Messing With Mac (9 page)

“No.
That
we haven't done. We don't share anything.” He dumped their trash and took her back to the truck.

She'd expected the silence. She didn't expect him to drive in the opposite direction of which she lived. “Where are we going?”

“You'll see.”

“I don't like surprises.”

“Well, then, chances are, you're not going to like this,” he said grimly.

He turned into The Tracks. The streets here had gone through changes. Like many others in town, the buildings dated back to the turn of the twentieth century. But somewhere in the past fifty years, the neighborhood had started to go. Many of the houses had been declared off-limits due to dangerous conditions. Slowly, with the resurgence of neighbor hood pride and the Historical Society's interference, some of that had started to change. Houses had been purchased, slated for rehaul, and were in various stages of renovation.

They made a left and ended up on a cul-de-sac.

Houses gleamed with the quaint and charming aura of the old redone.

Except for one.

The two-story Victorian, with its busted turrets, cracked paint and lovely but crooked wraparound porch hadn't been touched, though there did seem to be signs of life. The lawn had been mowed. There was a potted plant on an upstairs windowsill.

Mac parked in front of it. “Home sweet home,” he said wryly. “Come on.”

The foyer had orange shag carpet. “From 1972,” he said, disgusted. “The idiots put it over hardwood
floors. I'll be restoring that soon as I can, before I go blind from the glow.”

The living room had an ornately carved fireplace, painted nauseous green. “The 1970s were a bitch on good taste,” he said. “Green and orange should have been outlawed. I'm going to restore that, too.”

The kitchen was a treasure trove of nooks and crannies, but there the cabinet doors had been removed, the edgings painted in black.

“Not sure what the hell year someone tortured this poor kitchen, but it's so bad I'll probably start here.” He looked at her from inscrutable eyes. “If I ever get out of debt.”

“Debt?”

His expression was grim, and definitely said “back off.” Fine. But she resented his obvious thought process—that because she'd seen his parents and knew his background, that she'd assumed he had money. “You're an amazing talent when it comes to renovation,” she said slowly. “You need to get into some of South Village's renovation projects. There's lots of money there.”

“I plan to. After your building is finished, my resume is complete. I have several bids in with the town council, bids I'm staking everything on.”

“So I'm a stepping stone.”

“If you want to look at it that way.”

“A stepping stone, and apparently a gold digger as well.”

He winced and rubbed the day's growth of beard on his jaw.

The sound of it made her belly quiver, but temper took precedence. “It's true, isn't it? You're showing me all this to make sure I know you don't have any money like your parents. That pisses me off, Mac.”

“Look, I sold everything I had to get into this place. I think I even promised the bank my firstborn child. I'm feeling a little protective.”

Which, she figured, was as much an apology as she was going to get.

“I'm not who you think I am,” he said.

She put her hands on her hips. “And just who do I think you are?”

“A man with a trust fund.”

“Well, isn't that flattering.” Oh, she was
so
out of there. She got two steps before he grabbed her arm.

“Okay, listen,” he said to her back. “My ex-wife took just about everything I had in the divorce.

There's nothing left for anyone to want.”

She struggled to contain her temper. And couldn't.

“But even before that I didn't have much. I walked away from all that right out of high school when I went into the police academy.”

That caused her to crane her neck and blink at him. “You were a cop?”

“Until four years ago. And there's not a lot of money in that vocation either, trust me.”

“I don't care about your money, Mac. And it's damned insulting that you think I do.”

“I saw your eyes light up talking about my parents' money.”

“What you saw,” she said through grated teeth, wondering how such a smart man could be so
dumb,
“was a woman thrilled to the bone to have met a man who could understand her. A man who came from a similar background, a man who in spite of it is going to make his own way.” She softened her voice because suddenly she couldn't keep yelling at him with her throat burning. “A man who can see the potential in something, and want to make it right. God, Mac, don't you see? I saw more of you today than you've ever let me see, and it should have been wonderful. It should have been a joy to realize we're both doing the same thing, taking a piece of history and bringing it back. How you managed to suck the fun right out of that is beyond me, but you have.”

Jerking free, she walked to the doorway, and then looked back. “I'm sorry we can't share that. I'm sorry I drive you crazy. But most of all, I'm sorry you can't move on after your marriage.” It didn't escape her
that she hadn't easily moved on after Jeff. “For that I'm really, really sorry.”

