One of the Boys (16 page)

Maggie reveled in another totally new sensation as Mac carried her through the dim hall. Being carried was even more exciting than having a shoulder at just the right height to rest her head on while dancing. As best she could remember, no man had ever tried to hoist her off her feet before.
Talk
her off her feet and into bed maybe, but nothing quite this physical. She began to appreciate that there was a lot more to this seduction scene than she'd experienced before. She rather liked it, she decided, enlivening the short trip down the hall by exploring Mac's conveniently placed ear with her tongue.

Mac reacted to her explorations with satisfying directness. He dumped her on the bed with more haste than finesse and was beside her before she could catch her breath. This time his kiss was fierce and hot and demanding. Maggie kept her eyes closed once more, but now her hands roved as feverishly as his. She plucked distractedly at the buttons on his shirt, not content until she'd undone enough to slide her hands inside. Crisp hair curled over powerful chest muscles, teasing the
tips of fingers. She delighted in the touch and the scent of him, strong and hard and very male.

When Mac slipped his own fingers under her satin tunic and shaped one aching breast, Maggie gasped. He slanted his mouth across hers more firmly, demanding her response. With a slow sure movement he pulled her body under his and pressed her down into the thick comforter.

“Your body fits against mine as well horizontally as it does vertically,” he murmured. “I like being able to kiss most of the important spots without getting permanent spinal damage.”

Maggie's breath slammed out of her as Mac suited action to words. With a quick bend of his head, he closed his mouth over a breast. She felt him hot and wet through the silk. When his teeth took the nipple and teased it into taut stiffness, a shaft of pure sensation shot through her.

He found the side button of her pants and slid them and her lace panties down to her ankles. With a muttered curse, he sat up to fumble impatiently at the tiny straps of her sandals. He finally pushed shoes, slacks and panties off in one tangled mass. Maggie reached for him and he turned back to her, but he caught both her hands loosely in one of his and stretched them over her head.

“Let me look at you, Maggie. Let me drink in the sight of those long luscious legs and gorgeous gold curls.”

Maggie blushed in the half-light. She felt indescrib
ably wanton with her lower body naked and exposed to the cool night air, not to mention his decidedly hot stare and her satin tunic sliding sensuously over highly sensitized nipples. She twisted her hands free and undid the last of his shirt buttons.

“Your turn, Mac. Let me look at you.”

She pushed his shirt off shoulders so broad they blocked out all the light from the hallway when he leaned over her. Her hands fumbled at his belt buckle. With an impatient movement, he got up to rid himself of the rest of his clothes. Maggie gave in to the pleasure of watching him, then quickly pulled off her last piece of satin.

She lay back and let her eyes rove with hungry appreciation over his massive body. He fumbled in his pants pocket for a small foil package and turned away for a moment. A warm glow lodged just under her heart at his unquestioned willingness to take responsibility for her protection. When he turned back, she eyed his rampant manhood in the dim light and bit back a grin. The man certainly ran true to size!

She wondered briefly if it was possible to have too much of a good thing, then gave up all attempt at rational thought as Mac lowered himself to her side. One of his legs nudged her apart, and he slid a callused palm down her belly. His fingers tugged playfully at her nest of curls, then buried themselves in her wet heat.

Maggie arched against him. Her breathing changed to shallow panting gasps as he moved his fingers in and out, slowly, deliberately, while his thumb explored the
sensitive little nub at her core. His hands tantalized and roused her to fever pitch. When he lowered his head and took an aching nipple into his mouth once more, Maggie thought she would explode.

“Not yet, Maggie my sweet,” he whispered. Removing his hand, he positioned himself atop her body. “First I want to feel you all around me.”

Holding her head still with both hands, watching her eyes in the dim light, Mac pushed himself into her welcoming warmth.

Long hot moments later, after his hands and his mouth and driving manhood had taken her to incredible heights of sensation, Maggie gave a hoarse cry. Waves of pleasure swamped her, and the darkness behind her closed lids shattered into splinters of bright light. Mac echoed her panting cry as her tightness gripped him in rippling waves. He muffled his shout of satisfaction against her neck and thrust deeply, following her over the edge.

