Summer at Seaside Cove (17 page)

He forced his gaze back up to her eyes. “I'm sure she'll come back. I feed the island cats, too—although half the time Godiva gobbles up the food I leave out for them.” He jerked his head toward the Honda in her carport. “I see you rented a car.”

“No.” Color stained her cheeks. “I, um, have company.”

Something that felt exactly like jealousy, but of course couldn't have been, rippled through him. “Boyfriend?” He barely refrained from wincing. Damn it, he hadn't meant to say that out loud.

Her eyes widened, then she shook her head. “No. God, no.”

Something that felt exactly like relief, but couldn't have been, replaced the it-wasn't-jealousy sensation. And he refused to acknowledge the jolt her answer—which made it pretty clear there was no boyfriend—gave him. Of course, her answer also made it sound like she hated men.

Not that he cared.

Nope, not a bit.

“My mother is here,” she said.

You've solved the great who-owns-the-Honda mystery, so go home,
his brain commanded his feet. His stupid feet remained nailed in place. “Is that . . . good?”

“She showed up three days ago. With half a dozen suitcases. And enough drama to sink a ship.” Her gaze wandered past him to his truck. “What're in all those big boxes in your cab?”

Stop talking to her!
“My new kitchen cabinets. Whitewashed oak. Really nice. It'll be good to have a kitchen again.”

“You cook?”

He shrugged. “Depends on your definition of cooking. I can spread the hell out of peanut butter and jelly onto bread, pour cereal and milk into any bowl, and toast a bagel without burning it. Usually. And if something has microwave directions, I'm your guy.”

“Impressive.”

“Really?”

“Um, no,” she said with a laugh.

Stop looking at her and get your ass home!
his brain yelled. Instead he crossed his arms over his chest and raised his brows. “And I suppose with all your restaurant experience, you're some sort of great chef?”

“I wouldn't say that, but I do like to cook. And by the way, dumping cereal and milk into a bowl does not constitute cooking.”

“It does in my house. Ask Godiva. She thinks I'm a genius with Froot Loops.”

“Uh-huh. I bet she drinks out of the toilet, too.”

“Only when I forget to put down the lid.” Which was all the time, but he didn't have to share
that
tidbit of info. And once again, instead of calling his dog, who was now sprawled out on her carport happily chewing a stick, and heading for home, he found himself asking, “How long is your mother staying?”

Jamie briefly closed her eyes. “I don't think she's ever going to leave.”

A dry laugh caught in his throat. “Sounds like it's a good thing you never returned my bottle of vodka.”

“Is that your not-so-subtle way of asking for it back?”

“Maybe.” God knows he felt like he could use a stiff drink. Or two. Or twelve.

“That's not very neighborly of you.”

“Maybe I'm not feeling particularly neighborly.”

Which was the absolute truth. He felt hot. Tense. Edgy. And aroused as hell. And more than a little pissed off—at her for looking so soft and tousled and sexy and irresistible. All without even trying. God help him if she actually put some effort into it. But mostly he was pissed off at himself—for rapidly losing the battle to resist her.

He needed to go home. Now.

Instead he took a step closer to her.

He heard the faint snap of Dorothy Ernst's bug zapper across the street and his lips flattened into a grim line. He knew exactly how those poor fried bastards felt. They probably screamed,
Stay away from the light!
even as they flew right into it, unable to resist the tempting allure. Even knowing it was bad for them. Even knowing they were headed for doom.

It really rankled that he was apparently no smarter than a damn insect.

After being so tempted to kiss her four days ago while they frolicked with Godiva on the beach, he'd gotten the hell out of Dodge. Unfortunately the time away hadn't lessened his unwanted attraction to her. While he didn't know exactly what had brought Jamie to Seaside Cove, he strongly suspected she'd run away from a bad relationship. Which meant she was on the rebound—always a losing proposition in his experience. Plus, she was bossy. And had a prissy cat named Cupcake. Who the hell named their cat Cupcake?

Not only did he not have the time or the inclination to start a relationship—he'd had more than enough of having his heart and his gonads handed to him on a platter—there was no way he wanted to get involved with someone who lived right next door, who he'd have to see every day. Who'd have expectations of him.

Christ, he was so damn tired of people expecting things from him. Wanting, demanding. And the ultimate disappointment when he failed to live up to those expectations, and all the guilt that came along with that disappointment. That was his favorite thing about Seaside Cove—no one expected anything from him. The fact that the locals believed him nothing more than a decent enough guy who went off on benders was fine with him. That's the way he liked it. And the way he intended to keep it.

So what the hell was he still doing standing here?

And
really
what the hell was he doing taking another step closer to her?

Damned if he knew. Because it felt exactly like playing with fire. Still, he couldn't stop himself. Even though it felt as if he were burning.

Wariness flickered in her eyes and she took a step back. She looked decidedly unsettled. Grim satisfaction filled him. Good. Why should he be the only one off-kilter?

Her gaze wandered over him, making him aware of the fact that he needed a shower, a shave, and a change of clothes. She moistened her lips and his attention zeroed in on her plump mouth.

He took another step toward her. She hastily stepped back and her shoulders hit the outside wall of the storage closet.

He took a final step toward her and planted one palm on the wall beside her head. A mere two feet separated them, and when he inhaled, his head filled with the delicious scent of cookies.

His jaw clenched and his hand fisted against the wood panel. Christ. What chance did a man stand against a woman who smelled like
cookies
? Seriously, there oughta be a law against that. He took another deep breath and bit back the groan that rose in his throat. She smelled so damn good and all he could think about was wolfing her down in a single gulp.

Her gaze flicked over the minimal distance separating them. When she looked at him again, he saw both annoyance and heat in her eyes.

He liked them both. A lot.

