Unwrapped (21 page)

Jacqueline stared back at him. Much to his aggravation, there was not one ounce of fear in her eyes. “My, but aren't we a grumpy bumpkin today.”

He gritted his teeth. “The code.”

“One. Two. Three. Four.”

Patrick's mouth opened, then clamped shut. Afraid that steam would come pouring out, he refrained from opening it again. Instead he turned and stomped down the stairs. And the crazy woman followed him.

“Umm…there's something else that you probably should know,” she said as she followed him through the living room. The sight of the big red couch in the spot where his pool table used to sit had him turning to her and holding up a finger.

“Not one more word. Do you hear me? If you say one more word, I won't be responsible for what happens.”

“But…”

“Shht.”

“I just think…”

“Holy hell.” He headed down the stairs, hoping he could outdistance her in the heels. He should've known better. She caught up with him at Matthew's garage, seemingly unconcerned that she wore only his flannel shirt in twenty-degree weather.

“Are you crazy?” he said. “Get your ass back inside.”

“I just need to tell you something before…” Her voice trailed off as the garage door opened. And since he hadn't punched in the code yet, he was more than a little baffled. His confusion deepened when two kids came racing out.

“
Hola
, Miss McPherson,” the boy said. “Papa says to thank you for the new coats.” He puffed out his chest as if to display the blue ski jacket he wore. “I zipped it all by myself.”

The little girl stopped and struggled with the zipper tab on her pink fur-trimmed jacket. “I can't get mine,” she said in frustration. Since Patrick was in shock, all he could do was stand there while Jacqueline leaned down to zip the little girl's coat.

“My sister always had to zip mine,” she said. “But you'll learn. You just have to make sure that this metal piece is all the way down in the zipper.” She demonstrated, not even aware of the wind that lifted the tail of her flannel shirt.

Patrick's eyes widened at the glimpse of bare butt, and before the kids noticed, he reached out and held it down. She glanced back at him and lifted an eyebrow like he was accosting her. Which made him even madder.

“So do you want to explain?” he said.

She arched a brow. “Now you want to listen?”

“Jacqueline.”

“Fine.” She finished zipping the jacket and took over the job of holding down the shirt. “These children are the Trujillos. I met their father and mother the other day, and since they didn't have a place to live, and since this place was vacant, I thought you wouldn't mind if I let them stay here for a few days. At least until we can find them another place to live.” She waited for the kids to start playing with Gomer and Gilmore, who had followed them out, before she continued. “But I guess I was wrong. I'll talk with Mr. Trujillo and pay for them to move to a hotel.”

“You're going to pay? Sort of like you paid for the couch and those kids' coats and your new shoes?”

She swallowed and, for the first time, looked nervous. Or maybe she was just cold. “I know Bailey told you that I didn't have any money, but I'm going to get some. Then I'll pay you back for all my purchases—including the Trujillos' hotel bill. I give you my word.”

“Your word?” He snorted as he pulled off his coat and hooked it around her shoulders. “After all your lies, your word means nothing to me.”

Then he turned on his bootheel and would've headed back to his condo if he hadn't stepped in a pile of dog poop. It was par for the course. His life had suddenly turned to shit.

J
acqueline woke from her nap feeling like something wasn't right. The sound of a slamming door instantly reminded her of what that something was. Patrick had overheard her conversation with Gerald, and the jig was up. Surprisingly, she wasn't that upset about the truth coming out. It had been exhausting keeping up the sweet-Southern-girl charade. And regardless of his temper, she wasn't afraid of Patrick. Still, it wasn't a good idea to prod an angry bear. And after he'd stepped in the dog poop, she'd decided to give him a little alone time and had come back to the condo to take a nap.

But she couldn't very well hide out in the bedroom for the rest of her life. Especially when she was starving. Getting up from the bed, she quietly—or as quietly as you can with three cats and two dogs following you—made her way down the stairs. She wasn't surprised to see the pool table back in the living room. No doubt Patrick had called his herd of brothers to help him. Although his brothers weren't there now. And neither was Patrick.

A husky laugh came from the direction of the garage. Jac didn't hesitate to climb down the stairs and open the door. It was chilly outside, but she forgot about the cold when her gaze settled on her husband, who was standing in the open doorway of the garage way too close to a beautiful dark-haired woman. The same woman Jac had seen coming and going from the condo on the other side of the Trujillos.

“So are you sure you don't want to come over for dinner?” She batted her eyelashes at Patrick. “I make a killer pasta.”

“Sorry, Dorothy—” Patrick started, but the woman cut him off.

“Deirdre. My name is Deirdre.” She placed her hand on his chest. “But if you want to call me Dorothy, you can.”

Jac waited for Patrick to remove her hand. He didn't, nor did he look guilty when he finally glanced over and noticed Jac standing in the doorway. Instead his gaze slid over her body and down to her shoes.

“Get those damned shoes off before you fall and break your fool neck.”

The woman's hand on Patrick's chest and his arrogant command were the straws that finally broke the camel's back. Or the straws that finally unleashed Jac's Irish temper.