Hours later, or so it seemed to Maggie, she roused herself enough to run light fingers through the dark head resting on her breast. Mashing it to a pulp, really. Even with most of his weight on his forearms, Mac crushed her into the mattress. She wiggled and tried to shift to a more comfortable position, only to have him lift his head and grin down at her.

“So soon, Maggie m'girl? Without even a nourishing snack to sustain your energy? Well, we fly-boys aim to please. If you're ready, I'll do my best.”

“You big lummox, stop grinning or I might force you
to make good on your boast.” Maggie tried again to shift him. He let himself be moved off her body only enough to insert his hand between them and cup her breast.

“Boast? I never boast. But I need sustenance after a good workout even if you don't. I think a little midnight feeding will do it.”

Before Maggie understood his meaning, he'd lowered his head and began a slow sweet suckling at her breast. His hand pushed the firm mound up so his mouth could draw at the nipple, then covered half her breast with hot wetness.

In total amazement, Maggie felt streaks of heat shoot through her again. And again, when he woke her up an hour later. Only after he'd pulled her on top of him and made her take her bedsprings to the limit of their endurance did he fall asleep himself.

 

She awoke again just as gray dawn was beginning to lighten the room. Without having to reach across the bed, she knew he wasn't there. She lay quietly, her eyes closed, while a series of incredibly erotic visions danced behind her eyelids. Lord, she hadn't really moaned like that, had she? Her raw throat and the tenderness between her thighs mocked her own denials.

She was about to bury her head in the covers at the thought of some of her more energetic activities when the unmistakable scent of fresh coffee reached her.

Heavens, he was domesticated, she thought. Untangling herself from the bedclothes, she slipped on the
faithful short terry robe and padded down the hall to the living room. She pulled up short at the sight of Mac, slacks riding low on lean hips and shirt hanging open to display that massive chest. He was leaning casually against her desk with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and an open folder in the other. Even from across the room, Maggie could see it was the propulsion-test folder.

The warm greeting bubbling on her lips died. Her eyes fastened on the folder in growing consternation. Was that what all this was about? Had he wined and dined and put on that admittedly spectacular bedroom performance to change her mind about that damned test? Doubts swamped her, even as Mac looked up and met her suspicious gaze.

His own slow smile of greeting died. There was no mistaking the direction of her thoughts as her eyes moved from the folder to his face. He watched her thoughtfully for a few moments, then greeted her in a neutral tone.

“Morning, Maggie.”

If the woman had a problem, he wasn't going to help her with it. She could darn well spit it out.

“I see you make yourself at home, MacRae. Anything else you'd like access to? After my body and my private reports, that is?”

Whew! When she let loose, she did it with both barrels. Mac told himself to stay calm. There was nothing in this report he hadn't already seen. It was government property, for Pete's sake. Hell, he had a copy of it on his
desk at work. Maggie's own people had sent it over, as she'd remember if she hadn't been so busy jumping to her angry conclusions.

Still, Mac knew he shouldn't have just picked it up and started reading while he waited for her to awake. He also knew he should apologize, but rational thought warred with stung male pride. The woman had just spent the night in his arms. How the hell could she think what she so obviously did?

Pride won. Setting his mug down with a thump that sloshed coffee over onto the damned report, he started across the room toward her. When she backed away from him nervously, he stopped short. His jaw tightened ominously.

“Dammit, Maggie, that report isn't private. I've seen it several times. It was lying open on your desk.”

“The point is, it was on
my
desk, MacRae.”

Even as the words tumbled from her mouth, Maggie knew she was making too much of the whole thing, but she couldn't help herself. She hadn't had that many lovers during her otherwise adventurous thirty-three years. But based on her limited experience, she thought what she and Mac had shared last night was special. It hurt to think it may not have been so special, after all, but something rather sordid. Angry and confused, she wrapped her arms around her waist.

Mac gave her a long hard look, then began buttoning his shirt.

“Fine, it's your desk. Nice to know you think I'm the kind of guy who has ulterior motives for sleeping with
a woman, Maggie. You'll understand if I don't hang around for any more of your flattering comments. I have to get home before the boys wake up and put two and three together.”

