Messing With Mac (8 page)

She laughed. “It's never been ‘up to my standards.' That's the whole point of the renovation.”

“I just think you should go until we're done.”

She stared at him when he turned to face her, wondering where this was coming from now, after all this time. Was he starting to feel the pressure, like she was, of being together day in and out? Was he, like her, aching for more? “You just don't want me under your feet.”

He closed his eyes, then opened them. “The problem is not about
not
wanting you beneath my feet, but about wanting you beneath me. Period.”

An immediate hot current raced through her body. “Why do you do that?” she whispered, her knees wobbly, her pulse rocketing wildly, and all from a look and a few words.

“Do what?”

“Remind me in every word, in every look, that we have this…this…”

“Hard to put a finger on it, isn't it?”

“It's an attraction,” she said bluntly. “And for someone who claims not to want it, you sure bring it up a lot.”

“I never claimed not to want it, Princess.” He stepped closer, so close she could feel his breath
warm her cheek. Then his fingers did the same as he stroked them over her skin. “It's just that what we each want are two different things entirely.”

“How do you know?” She met his hot gaze. “When you won't discuss it?”

“You want me to discuss it? Fine. I want you in that bed for one entire night—” He pointed to it. “I want you there, beneath me, legs and arms spread wide, head tossed back, screaming my name as I touch, kiss, lick and suck every inch of you. I want to sink into your body and lose myself. I want that so badly I can't eat, can't sleep, can't do any damn thing. Any questions?”

Questions? She couldn't remember, she was so lost in the image he'd just given her. She licked her dry lips, then jerked her gaze up to his when he let out a low and very soft moan.

“Have I mentioned you're killing me?” he asked quietly, running those fingers down her throat now, and very lightly over her collarbone.

A shudder wracked her.

“Yes.” Her voice was a mere whisper. “You've mentioned.”

“Good.”

He turned to go, then speared her with one last searing look. “Next time you want to play with me, Princess, just remember what it is I want.”

She was fairly certain she would remember.

The moment he was gone, she sank to her bed, then fell to her back, gaze on the ceiling, fanning air in front of her hot, hot face.

T
HEY WENT BACK
to business only.

Then, the next afternoon, when Taylor had been forced by her cell phone to stand outside to get reception, Mac came through the yard, lost in thought with a set of plans in his hands. Without looking up, he brushed against her, his shoulder rubbing hers.

Did he even see her? As he walked away, he glanced over his shoulder at her, eyes hot enough to melt every bone in her body.

Oh yeah, he saw her.

An hour later he came through the entrance hall where she was studying paint samples, and ran his hand across her lower spine to make room for himself to pass.

Her entire body reacted.

Incidental contact?

Nothing
with Mac was incidental.

He was
playing
with her, when he'd warned her not to do that very thing to him.

Payback time, she decided. The very next morning
she
acted first, and “accidentally” brushed her
breasts against his arm when she leaned over to point something out on the plans.

He inhaled sharply.

She loved that, because it made it real, this thing he wanted to ignore. Whether he liked it or not, what they felt was
real.

After that, she made sure it happened every time.

A touch, a look…

Mac never said a word about it, but he would reach out and brush his fingers over her hair, making her want to purr like a kitten and beg to be stroked.

While talking to her about concrete or wood, he'd drop his gaze to her mouth. If no one else was around, he'd lightly graze his knuckles over her jaw.

Once he ran a finger down her arm. She had the tingles for hours.

But they never spoke about it again, never spoke about anything other than the work.

And there was plenty of it. She had the second floor unit and the loft to color scheme in anticipation of the finished renovation and subsequent renting.

And there were also the two retail units down stairs. One for Suzanne, the other for…the sky's the limit. An art gallery, or a unique little gift shop…maybe even a bookstore. She loved books.

But she knew what she really wanted. Just think
ing about her storage unit, about all the antiques she had left, the precious commodities she'd collected over the years, made her heart sigh.

She'd gathered these things around her like her family over the years. They were her security blanket. She'd sold some, but not as many as she'd thought she'd have to.

Which led her to believe she really could do it, she could keep that second retail unit for herself, for her antique shop.

The more she thought it, the more she wanted it.

Her cell phone beeped. Looking down at the missed call made Taylor sigh again. As if her mother had been able to read her mind from across town, as if she knew her daughter was thinking of doing something crazy, she'd left a message.