“And you can go straight to hell, you asshole!” she said before slamming the door and stomping up the stairs, stumbling in her heels and almost breaking her fool neck. But she didn't care. She had married a Neanderthal. An inconsiderate, self-absorbed, womanizing Neanderthal. She grabbed a billiard ball off the table as Patrick came in from the garage.

“What was that all about—?”

The pool ball missed his head by mere inches, leaving a dent in the wall before rolling across the floor with Hairball One chasing after it. He pulled his gaze from the ball and stared at her with a look of disbelief. She jerked up another ball and took aim, but he got to her before she could follow through.

“Have you lost your mind?” His hand tightened on her wrist as his eyes grew more intent. “Or is this the true Jacqueline? The one beneath the sweet, accommodating woman.” He released her and stepped away as if he couldn't stand to touch her. “How stupid could I get thinking that a spoiled, selfish socialite would know how to cook?” His words stung, especially after all the hours she'd spent in the kitchen, cooking and scrubbing pots and pans.

“Spoiled and selfish?” She rubbed her wrist. “Let's talk about spoiled and selfish, shall we? You leave me in a two-bedroom frat house with nothing but a pack of animals and your blow-up sex doll to keep me company while you work fourteen hours a day. Then you stagger home too tired to do much more than suck down the dinner I spent hours cooking, get your jollies, and fall fast asleep.”

“And that gave you the right to pull some Martha Stewart shit on me and charge up my credit card without once asking me if it was okay?”

“What other choice did I have?” She stepped closer as her temper gained momentum. After a week of Southern sweetness, it felt liberating to be able to speak her mind. “It was either that or live in a man cave with no furniture. I'd rather be tarred and feathered. So I gave you what you wanted in return for what I wanted. It was a fair deal.”

“Fair to whom, the manipulator or the one being manipulated?”

“Aww.” She pouted her lips. “Is the big, bad McPherson upset over getting played for a fool?”

“I'm not a fool!” He stepped closer with his fists clenched. “And you better shut up or I'll—”

“What?” She stood her ground. “You'll hit me. Well, go ahead. It's not like it hasn't happened before. And it will just prove my point that you are nothing but a loser.” She poked him in the chest with her finger. “And no loser is going to bring down Jacqueline Danielle Maguire.” She whirled and took the stairs two at a time, Gomer following on her heels. Once in the bedroom, she grabbed a suitcase out of the closet and flung it on the bed. She had just finished clearing out her underwear drawer when Patrick spoke.

“Who hit you?” She turned to see him standing in the doorway. He still looked angry. But the anger didn't seem to be directed at her. “Who hit you, Jacqueline? Was it the guy you mentioned on Halloween night—Mr. Darby?”

She was surprised that he had remembered the name. “It doesn't matter. All that matters is that you're right. This marriage isn't working.”

He came into the room and ran a hand through his hair, releasing his breath in a long sigh. “So I guess you've called your big, bad sister to come rescue you?”

The thought had crossed her mind. But her days of having her sister bail her out were over. Jac was a big girl. She needed to start acting like one.

“No. I'm going to a hotel.” She walked to the armoire and jerked open the second drawer. She didn't know how she was going to pay for a hotel, but she would think of something. Before she could turn back to the suitcase with the armful of sweaters, Patrick blocked her way.

“Our marriage isn't working because all you've done since I've known you is lie.”

“Fine,” she said as she walked around him and dumped the sweaters into the suitcase. “I'll concede the point that I should've told you about using your credit card and the Trujillos if you concede the point that you haven't exactly been a model husband.”

“And just what is your idea of a model husband?”

She turned and looked at him. “How about someone who doesn't work so much? Someone who doesn't come home so tired he can't string three words together?” She hesitated. “Someone who doesn't suck in bed.” She tried to move around him, but he took her arm and stopped her.

“Excuse me?” His eyes were filled with almost as much disbelief as when she'd thrown the pool ball at him. “You think I suck in bed?” While he stood there stunned, she pulled from his grasp and continued to pack. She had completely packed one suitcase by the time he found his voice. “You're right.”

Jac stopped with her hand on the suitcase zipper and turned to him. “I'm right, you suck in bed?”

His eyes darkened. “I was referring to not being a good husband. I haven't spent very much time with you.”

“Very much. Try none.”

“All right. None. I guess this entire husband/father thing has me freaked out. And I did what I always do when I'm troubled by something.” He shrugged. “I work.”

“You think I'm not freaked out?” She swallowed hard. “I'm just as scared as you are, Patrick.”

“How would I know that, Jacqueline, if you don't tell me?”

“How can I tell you if you're never home?”

Patrick stared at her for a moment before he nodded. “Point taken.” He reached up and brushed a strand of hair off her forehead, his warm fingers leaving behind a trail of heat. “So where do we go from here?”

“Divorce court, I guess.”

He studied her. “Is that what you want?”

“Isn't it what you want?”

After only a moment, he shook his head. “No. I don't want to get a divorce.” He released his breath. “To be honest, this has been the best week of my life. I looked forward to coming home to dinner and having someone to talk to besides my dogs and cats.” He smiled. “And Miss Featherbee.” He glanced around. “Where is she, anyway?”