Miserable, Maggie stood stiff and silent as he gathered the rest of his clothes. When he let out an exasperated sigh and stopped in front of her, she set her jaw in mulish lines.

“Maggie, this is crazy. We need to talk this out.”

“I don't want to talk right now,” she said to the solid chest blocking her view. “Right now, all I want is for you to leave. It was fun, MacRae, but don't overstay your welcome.”

Mac's breath hissed in at her flippant words. “Why the hell is it that every time we get together, it starts with magic and ends with an argument?”

When she refused to respond, he yanked the door open. “I'll talk to you later when we've both had time to cool off.”

He was gone before Maggie had a chance to think of a suitably devastating response.

Cool off indeed, Maggie fumed all through her quick breakfast and preparations for work. She didn't need to cool off, she needed space. Lots of it. She needed time away from a certain Colonel MacRae and his overwhelming presence. She needed… Maggie sighed and shoved the folder into her briefcase. What she needed was to put the whole incident into perspective.

It didn't help that she knew Mac was right, that she had overreacted. She felt slightly disgusted with herself as she wheeled her Jag through the crisp morning air. She knew darn well that much of her anger had stemmed from a combination of surprise and old-fashioned embarrassment. She'd never responded to any man the way she had to Mac. In the privacy of her car and her thoughts, the memory of their activities the night before still made her blush.

The early morning drive helped her relax. It took half an hour to reach the base from her rented condo in the little resort village of Destin. The most enjoyable stretch of her drive began when she crossed the high bridge
spanning the channel connecting Choctawhatchee Bay to the Gulf of Mexico. Ahead of her was Santa Rosa Island, with its rolling dunes, feathery sea oats and blinding white sand. Emerald-green gulf water sparkled on the left, while the huge bay stretched to the horizon on the right.

The sunlight dancing on the water and the smooth rush of waves washing the shore restored Maggie's usual good humor. By the time she pulled the Jag into her parking slot behind the long low World War Twoera building that held her office, she had her ready smile back in place.

“Morning, team,” she cheerfully greeted her small staff, who were assembled for their daily meeting. As she edged her way through the crowd in her tiny office, which had to double as a conference room, Maggie firmly suppressed a fleeting image of the spacious corner office in the Houston high-rise she'd left behind.

“Okay, we've got a lot to cover this morning. Let's start with the reds.”

Within days of her arrival, Maggie and her staff had devised a color-coded system for dealing with the avalanche of issues facing them. Red signaled a potential hazard that required immediate attention to avoid danger to health or welfare; yellow, a hazard that could result in action against them by a regulatory agency but wasn't imminently threatening; blue, a task they felt needed attention but could wait; and green, a purely administrative requirement. The fact that Maggie firmly
refused to waste her small overworked staff's talents on greens had won their immediate loyalty.

“We found a couple of more transformers leaking PCB last week, Maggie,” said one. “I'm going out with the folks from the exterior electrical shop this morning to replace them. I'll try to get the shop to move a little faster on completing the survey.”

Maggie nodded her approval. PCB, or polychlorinated biphenyl, was a highly toxic chemical compound used extensively in electrical transformers before its cancer-causing characteristics were fully understood. Eglin, like most cities across the nation, faced massive challenges in recording and replacing older transformers. The base was almost a year late in completing the survey of the hundreds of transformers used to channel power at all the test sites scattered across the half-million acres. Higher priorities had eaten away at the money and time needed for the survey, even with an extension. They only had a few more months to get it done before the extension ran out and they faced heavy fines.

“Do that, Jack. I know the shop is as strapped for manpower as we are, but we've got to get that survey done. Let me know how it goes.”

An intense young woman opposite Maggie spoke up. “We found some seepage on Site 22 last week. I think it may be an abandoned underground storage area.”

Maggie grimaced. Burying was the accepted method of disposing of toxic waste twenty years ago. The nation was just beginning to understand the effects as toxic waste escaped from rusted containers and seeped into
the ground. With all the tests conducted at Eglin over the years, they had dozens of known underground storage sites and probably as many that were never properly recorded.

