone on her side tonight, she'd wanted blind comfort, and this man, her virtual opposite, the thorn in her side, was offering it.

No one had done such a thing for her since Jeff.

Just the thought of him now, with Mac right there, felt like a betrayal to his memory, a stab to her al ready wounded heart, but Mac was throwing her, re acting the way she'd expect Suzanne to react. A friend. A girlfriend.

Not a man.

But she didn't need him to react this way. She'd learned to depend on no one but herself. She was all she needed, she'd always simply comforted herself, and—

Mac continued to stand there when she sniffed
again, not running, not reacting to her tears with his own reasoning.

He simply opened his arms.

And she stepped right into them. Stepped into them and steeped herself in his giving heat and overwhelming strength. Then she did as she'd wanted to, she buried her face in the crook of his neck, deeply inhaling the scent of wood, soap and one-hundred-percent man.

Sinking his fingers into her hair, he lifted her face so he could look into it. She looked back, at the chiseled angle of his jaw, his slightly curved lips, his light golden eyes as they ran over her face before locking on hers.

Taylor felt the jolt of his gaze all the way to her toes. She didn't know how it was possible, but in his arms her problems seemed to fade away, chased by equal parts awareness and a morbid excitement she couldn't, wouldn't, deny. Winding her arms around his neck, she pressed a little closer, absorbing the helpless growl of awareness that rumbled up from Mac's chest.

A matching awareness combined with a heady female power that sizzled through her, because he felt it, too, whether he wanted to or not, he felt it, too. Proving it, his hands tightened on her, skimmed down her back, then slowly back up again, chasing
any lingering chill with a blooming desire she hadn't expected or wanted but wouldn't deny. “Um…this might be a good time for you to tell me you're married,” she said. “Or something.”

“I'm not married.” His mouth quirked. “Or something. I'm not anything with anyone.”

Chest to breast, belly to belly, she stared at him, and he stared at her right back. In that moment, he was the only person in her entire world. Her body felt overwhelmed by that, even as she leaned into him.

Around them, the air crackled, growing more in tense by the second in the hot, summer night, until she could hardly breathe. “Mac…”

“Yeah?”

She sighed.

“Taylor? What is it?”

“I want…”
You,
she thought.
I want you.

Obeying the rampant need and invitation in her breathy voice, he bent his head and kissed her. Softly at first, but then she wrapped her arms around his neck, tight, so that the next kiss came hard, a rapacious, devouring kiss that was wildly carnal and full of erotic intent, and couldn't have been more deeply intimate if they'd been entirely alone in the world.

“Is that what you were looking for?” he asked
when he pulled back, his voice even rougher than usual.

“Yes.” Taylor was breathing hard, and was slightly gratified to see he was, too. For a long moment they just stared at each other, with Taylor's brain not fully functioning because he'd just destroyed her with yet another devastating thought—she hadn't lost herself in a man like that since…
since.

She hadn't wanted to.

She would have backed away then, and might even have started running, but his hands were still on her, still holding her securely against him. And in fact, hers were still curled around his neck, her body glued to his.

Of its own free will.

His eyes, locked on hers, were scorching, his body against hers rock hard, obviously aroused, obviously hungry for more. And yet he stood there, waiting.

Who would have expected patience from a man like Mac?

She could take him home. They could spend an energetic, adventurous evening exhausting each other. It would be hot and fast and good. But…and she couldn't believe this, but…it wouldn't be enough. For the first time since Jeff, casual sex wouldn't be enough, not even with Mac.

“I'm going home now,” she said softly, and touched his granite jaw. “Alone.”

“Yeah.” Turning his head, he kissed her palm. “I know.”

Not sure whether she was relieved or insulted—wasn't he even going to try to talk his way into her bed?—she backed out of his arms.

What did she do now, thank him? The thought made her want to let out a laugh, but it would have been a slightly hysterical one, so she put her fingers to her mouth and swallowed hard. “I'm…I'm thinking that kiss might have been a bad idea.”

“Yeah.”

Now she did laugh. “You might have at least argued.”

“Taylor…was that a normal kind of kiss to you?”

Since her lips still tingled and her heart still pounded, she shook her head.

“No,” he agreed. “And that kind of connection is nothing to mess with.”

“You've been hurt, too,” she said quietly, surprised, and mad at herself for not seeing it sooner.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Then sighed. “I was married. A long time ago.”

“Do you…have kids?”