Their relationship was pretty much a series of left messages, which made Taylor feel…sad. Sad enough that she actually returned the phone call.

But the moment she heard her mother's cool voice, she hesitated. “Uh…hello, Mom.”

“Taylor! How lovely.”

“I'm returning your call.”

“Oh, of course. Well, I wanted to remind you I'm campaigning again. My people suggested I get a family portrait taken to circle around, you know, with you and your sisters.”

Right. She should have known this wasn't a hi-I-missed-you call, but a I-need-something-from-you call. “Okay.”

“Really?” The mayor of South Village, and all-around superwoman, seemed genuinely touched Taylor would do such a thing without an argument.

It made her do that yearning thing again. Wanting to be close, close to someone, she said, “Yes, I'll do it. But getting my sisters to agree might be more difficult.”

“I'll get them.”

She'd probably offer a bribe, a monetary one. Taylor should have held out for that.

“So. What are you doing these days?” her mother asked, shocking her with such a personal question.

Was it possible she really wanted to know? Testing, Taylor said, “Actually, I'm thinking of opening an antique shop in Grandpa's building.”

“What are you going to do with that college education then? Toss it out the window?”

“It's what I want.”

“Well, it's a bad idea.”

Taylor stuffed her immediate defensive response, listened politely for another few moments while her mother went on and on about the high hopes she'd had of Taylor joining her in politics someday—
politics!
—then found an excuse to hang up.

When she had, she buried her face in her hands. What had she been thinking, trying to open up? Trying to let someone in?

“Must be difficult, having the city's most notorious tough lady as your mom.”

Mac, the man—the only man—with the supreme talent of finding her at her worst. He'd seen her without makeup, with said makeup running down her face, he'd seen her first thing in the morning and worst yet, crying.

Now this. “Go away.”

“Yeah. Sometimes my family makes me bitchy, too.”

She lifted her head at that, ready to snap his head off, but he wasn't laughing at her. He wasn't even smiling.

Instead he just stood there, his eyes filled with an understanding she wasn't ready to face. “I am most definitely not bitchy.”

When he just looked at her, she sighed. “Okay, maybe just a little.”

His lips slowly curved, but unlike what she might have expected, he didn't say a word.

He was good at that, she'd noticed, not saying a word and yet conveying so much. “Oh, leave me to my bad mood.”

“I have a better idea.” He walked into her room
like he owned the place, in his customary Levi's and T-shirt, a pencil behind one ear and a set of plans rolled up in his hands, looking tall, leanly muscled and tough.

She
wanted to be tough, but just looking at him made her feel soft. Feminine.

“Come on.”

Startling her, he set the plans on her bed, took her hand and pulled her to her feet.

He had her halfway out the door before she dug in her heels, not that that stopped him. She tried a hand to his back, but that only electrified her with the heat and strength of him. “Where are we going?”

“You'll see.”

“Mac—”

The look he shot her was pure male frustration. “Look, you need a break, I've got an errand to run, and if you come along like a good little girl, I promise to buy you a lunch that will make you sigh in bliss.” His whiskey eyes and rugged features crinkled into an enticing smile. “Okay?”

Smiling.
He was smiling at her. Her tummy fluttered. “What's the matter with you today?”

“Nothing.”

“You've avoided talking to me about anything other than business, and you've avoided physical contact like the plague.”

“Not like the plague.”

“What then?”

“Maybe more like…a good tall frosty beer at lunch.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Sure it does. You know the cool brew is going to go down like pure heaven, but afterwards, it's going to impair your judgment.”

She narrowed her eyes, not flattered. “Hmm.”

He laughed.
Laughed.
“Look, maybe I'm doing this because I don't like to see you sad.”

“I'm not—”

“Aren't you?”

She stared at him, disconcerted that he could see right through her in a way no one else did.

“You going to tell me what's up?”

“No,” she said automatically, because he didn't really want to hear she was lonely and needed to be held. But just in case he was astute enough to see it, she examined the manicure she'd given herself last night.

“Ah.” His eyes lit with pure trouble. “You broke a nail.”

“I did not break a nail, nor would I fret over it if I had.”

A big fat lie.