“How bad is it?” she asked.

The woman looked at her notes. “There's a small pool of greenish liquid, with bubbling at one edge. I'm going out with the bio-environmental folks from the hospital this morning to take samples for analysis.”

Telling her she'd join them, Maggie finished her short meeting. She was on her way back from the washroom, where she'd changed her linen skirt and high heels for the jeans and rubber wading boots she kept in her office, when her intercom rang.

“Dr. Wescott, it's May in Colonel Stockton's office. The boss just got a call from the lab. They'd like you to meet with them this morning to go over the propulsion test.”

“I can't do it this morning, May. See if you can set it up for this afternoon and call me back. I'll be on my beeper.”

Maggie replaced the phone with a twinge of guilt. She could've rearranged her schedule. After all, the test was a top priority. But the small act of defiance somehow made her feel better about last night. With a cheerful nod to her crew, she clumped out of the office and went off to explore the green slimy gook.

When she entered the armament lab's paneled conference room later that afternoon, she was once again in her skirt. The soft cream-colored linen was paired
with a gold-patterned silk blouse and high-heeled sandals. A long strand of cultured pearls gave her added dignity, she thought. She suspected she'd need all the professionalism she could muster for this meeting.

The half dozen or so men present stood up as she entered. A couple of them, including an older distinguished-looking man who should have known better, stared outright. She wasn't quite the type of engineer they were used to dealing with, if Maggie read their assorted expressions right. Well, here we go again, she thought.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen, I'm Dr. Wescott.” She moved to an empty chair on one side of the long polished table. Setting her briefcase down, she went around the room to meet each man individually. Pleasantries done, she sat down and looked inquiringly at the man who'd introduced himself as Dr. Ames, the lab's deputy director. It was their meeting, she thought. They could darn well take the lead.

The older man shook his head slightly and squared his tweed-covered shoulders. “Ah, Dr. Wescott, Colonel MacRae asked me to get the propulsion team together so we could discuss your objections to the test. I'm not sure we understand some of your concerns.”

“My team's concerns were detailed in the draft report they sent over several weeks ago,” Maggie responded coolly. Then, with a small sigh to herself, she relented. Ames probably hadn't even read the report. Besides, she preferred a cooperative mode of operation. “However, I appreciate the chance to discuss the proj
ect in detail with you. I understand it's an important test for Eglin, and I'm part of the team now.”

“Good. We've set aside an hour for Major Hill to brief you and answer your questions.”

Ames settled himself with a condescending smile into the chair at the head of the table and nodded to the young major standing by the podium. Maggie decided to ignore the pompous deputy, and turned to the man who should really know what this project was all about.

Three hours later, the once immaculate conference table was littered with coffee cups and scattered papers. Discarded suit coats lay over the backs of chairs and various charts filled a large corkboard. Major Hill had abandoned his canned briefing and was standing by a built-in blackboard, scribbling notes as the group worked their way through one particularly complex chart covered with annotations and formulas.

Mac entered the conference room through his office's connecting door. He stopped short at the sight of Maggie and his deputy bent over the table, trying to read one of the chart's more obscure formulas.

Waving the other men back into their chairs as they started to rise, he leaned against the wall and waited patiently for Maggie and Ames to finish. His eyes passed over the way the soft linen clung to her delectable tush, and he shook his head in despair. Her wardrobe was wreaking havoc with his self-control.

“Dr. Wescott.”

Mac greeted her gravely when the pair finally fin
ished examining the chart and straightened up. His firm handshake held Maggie's until she tugged it free.

“Colonel MacRae.” She nodded curtly.

His small private smile gently mocked her. He held her gaze for a moment, then turned an inquiring look on his deputy.

“We're getting there, Mac,” Ames responded heavily. “We've resolved most of the minor questions and are just getting into some of the major issues. Dr. Wescott has some valid concerns.”

Mac bit back a smile at his deputy's reluctant admission. Ames had been a brilliant scientist in his time, but he'd peaked a few years ago. Now that he was close to retirement, he filled his time more and more with administrative duties and less with the research that was the lab's lifeblood. Mac bet Maggie had probably given him a real run for his money.

