Troublemaker (22 page)

Distantly she was aware that this was just a kiss, one kiss, a kiss that hadn't stopped yet, and she was ready to let him strip down her pants and get between her legs. Even worse, that was what she wanted, wanted as she had never wanted a man before. She wanted him there, inside her, riding her deep and hard.

She was a fool.

The thought was a slap in the face, a dash of cold water, just what she needed to will control back into her arms and legs, steel back into her spine. The first step was to turn her head, breaking contact with his mouth. One kiss, but if he kept on kissing her, she knew he'd have her on her back. She let her forehead rest on his shoulder and that was almost worse, because she could smell the heat of his skin and feel the tug
of instinct that urged her to burrow deeper against him, so she could absorb more of that heat and man-scent.

The second step was to stop digging her fingers into the muscled pad of his shoulder, to place her palm flat against his chest and push. Her fingertips flexed on his skin, just for an instant, then she concentrated her strength and put pressure in her touch. She couldn't push him away, he was too strong for that, but the pressure let him know to stop.

Slowly his arm released its hold and he let her drop from her toes, her body moving down his, the hard ridge of his erection momentarily dragging through the soft folds between her legs and sending little fiery arcs of sensation through her clitoris. She caught her breath, bit back a helpless moan even as her hand pushed more insistently against him. Oh my God, she wanted to surge against him and whisper, “Do that again,” because she felt so close that if he did it again, she would come.

One kiss. One kiss, and everything else.

Then she was free, stepping back, and hallelujah, her trembling knees came through like champs and didn't fold.

He said nothing, his eyes narrowed, his gaze locked on her. His chest was rising and falling as if he'd been running, and she was savagely gratified that she wasn't the only one wrestling with the effects of that kiss. She refused to let herself look any lower than his face, she didn't want to see how far his boxer shorts were poking out or if they had failed to contain him. What if they had? Would she be able to resist curling her fingers around his penis, stroking it, bringing him to his knees the way he'd almost brought her?

“No,” she said, her voice hoarse but firm. “We aren't doing this. Sex is not on the table, not part of the deal.” She would keep saying that until she convinced herself as well as him.

He cocked his head a little. “Not part of the deal,” he agreed, “but we'll be doing it. Count on it.”

Panic raced through her because she was afraid he was right. And if he was, it would be because of
her
weakness. She couldn't let herself be weak, she had to remember that he was leaving and keep her guard up.
She'd learned too many times not to depend on anyone else to forget those hard lessons now. She turned away, needing the sanctuary and privacy of her bedroom, where she could close the door and be alone. “Don't touch me again,” she ground out. “Good night.”

“Wait.”

She didn't want to stop, she wanted to get to her bedroom, but her feet halted and she stood with her back to him, waited to hear what he said.

“Why did you call me?”

Call him? She couldn't think; her mind was a big blank mess. Why had she called him, what had started this fiasco? She turned back to face him, confusion written on her face, and she saw Tricks sitting patiently, waiting for the humans to stop acting silly.

Thoughts began forming, memory returning but moving as slowly as molasses. She said, “Tricks.”

He glanced at the dog. “What about her?”

“She was driving me crazy. She knew you were up here, in a different place, and she wanted to come visit.”

He scrubbed a hand over his rough jaw, the rasping sound arrowing through her. She thought of that beard scraping across her breasts, between her thighs. No, no,
no
! She wasn't going to go there . . . she already had.

He sighed and said, “That was it? That had you yelling as if the house was under attack?”

“No, that had me yelling as if I was exasperated and wanted to get to sleep but she wouldn't let me,” she said shortly. “Not every yell means we're being attacked.”

“In my world it does.”

The truth of that silenced her. The scar on his chest was proof that he lived in a very different world from hers.

She acknowledged that with a nod, briefly closed her eyes. “Anyway . . . that was it. Just leave your door open, if you don't mind, and I'll leave mine open. She'll probably go back and forth between us until she decides to pick her place and settle down. She might get on the bed with
you, so if you don't want her in there just say so and I'll keep her with me no matter how much she acts up.”

“No, that's okay, I don't mind.” He gave her a smile that was like a wolf flashing its fangs, with a total lack of humor. “But just for the record—she's not the one I'd choose.”

B
O LAY IN BED, CURLED PROTECTIVELY ON HER SIDE
like a shrimp, so tense every muscle in her body was aching. She'd been rash, she'd been stupid, and the whole incident was her fault. She
knew
to keep her distance from him, to not let him see in any way how attracted she was to him. The kiss wasn't even the worst part. Yes, she'd kissed him back, as hungrily as he'd been kissing her; while that had been a huge mistake, it was one she could handle. The worst part was getting angry at him because he'd had a target tattooed on his chest.

Even a fairly thickheaded man would figure out a woman would get so angry at a tattoo—one that was like daring someone to shoot him—only if she
cared
—and Morgan wasn't thickheaded. She was beginning to fully appreciate how intelligent and cunning he was to have muted his personality to the extent he had so she wouldn't be uncomfortable with him. She'd seen flashes of the unmuted Morgan before, but tonight more of the power of his personality had come through loud and clear.