“Then you're having a bad hair day,” he decided
with just enough bite that made her realize damn good and well he was just trying to goad her out of her mood.

Sweet of him, really, but she wanted to be grumpy at the world.

She wanted to be grumpy at him, too, for reasons that didn't bear examining too closely. “Do I look like I'm having a bad hair day?” she asked.

He grinned, a stunning show of masculinity that made her mouth want to fall open.

She closed it tight.

“Now
that,
Princess, is a trick question. It's like asking a man if your pants make you look fat. Damned from the get-go, no matter what I say.”

“Which proves my point,” she said. “Men are idiots. You could just say ‘you look great, honey.' End of discussion.”

“You look great, honey,” he said, eyes hot, all teasing gone, just like that. “End of discussion.”

“Mac—”

“Just give me an hour,” he said softly, and ran a finger over her jaw.

Her heart sighed in a way it wasn't used to. It'd been a very long time since a man had made her heart want to. “An hour,” she repeated, and followed him downstairs and into his truck.

She had the uneasy feeling she would have followed the irresistible man anywhere.

M
AC HAD NO IDEA
what had made him do the Boy Scout rescue with Taylor, but here he was, driving along on his errand to South Village's town hall to check on permits, with her sitting beside him. His only defense…she'd looked as if she'd had the weight of the world on her shoulders, as if she'd been unbearably lonely.

It had tugged good and hard on the heart he'd thought dead.

Sap.

Whipping the truck into midday South Village traffic, he decided the next time she turned those expressive sea-green eyes on him, he'd just turn around and walk away.

The hell with walking, he'd
run.

“Look at all these people.” Her face was turned to the passenger window as they passed a bookstore, a theater and two packed sidewalk cafes… The sidewalks themselves were lined with the lunch crowd. People were walking, in-line skating, jogging. “Everyone seems so…focused.”

She seemed wistful, a little envious even, which surprised him. “
You're
focused,” he said.

Turning her head, she looked at him. “You think so?”

“You're renovating a historical building. That takes focus.”

“No,
you're
renovating a historical building. I'm just funding it.”

“By buying and selling antiques.” He shook his head. “Your talent for such things is amazing.”

“Really?”

She seemed so genuinely blown away by his statement that he looked at her, then wished he hadn't. It was the vulnerable Taylor again, the woman who had fears and doubts, and was so human he wanted to haul her close and never let go.

That was the Taylor he needed to stay away from.

But she leaned in close, giving him an up-front and personal view of her with that very private expression. She had a smattering of light freckles across her nose. He'd never noticed them before. In her ears twinkled tiny twin diamond studs.

Sweet sophistication.

Sexy as hell.

And the most determined person he'd ever met.

He'd never met a woman like her.

“You don't have to baby-sit me,” she said. “I'm really fine.”

“You're a good liar, is what you are.”

She leaned back in her seat and turned straight ahead, making guilt swamp him. What right did he have to pry when he didn't want her to do the same back? “I'm sorry.”

“Yeah. Sorry I'm in your truck.”

“Taylor—”

“You want to know what's wrong with me?” she asked, her voice suddenly low and sultry, her eyes suddenly hot, hot, hot. “You want to know what would make me feel all better?” She leaned toward him again, and ran her tongue over her lush, glossed lower lip. “Do you?”

He could only shake his head. “Um…no—”

“Sex,” she whispered. “Wild, screaming, sweaty sex.
That's
what would make me feel better.”

He tried to speak, but found he didn't have a voice, and had to clear his throat. “Taylor—”

“Just in case you wanted to know.”

Just in case he wanted to know.
Wild, screaming, sweaty sex.
Images flitted in and out of his head. He was hard as a rock. “Let's try this instead,” he suggested, and pulled up in front of the town hall.

The last time they'd been here together hadn't exactly been a calm experience, but Mac tried to forget
about that as he led her up the front steps. They took an elevator to the third floor, which housed the building department.

Taylor was silent until the elevator doors slid closed. Mac had never had this elevator all to himself, not once. He figured the fates were having a good laugh at his expense that he was alone with her now. A woman who wanted—

“I've never been turned down for wild, screaming, sweaty sex before,” she said.

Mac stared at the control panel, gritting his teeth.

“Yeah. It's a first for me, too.”

She waited until the elevator dipped a little as it came to their floor. “Why?”