Jac blushed. “Umm, I sorta popped her.”

Patrick's eyebrow lifted. “I assume it was a complete accident.”

“Of course.”

He laughed before his eyes grew intent. “I'd like another chance, Jacqueline. But maybe instead of trying to figure out how to be husband and wife, we can just try to be friends.”

“Friends? Are we talking without sex?”

His gaze traveled over her body. “I don't think that will work. Not when just the sight of you in one of my shirts makes me go crazy.”

Her breath caught. “This old thing?”

He stepped closer, his voice low and husky. “So what do you say?” With his gaze locked on hers, he lifted a hand and undid the top button of the shirt. “Do you want to be friends, Jac?” He undid another button. “Friends with benefits?” She barely nodded when he jerked open the shirt, sending the rest of the buttons flying.

“I thought you liked this shirt,” she said.

“I'll like it better without the buttons.” With a flick he opened her front bra clasp, and she was encased in strong, warm fingers. There was something so erotic about being caressed by a man who spent his days doing hard manual labor. He handled her like a craftsman with years of experience. Although his touch was gentle, there was a tantalizing strength and confidence beneath each stroke. He caressed her for what seemed like hours before he lowered his head and took her nipple into his mouth.

The tug and pull of his lips made heat pool between her legs. Her eyes closed, and her head lolled back. There was no rush this time. He sipped on first one breast and then the other as if he had a hundred years to complete the task. He used his tongue and the edges of his teeth over and over again until Jac's knees gave out, and she sat down hard on top of her packed suitcase.

He pulled her up in his arms long enough to knock her luggage to the floor, then he followed her down to the bed and continued his slow torture. She knew he was trying to rid her of the idea that he sucked in bed. But rather than disprove it, he confirmed it.

The man sucked in bed.

Lord, how he could suck.

He sucked the crests of her breasts until she panted. Sucked the tender flesh behind her ear until she moaned. And sucked the moist spot between her legs until she pleaded. But he paid no heed to her pleas. Each time she got close to climax, he pulled back and kissed and nibbled on the inside of her thigh until her breathing calmed and her hips settled back on the bed. Then he would start the torture all over again.

Finally she could bear it no longer.

“Patrick!” she yelled as she grabbed fistfuls of his hair and tugged. “Please!”

“Please what?” he whispered against the top of her thigh. “I'm only trying to be a good husband and spend some time with my wife.”

“Please.” She tugged his hair.

“Whatever you want, Jac.” He lowered his mouth.

It took no more than a few seconds of divine tongue swirling to send her over the edge. She pushed up against his hot mouth and yelled out as wave after wave of intense pleasure rolled over her. The strokes of his tongue followed the flow of her climax, strong at the peak and lighter as she eased down to earth. By the time she had melted into the mattress, only his soft breath touched her quivering flesh.

He gave her a quick kiss there before climbing off the bed and stripping out of his clothes. If she hadn't been so relaxed, she would've watched the show. But her eyelids refused to open. Not even when he rejoined her on the bed.

“Are you okay?” He ran a hand over her stomach.

All she could do was grunt. Even with her eyes closed, she could tell it made him smile. The man was arrogant. Completely and totally full of himself. A smile broke over her face.

“What's so funny?” He continued to caress her stomach. It was endearing how gentle and caring he was, almost like he was trying to soothe their child.

“You and your ego,” she said.

“After that crushing blow, what did you expect?” He kissed her belly button.

“Maybe I expected exactly what I got.”

“Which was?”

Jac opened her eyes. No wonder the man was arrogant. Dressed the man was hot. Unclothed he was every woman's fantasy. From the top of his thick gold hair to the toes of his broad feet, every inch of the man reeked of virile male. The late-evening sun spilled in through the balcony doors and over the smooth, muscular lines of his broad shoulders and chest. Over the thick-corded neck, the square chin, the strong, whiskered jawbone. There was an amused smile on his lips and a curious look in his eyes.

“Well,” he said. “What did you get?”

My dream man.

The thought popped into Jac's head without warning, leaving her stunned. Her dream man? Had she lost her mind? Patrick wasn't anything like her dream man. Her dream man didn't wear a tool belt or have a pool table in his living room. He didn't ride a motorcycle or drink Scottish ale. He didn't live in a small condo or drive a big, mud-splattered truck. No, her dream man wore designer suits and drove expensive Maseratis. Drank Ketel One and hundred-year-old bottles of wine. And her dream man expected nothing from her but money.

Looking into Patrick's deep green eyes, she realized that he expected more—much more—than she was willing to give.

“Don't tell me the question has left you speechless.” He brushed his lips across hers. “What did you get, Jac?”

“Food. I need to get food.” It wasn't a lie. She was starving, but she could've waited to eat if her wild imagination hadn't gotten the best of her. Patrick wasn't her dream man. It was just the aftershock of a great orgasm that had made her even think it. But before another wayward thought could pop into her head, she rolled out from beneath him and got to her feet.