She wanted to sleep, needed to sleep. But her senses were too on edge, her mind racing as she zigzagged between remembering everything that had happened, how it had felt when he'd touched her, how he'd tasted—and then all the reasons why she should never let it happen again. Tricks, of course, went back and forth between the two bedrooms, jumping up on the bed to nuzzle Bo, then after a few minutes
jumping down and trotting to the other bedroom to presumably treat Morgan to the same “I'm happy so no one is going to sleep” routine. Occasionally she'd hear the deep murmur of his voice as he tried to get Tricks to settle down in one room or the other, but good luck with that. Or maybe he was telling Tricks “Good girl” because she'd almost gotten him laid, Bo thought resentfully.

Finally, on about the fifth or sixth return, Tricks licked Bo on the arm and then curled up on her bed on the floor. “Please just go to sleep,” Bo muttered, though why it mattered she couldn't say. She wouldn't have been able to sleep even if Tricks hadn't been partying.

For whatever reason, having Tricks back in her room and no longer trotting back and forth allowed Bo to relax. She couldn't change what had happened; she simply had to make certain it didn't happen again. Once she got that thought firmly fixed in her mind, she dozed off.

Tricks woke her up at the normal time by laying her muzzle on the pillow and staring at her. The message was plain: it's morning, and you haven't fed me yet.

She gave Tricks a hug, then lay there for a moment longer. The morning brought a return of mortification. She didn't want to get up and face the day, she didn't want to face
him
. She wanted the whole situation to just go away, which was such a juvenile thought that she mentally slapped herself, got out of bed, and got on with her normal routine.

She hadn't heard him walk by her open door, but he was downstairs, and just coming in from outside as she went down the stairs. He was dressed in one of his regular tee shirts, this one dark green, and khaki cargo pants. He had a cup of coffee in his hand, which meant she'd been so sound asleep that she hadn't heard the coffeemaker. Evidently Tricks had also been tired enough after her back-and-forth exertions of the night before that she hadn't alerted Bo to Morgan's activity.

Morgan, however, looked rested and alert and completely comfortable. It wasn't fair.

“Good morning,” he said, going to the coffeemaker and punching the
brew
button. It began hissing and spewing, and coffee was streaming into a cup for her by the time she reached it.

He leaned against the cabinet in what she had come to realize was his habitual position—he was a lounger—and said, “I'm sorry about last night.”

Thank goodness she wasn't holding the cup of coffee yet, or she might have dropped it. Of all the things she'd imagined him saying, that wasn't on the list, not even at the bottom. She sighed in relief and said, “Thank you.”

“I didn't intend to put you in an uncomfortable position. I'm a guest in your home, and I want you to feel safe with me here. No matter what a great little ass you have, whether or not anything happens between us is your call, not mine.”

If three sentences could have been better constructed to shatter her thought processes, she didn't know how. A reassurance, a—
he thought she had a great little ass?
—and then another reassurance. All she could think was: he liked her ass.

She reached for the coffee, halted, glared at him. “Don't notice my ass.”

“Too late. I'm a man; of course I noticed your ass.”

She backed said ass against the cabinets to protect it from being stared at and finally got the cup in her hand. “So much for reassuring me and making me feel comfortable.”

“Well, hell, I figure you have to know you have a great ass, unless you've spent your life in a convent.”

Truthfully, she'd never considered her ass. She mulled over what he'd said as she swallowed some coffee and finally realized—“You're flirting with me.”

A tiny smile quirked the corners of his mouth. “Guilty as charged. I figure you could use a little flirting. Want me to take Tricks out?”

Jerked back to Earth by the question, she looked at Tricks, who was standing by the door staring at both of them as if they'd lost their minds because no one had yet taken her outside.

“Crap,” she muttered. “No, I'll take her.” She needed away from him for a few minutes, and Tricks wasn't the only one who liked routine. Routine would ground her, give her a break from feeling jerked first one way and then another.

She stepped out into the cool, bright morning and stood sipping her coffee as she watched Tricks. Okay, now what? The subject was officially out in the open, and disarmed, so to speak. He said it was her call, and then he flirted with her.

She felt like a teenager, though that wasn't quite accurate because even as a teenager she'd been wary. But she'd still been excited by the possibilities opened up by flirting; if she hadn't been, she would never have gotten married. Since that bad decision, though, she'd deflected any male attention with a bland indifference, and she'd been so good at it that she couldn't remember exactly when she'd last been on a date. Perhaps she hadn't had a real date since her divorce, and that was
years
ago. She hadn't missed it, hadn't worried about it. She liked how her life was. She liked her privacy, the calm, the sense of control.

So why was her heartbeat getting all fluttery at the idea of Morgan flirting with her? Because she was attracted to him, that was why. Her brain knew he was temporary, but her body and hormones didn't.