“This has nothing to do with her.”

“Yes, it does. I'm ready for a ride back now, please.”

“Yeah. Fine.” He gestured her to go first.

The walk through the living room toward the front door was a long one, or so it seemed with him trailing after her. Silent.

Seemed it was the best he was going to do.

In the living room, on the green mantel, was a photograph of a much younger Lynn and Thomas Mackenzie. Standing between them was Mac, looking ridiculously young. She'd guess eighteen, given the graduation cap on his head. He'd been tall even then, though much lankier as he stood there with his arms around his parents, smiling a wide, cocky grin utterly void of his usual cynicism.

Her breath caught at how joyful he looked.

“That was a long time ago,” he said behind her.

“I was just wondering what it would take to put that carefree, happy-go-lucky smile back on your face.” She faced him. “I bet wild, screaming, sweaty sex would do it.” Then she walked out the front door.

When he came out a moment later, he climbed into the truck, stared straight ahead with his hands on the
wheel, and let out a slow breath. “That was low, offering me wild, screaming, sweaty sex in a weak moment.”

“I wasn't offering you anything.” She put on her seat belt and refused to look at him. “And you've never had a weak moment.”

“Baby, every moment I'm around you, I'm weak.”

She put on her sunglasses, lifted her chin. “You should have that fixed.”

“Let me guess…with wild, screaming, sweaty sex?”

“Whatever works.”

With a low laughing groan, he started the truck and took her home.

T
AYLOR'S PHONE WAS RINGING
when she walked in her apartment. After getting dropped off by Mac, she'd spent the rest of the day at every estate sale within a thirty mile radius, and was suitably exhausted.

“Need ice cream?” Suzanne asked when Taylor answered.

She kicked off her heels, sank to her bed and sighed. “How did you know?”

“Falling in love is a fattening process, hon. I should know, I've gained five pounds since I fell for Ryan. I could be there in fifteen minutes with double chocolate fudge.”

“I'm not falling in love, and I'm not going to gain one ounce over a
man,
believe me.”

Suzanne laughed, but Taylor was dead serious. She'd learned a lot today, mostly that no matter what she thought she could feel for Mac, it wasn't ever going to be a two-way street, so forget it. Especially given what he'd thought of her. He'd actually figured her as a…a gold digger!

He'd be lucky if she gave him the time of day. He'd be lucky if…

Damn him, but he'd done the one thing she'd told herself he couldn't. He'd hurt her. She sighed. “I'm sorry, Suzanne. I'm just…tired.”

“You've been working too hard.”

“Nothing a good night's sleep won't cure.”

“Are you sure? The offer still stands, fifteen minutes.”

Taylor fell to her back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. “I'm okay, but thanks.”

After she hung up, she fell asleep almost immediately, only to be abruptly awoken sometime later by the unmistakable and terrifying sound of someone trying to break into her apartment.

 

M
AC LAY NAKED
on his bed, sprawled on his back, hands beneath his head, watching time go by.

Midnight.

One o'clock.

Two o'clock.

Apparently sleep wasn't going to come.

It was the look on Taylor's face tormenting him—when she'd seen his parents, when she'd seen his place, when he'd been such an ass because she'd gotten so sappy over that picture of him.

He'd wanted her to be plastic. He'd wanted her to
be after the family money. He'd wanted, over and over again, for her to reveal a nature he could hate.

Instead she'd been…well, Taylor. Passionate. Steadfast. And unfailingly, consistently, wonderfully behind him.

Even when he hadn't been behind her.

When his phone rang in the middle of the dark, dark night, it startled him out of his thoughts, which was just as well, since he had no idea where he was going with them.

“M-Mac?”

He'd never heard her sound scared before, and he sat straight up. “Taylor? What's the matter?”

“You, um, left your nail gun here, which actually turned out to be a good thing.” She let out a slightly hysterical laugh. “Oh, Mac.”

He clutched the phone. “You're scaring me. What's wrong?”

“Two guys broke in tonight to steal some tools. They found me instead.”

Mac's heart stopped. “Did they—”

“No, I didn't let them steal your tools, they're all still here. The police said—”

“
You,
Taylor,” he said through a throat nearly closed with fear. “Are
you
okay?”