For a brief second he closed his eyes to the bafflement and hurt in her voice. “Because with you, Taylor, it wouldn't just be wild, screaming, sweaty sex.

With you, it would be different. And God help me, but I can't handle it.”

She stared at him, then slowly, as the doors opened and people waited politely to get on, she sighed. “Yeah.”

He had no idea if that was an admission that it would be more for her, too, or if she was just agreeing that he couldn't handle it.

He practically ran out of the elevator.

“What are we doing here?” she asked as she followed him down the hall.

“Checking on permits.” They came to the right office. Without thinking, he put his hand low on her spine, leaning past her to open and hold the office door for her.

At the feel of her, he jolted, and so did she.

Looking at him from accusing eyes, she whispered, “See?” Putting her mouth to his ear, she let her lips brush against his sensitive skin. “Twitchy. We're twitchy for
S-E-X.
”

Oh yeah, she was killing him. He'd been sporting an erection since she'd gotten in his truck, and there was no relief in sight.

They waited in line for three minutes and thirty-three seconds—not that he was counting—standing close, breathing each other's air, arms brushing, until Mac was in such a state he couldn't remember why the hell he'd thought being with her today would be a good idea.

It was a dumb idea. A really,
really
dumb idea.

Made even dumber when exiting the elevator on their way out of the building five minutes later—thankfully with a handful of other people this time—they ran into an older couple he knew well.

“Mac!” The woman, dressed to the hilt in a black suit and sensible heels, reached for him. “Oh, Mac!”

Taylor watched with interest as the very elegant woman hugged Mac, then pulled back to smile into his face. “What a pleasant surprise.”

The man hugged him too, complete with manly back slapping. “Hey, I was on the green yesterday,” he said. “Hit an 82, three under par. When are you going to join me?”

Mac winced. “I don't play anymore. You know that. I haven't played in years.”

“Four,” the woman said with a pointed expression. “You haven't played golf in four years. Since—”

“I remember,” Mac said, a strained smile on his lips. “I'm just too busy these days.”

“Ah,” the woman said with that same pointed expression.

Mac looked at Taylor, and if she'd known better, she'd have sworn he looked rather adorably panicked. “Well, we've got to—”

“No, wait. We're just heading off to lunch,” the man said. “Come with us. Both of you,” he said politely, eyeing Taylor with friendly curiosity. He had a look to him, and he reminded her of—

“Taylor.” Mac swiped at his cheek, which had the woman's lipstick on it. “This is Assistant District Attorney Lynn Mackenzie, and her husband Judge Thomas Mackenzie.”

The assistant DA grinned. “Taylor, what a lovely name.” To Mac she said, “And you! You got yourself a girlfriend! Oh, Mac, and you never said a word.”

“Uh…” Mac avoided looking at Taylor. “No, I'm just working on her building.”

“Ah, a
business
relationship.” The woman lifted a teasing brow. “I get it.”

“No, really.” Mac shifted on his feet, which Taylor found fascinating. “She's a client.”

Also fascinating, was the slight tinge on his tanned cheeks.

Mac was
blushing.

“It's just a business thing,” he said.

The assistant DA studied Mac closely, her eyes lit as if she was onto a scoop. “Are you just saying that so I'll go away?”

“Absolutely not.” Mac still hadn't looked at Taylor.

“Darn it,” the woman said forcefully, glaring at the man with her.
“Darn it!”

“Now, Lynn, I'm sure he'll come around one day soon, and—”

“No he won't, he's too stubborn.”

“Yeah, well…we've really got to go….” Grabbing Taylor's elbow, Mac tried to back out of the circle. “Nice see you…uh…Judge.”

“Hold it right there, Thomas Ian Mackenzie.” The
assistant DA put her hands on her hips. “Are you trying to hide the fact that we're you're parents?”

And though Taylor should have seen that one coming, her jaw dropped. She stared at Mac. “You're the son of the judge?”

Mac sighed. “Yeah.”

“And the son of one of the assistant DAs?”

“That, too,” he admitted.

“You are kidding me!”

Lynn's smile faded a bit. “Is this a problem?”

Taylor sighed. “No. It's not a problem. It's…um, lovely to meet you.”

Lynn crossed her arms. “Why don't I believe you?”