“Good. I won't interrupt you, then. Dr. Wescott, if you would, please stop by and see me before you leave.”

Maggie tried to think of some important meeting she had pending, but Mac was gone before she could tell him he could go whistle Dixie—professionally speaking, of course.

It was several hours later when the group in the conference room finally gathered up their assorted papers. Maggie had a pounding headache and was in no mood to face Mac. She knocked irritably on his office door, then entered without waiting for an answer.

He was on the phone and waved her to one of the soft leather chairs in front of his desk. Maggie tossed her
briefcase down but was too restless to sit. While Mac finished his conversation, she prowled around his roomy corner suite. It had most of the trappings of a military commander's office—the requisite set of flags, a large conference table, a computer on the credenza—but few of the plaques and memorabilia most military personnel liked to display. The only real personal touches were a small picture of Mac giving a thumbs-up in the cockpit of some sleek lethal-looking jet and a picture of him with the twins, their laughing faces surrounded by bright blue sky and a tangle of fishing tackle.

His call finished, Mac watched as she settled herself with a deliberate touch of defiance in the chair across from him. His small sigh wasn't lost on Maggie.

“I take it this isn't a good time to talk about what happened last night,” he said.

He leaned back in his massive desk chair. It probably cost the government a fortune to build one big enough to keep from folding under his bulk, Maggie thought nastily.

“No, it's not,” she snapped. “I just spent five difficult hours with the lab's best and brightest. And I'm tired.”

She stopped abruptly as she remembered just why she was so tired. She hadn't gotten much sleep last night. A quick glance at Mac's glinting eyes told her he was remembering, too.

“Look, Mac. I'll do my best on this damn test. Just get off my back.”

Maggie bit her lip in real chagrin. Her words con
jured up another decidedly erotic memory, and hot blood crept up her cheeks. She ignored the wide grin spreading across Mac's face. She got to her feet and reached for her briefcase.

“Maggie, we need to talk.”

She turned at his quiet words. “Not now, please. I'm still sorting out last night in my own mind. I know I overreacted to your reading the report this morning, and I apologize for that.”

Mac felt a spear of relief in his gut. He'd worried that the damn report would stand between them like a wall. Maggie's candid apology eased his tense neck muscles, but her next words had them tightening into knots again.

“I think we've both moved too fast, Mac. We need to slow this—this relationship down a bit. Why don't you call me later in the week and we'll find a time to talk?”

Pure unaccustomed anger surged through him. He wasn't about to let her get away with this call-me-sometime crap. Not after last night. She'd given herself to him totally, and his every instinct told him she wasn't the kind of woman to do that lightly. He forgot his promise to let her set the pace. He forgot his own determination not to rush her, as he had that night in his truck. He wanted to pick her up, carry her to the couch in the corner of his office and show her just how slow she thought she could take it. Only the sight of her white face, with faint blue shadows of fatigue under her eyes, stopped him.

“All right, Dr. Wescott. You've got your reprieve.
But don't kid yourself that either you or I have much control over what's happening between us. Now go home and get some sleep.”

He handed her her briefcase and very nobly resisted the urge to kiss her unconscious. She left with a definite flounce of cream-colored linen.

Mac watched from his office window as she crossed the street in front of the lab and climbed into her Jag. The sleek green sports car was the number-two priority in her life, he recalled. He was thinking seriously about rearranging her priorities, not to mention her clothes and her hair and her bedcovers, when his deputy, Dr. Ames, knocked on the door.

Turning, Mac greeted the older man. “Still here, Jim? Did you get everything resolved?”

“Not quite. We're going to have to modify the test significantly. That Wescott woman is stubborn as hell.”

Mac made no comment. He wasn't about to argue about Maggie with anyone.

“Ed Stockton should have known better than to let her exercise veto power over this project.”

“Why?” Mac asked coolly. “I've seen her credentials. She's certainly better qualified than some of the folks we've had reviewing our proposals.”

“Oh, on paper, she looks good,” Ames allowed.

Mac was thinking of a few other things she looked good on, as well, such as rumpled bedclothes, when Ames's next words caught his attention.