“Oh. Yeah, I'm okay. I held them off with your nail gun.” She managed another laugh. “Thank God it
was plugged in, because all I had to do was lift it and put my finger on the trigger. It was just like in
Lethal Weapon,
or was that
Lethal Weapon II?
You know the one where they—”

“Taylor.” He kept his voice even with real effort. “Are the police with you now?”

“They just left…”

Her voice quivered, and broke his damn heart. “I'll be there in five minutes.”

“No. No, I'm fine—”

“Five minutes,” he promised, but drove so fast he made it in three.

 

A
T
2:15
IN THE MORNING
the traffic was light to nonexistent in South Village. There were the people emptying out of the bars, and a few other stragglers, but he still managed to get a spot right out front of Taylor's building.

There was grim satisfaction in that.

He used his key and let himself in. “Taylor?”

The only concession to what had happened was that every light in the place was on.

Which by itself spoke volumes, as Taylor was fastidious when it came to wasting electricity.

“Taylor?”
he yelled as he took the stairs.

He found her in her bedroom, sitting on her bed reading
Cosmo
and sipping iced tea, calm as you
please. At her feet, on the pristine bed, lay his nail gun, the cord trailing to the electrical outlet. She was plugged in, ready to go.

Striding toward her, he grabbed the magazine and tossed it aside. He set the tea down on the floor and hauled her to her feet so he could look at her.

Not a hair was out of place. The blond strands fell neatly just past her shoulders. She wore makeup, including a see-through gloss that smelled like strawberries. On the body that had made him want to beg since the day he'd met her was a long column of pale peach silk that clung to her every curve, a ribbon of it tied beneath her breasts, pushing them up and nearly out.

There wasn't a visible scratch on her, but that didn't mean—

“You didn't have to come,” she said. “I told you I'm f—”

“Did they touch you?”

“Of course not. I had them up against the wall. I even shot a few nails into the air to show them I meant business. They were scared spitless, the idiots.”

“So you're not hurt.”

“I just said so.”

Oh yeah, she was still pissed at him from earlier. But so was he. He was pissed because she made him
care. She made him want her, and it wasn't just a physical ache, which really got him.

Then, as if there wasn't enough steam coming out his ears, she said, “You can go now that you've seen for yourself I'm just fine and dandy.”

“Taylor—”

“Look, I've already offered you wild, screaming, sweaty sex, and you turned that down flat. Tonight was a bit scary for me, and if you're not going to help me burn off some stress, if you're just going to stand there looking like a deadly calm cop, then go. Just go.”

“You think I'm calm?”

“Aren't you?”

He picked up the nail gun and hurled it across the room at the wall, where it made a satisfactory crash, denting the brand new drywall nicely, before hitting the floor.

She eyed the wall, then the tool on the floor, now in pieces. “So maybe you're not calm.”

Not knowing if he planned on shaking her silly or simply kissing her, he jerked her up against him. “Hell, no, I'm not calm. You could have been hurt tonight, or killed, because you're too stubborn. I told you, damn it, I told you, it wasn't safe to be in this building all alone, but would you listen? Do you ever listen?”

“This is my home,” she said right in his face. “No one or nothing scares me away.”

“Yeah? Well then you're either a fool or the bravest woman I've ever met.”

She looked away, and beneath his hands, shivered. “I'm not a fool. I knew enough to be scared.”

She shivered again. “But I also knew enough to protect myself.”

What was it about her that stabbed right through his heart? “I know, Princess.” But knowing it didn't ease his own terror of what could have happened to her tonight. Shaken, he put his forehead to hers.

“Christ, Taylor.” Still gripping her, face-to-face, he let out a slow, careful breath. It didn't calm him in the slightest. “You're getting to me, you with your terrified eyes and shaking limbs. You with your giving soul tucked behind that tough, don't-give-a-shit exterior. You are getting to me. You, Taylor. Only you.”

She didn't shiver again, instead she fisted her hands in his hair, and keeping her eyes open on his, very softly, very gently, put her lips to his jaw.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“For what? Nearly getting you killed?”

“They weren't going to kill me, they were just young punks looking for tools.”

“Which proves my point. This was my fault. You're coming home with me.”

“Yes.”

“To sleep,” he clarified into her triumphant, hungry expression.

“That, too,” she whispered, and put her hand in his. “Let's go.”