“No, really.” Taylor eyed Mac, thinking she'd kill him later. “It's just that Mac might have mentioned any time over the past few months he was the son of the judge and an assistant DA, sometime like…oh, I don't know…maybe when I told him I'm Isabel Craftsman's daughter.”

“Isabel Craftsman, the mayor?”

“Yes,” Taylor, said, staring at Mac, who was still avoiding her gaze.

“Hmm.” Lynn raised her eyebrows as she eyed Mac. “I think I see.”

“Mom—”

“Oh,
now
he calls me Mom.” Much more friendly
now, Lynn shook her head at Taylor. “Honestly, Taylor, I've never seen this man before and he's calling me Mom.”

Taylor had to laugh at the easy wit and charm, but she supposed she would have expected no less from whoever had raised Mac.

“So why don't the two of you join us for lunch?” his father asked.

Taylor looked at Mac, interested to see if he'd allow this.

“Sorry.” Mac kissed both his parents, then gripped Taylor's arm. “We have to go.” And he dragged her out of there so fast her head spun.

“Smooth,” she said when they were both out on the busy street. “Making sure I couldn't drill the parentals.”

“Hey, I was just making sure they couldn't drill
you.
I love them, but believe me, they're ruthless matchmakers.” He stopped at a hot dog vendor on the corner. “One or two dogs?” he asked Taylor.

She gaped at him. “
This
is the lunch you offered me? The one that is supposed to make me sigh in bliss?”

“One or two?”

South Village had nearly as many cafés and restaurants as it did people, and most of them were excellent. On weekends, 20,000 people from all over
flocked to the streets to experience the food. It was one of her favorite things about living here, something she hadn't been able to afford lately, and Mac, who had earned a good chunk of her money recently, was going to buy her
hot dogs?
From a street vendor? “Two,” she sighed, and made him buy her barbecue chips, too. She didn't say a word as he took their food and started walking, she just followed.

Which brought her to another bone of contention. When had she ever followed a
man?

They walked around the block to the back of the town hall, where the botanical gardens bloomed in vivid, vibrant colors. In the light of day, they dazzled in every shape and hue, and Taylor had to admit, just walking through on one of the brick trails, with the scents and sights, she sighed in sheer pleasure of being outside.

They sat down and he handed her a hot dog. “Ketchup?”

Shaking her head, she took a bite. It was heavenly. Damn, she hated when he was right. “So…why didn't you tell me?”

Mac was suddenly very busy eating. “Tell you what?”

“That you come from the same kind of world I do?”

“We don't.”

His parents had just about dripped elegant sophistication. “Of course we did, I just met—”

“You just met the two nosiest, bossiest, most interfering parents on the face of this earth, yes. And they love me, ridiculously so, but they never sent me away to schools for years on end, and they sure as hell never ignored me, not my hopes and dreams, not me as a person. Not once.” He nudged her arm with his, his eyes painfully deep. “That never should have happened to you either, Taylor.”

All her life she'd felt like a bug on a slide, people waiting for her to make a fool out of her family's name, people waiting for her to fall on her face. And all her life there hadn't been many to understand what that had been like. Only Jeff.

But Mac…he was looking at her with empathy, too. Because he understood. He understood
her.

While thinking about this, she inhaled every last chip in the bag, and didn't even flinch over the calorie content. “What I mean is,” she said, trying again.

“We both came from considerable wealth.”

Some of the warmth faded from his eyes. “I don't consider myself that way.”

“Oh, come on Mac, I saw your mom's shoes.

Prada,” she said with a sigh, licking mustard off her thumb. She started in on the second hot dog. “And
the diamond earrings. Stunning. You can't tell me they don't pull down mind-boggling salaries.”

With careful consideration, he took his last bite of hot dog. Polished off his soda. Leaned back, away from her, he slid his sunglasses over his eyes as he viewed the incredible colors around them. “I suppose they do.”

“So all those times you called me a princess? Why didn't you ever say anything about it?”

“And when should I have done that? When we first met and I needed your job?” He set down his drink and stood. “Or maybe when you were snubbed by those women at the historical society meeting? Yeah, maybe I should have told you then, when you were smarting over what they'd said to you.”

Shocked at his bitter tone, she rose, too. “I'm just saying, that as two people who share some of the same experiences—”