“Are you okay, Nick?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You seem . . . tense. And you're, um, crowding me.”

Just to annoy her, he leaned forward to crowd her a little more. And was rewarded with another flash of heat and irritation in her eyes. “Actually, no, I'm not okay.”

She lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes. Oh, yeah, she was definitely pissed. Excellent. Again her gaze skimmed over his rumpled, unkempt appearance. “So I see. Rough few days?” she asked with a decided sneer.

“You could say that. I've been busy.”

“Yeah, well, whiskey doesn't drink itself.”

He cocked a brow. “That's the word around town—that I've been off on a bender?”

“It's one of several theories.”

“Really? What are the others?”

“I'm sure you've heard them.”

“Actually I haven't—and I'd love to know.”

He could almost hear her debating whether to tell him. Finally she said, “I've heard everything from CIA agent to you have a married lover.”

“Interesting.”

“Hit man is also making the rounds.”

“How about that I'm visiting a crippled friend or helping the unfortunate?”

A snort of disbelief escaped her. “Not even in the top fifty.”

Keeping his gaze steady on hers, he nodded slowly. “What's your guess?”

“It's none of my business.”

“I agree. But I'd still like to know. Would you like a hint?” He leaned forward and his body lightly brushed hers. He heard a quick intake of breath, but wasn't sure if it came from him or her. “I don't have a lover—married or otherwise,” he whispered in her ear.

He leaned back. She stood pressed against the wall regarding him with an unreadable expression. But the way her chest rose and fell with her rapid breaths and her dilated pupils let him know he wasn't the only one feeling this . . . whatever the hell it was.

She swallowed, then said, “Again, none of my business. The very fact that you'd think I was interested in knowing that makes it clear you've been drinking.”

The whiff of disdain in her voice frayed his already tattered control. “Well, there's one sure way to find out, princess.” He pinned her to the wall with his body. And settled his mouth on hers in a hard, demanding kiss.

For several stunned seconds, Jamie remained immobile under the onslaught of Nick's kiss. Damn it, he'd annoyed her. Goaded her. She absolutely shouldn't want this.

But, oh God, she did.

With a groan she couldn't contain, she wrapped her arms around his neck, arched into him, and parted her lips. Their tongues danced, circling, delving, exploring. He wasn't gentle and she didn't care. The overwhelming impatience and fierce need ripping through her would have shocked her if she'd had the ability to think clearly. But there was no thinking. Only feeling. Only pleasure. Only his tongue stroking hers. His hands molding her closer. His body hard and insistent. She pressed herself tighter against him to feel more. Take more.

With a noise that resembled a growl, he turned them so his back rested against the wall and spread his legs. She fit in the vee of his thighs and melted against him as if she were made of wax and he was fire.

He fisted one hand in her hair while his other hand skimmed down her back to cup her bottom. Her restless fingers tunneled through his thick hair, and she reveled in the warmth of his big hands urging her closer, the rasp of his stubble abrading her skin. God, he just felt sooo good. Big. Strong. And warm . . . He was so warm. Heat pumped off him like a furnace. And that gorgeous mouth of his? Oh, yeah, he definitely knew how to use it.

Her nipples tightened into aching points as her insides were reduced to liquid fire, spearing heat to her every nerve ending. The folds between her legs pulsed and she squirmed against him, desperately seeking relief. His hardness pressed her, oh, right there, and she groaned into his mouth.

But then, damn him, he raised his head. A moan of protest rumbled in her throat and she dragged open her eyelids. His palms still cupped her butt and the inferno in his eyes could have lit a match underwater.

“Well?” he asked, his rapid, choppy breaths matching hers.

She blinked. “You want
accolades
?” she asked, trying not to pant. “Sheesh. What an ego.”

“Not accolades. Just the truth.”

“Fine. It was a good kiss, okay? And this”—she lightly nudged her pelvis against his erection—“tells me you thought so, too.”

“That's not what I meant. I meant, did you taste any whiskey?”

She froze as reality slapped her with an icy hand. She unplastered herself from him and stepped back several paces. She desperately wanted to rake her fingers through her disheveled mop of hair, but since her hands didn't feel quite steady, she shoved them into her pockets instead. A combination of humiliation, self-disgust, and anger brewed inside her. “So that's what that kiss was about. To prove a point.”

He didn't move, didn't try to stop her from putting space between them, merely regarded her with an expression she couldn't read. “Did I prove it?”

She hadn't detected even the faintest trace of alcohol. No, all she'd tasted was heat. Passion. Desire. Raw need. And they'd tasted delicious. And left her hungry for more. One kiss and he'd completely stolen her self-control. It was humiliating. Aggravating. And given how reliable she'd always considered her self-control, pretty damn shocking. If he hadn't ended their kiss, God only knows what would have happened.

All right, all right, she got the picture. Jeez. Stupid inner voice. Where was duct tape when she needed it?

“Well?” he prodded. “Did I prove my point?”

She lifted her chin. “I don't know.”

“Then maybe I should kiss you again. So you can be sure.”

She favored him with the icy glare she normally used only on restaurant suppliers who thought she was a pushover because she was a woman. “Unless you want to sing soprano, I wouldn't suggest you try it. I don't like being used.”

“I didn't use you. And for the record, that kiss was a whole damn lot better than just ‘good.' ” His eyes seemed to burn a hole in her. “Or are you going to try to deny that?”

God knew she wanted to. Unfortunately she was a lousy liar. And even if she managed to choke out the words, the moans and groans she'd emitted—to say nothing of her still hard nipples—would brand her a big fat fraud.

“It doesn't matter how good it
might have been
. The fact that you did it simply to prove a point means it was bad.”

“Bad? Like hell. And I told you—I didn't use you.”

“And I'm supposed to believe you?”