The way she saw it, she had two options: she could keep him at a distance, or she could have a fling with him and wave good-bye when he left. Keeping him at a distance would be less wear and tear on her emotions, while having a fling would make her physically very satisfied.

Hands down, she'd opt for protecting her emotions, every damn time.

Tricks finally did her business and got tired of sniffing around, and was ready for her breakfast. When Bo opened the door to let her back inside, the smell of bacon frying hit her in the face and almost made her drool. Really, were there any smells on earth better than bacon and coffee? Well, maybe the new car smell, but that was debatable. She stopped dead, staring at the scene in the kitchen. Morgan had a towel slung over his shoulder while he stood at the cooktop using a fork to flip the strips of bacon sizzling in a skillet. He glanced over his shoulder at her. “I was hungry, so I thought I'd get started. I can do bacon and eggs and throw some bread in the toaster. That okay with you?”

“Wow, you're really trying to get on my good side, aren't you? Yes, thank you, bacon and eggs sounds great.”

He pointed the fork at her. “You could have been gracious enough to leave off that first sentence.” Then he flashed a grin at her. “Even though it's true.”

That grin was a shock, transforming his face with roguish charm. Morgan being charming was also a shock, though she'd seen a bit of it when he'd kissed Miss Doris's hand. In his real life, he probably had to swat the women away. Again, she felt as if he was letting her see more of the real Morgan—or maybe the real Morgan was feeling well enough to make the effort.

Nevertheless, she appreciated both the effort and the food. Cooking wasn't something she enjoyed, though she did enjoy the end result. It was nice to have a hot breakfast that she hadn't cooked, nice to work together in comfortable silence. She fed Tricks, then set the table and got everything ready while he dealt with the food. Within ten minutes, they were sitting down at the table.

Last night, she wouldn't have thought she would ever feel comfortable with him again, yet here she was, sitting beside him and making small talk as he asked what was on her agenda for the day, when the kids would be taking Tricks for another practice ride before the Heritage Parade, how the Emily/Kyle situation was shaping up.

She was wary and on guard, but that morning set the pattern for the days that followed. April slid into May, and the days began warming in earnest, with the cool mornings and evenings becoming only fond memories. Bo stayed as busy as possible when she was at home, working like a fiend on the tech-writing projects and stopping only to take Tricks for walks or to prepare meals. The best thing she could do for herself was keep her interactions with Morgan to a minimum, which wasn't easy considering they were living in the same house—and, despite everything, they were becoming friends.

How could they not? If friendship had been impossible, if he'd been a jerk, she couldn't have tolerated having him around all the time even though she was being paid to house him. But he wasn't a jerk. They talked about various things; he'd been to a lot of places and seen a lot of
things. He had a different take on almost any item that was on the news, and conversations with him were simply interesting.

When she was in town, all the goings-on kept her distracted. The Emily/Kyle situation was on track to being resolved. Mr. Gooding had agreed in principle to the town's conditions, though Kyle was reportedly pissed off about the whole thing and his sister Melody was going out of her way to say nasty things about Emily. Emily kept her head and ignored Melody, and her lawyer was getting the papers ready to be filed.

There were also the parade practices with Tricks, who still refused to ride without Bo also being present. She resigned herself to being in the parade. The kids promised they'd figure out a way so she could sit mostly hidden, and she had to take them at their word. Any more practices were impossible because now the kids were tied up with decorating their float and they had no spare time.

Sometimes Morgan went with her to work when he got too bored staying at the house. She could only imagine how that must be wearing on him; he was accustomed to living a high-adrenaline life, jumping out of planes and getting into firefights. He seemed to enjoy the small-town quirks, such as the parade and the divorce drama. Whenever he was at the police station with her, visitors would appear, usually bearing food as the whole town seemed to be on a mission to fatten him up. For whatever reason, he was getting acquainted with a surprising number of the townspeople, somehow becoming part of the warp and woof of local life.

One afternoon when she collected the mail there was a letter addressed to Morgan Rees, plain white envelope, no return address.

The letter had to be from Axel because no one else knew he was here, or the name he was using. When she thought about it, snail mail was the safest way to contact Morgan—no data to trace.

He lifted his eyebrows when she handed it to him. “He wasted a stamp to tell me there's no progress? He must be afraid I'll jump ship if I don't hear something.”

“Maybe there's progress, but nothing definitive yet.”

He tore open the envelope and scanned the single sheet of paper, then wadded it up and did a three-point shot to the wastebasket. “No progress.”

She didn't know if she was disappointed or not. She wanted him gone, but she also knew she'd miss him when he left. “
Would
you jump ship?”

“Only if I had a good reason.”

She didn't ask what would be a good reason, but evidently boredom wasn't on the list.

He started going on her walks with Tricks. He always took his Glock, because warm weather = snakes. She had done the same but saw no reason to take her pistol if he was armed, so instead she took only her long, sturdy stick. She might not be able to shoot a snake, but she assumed he could.

At first he couldn't make the whole trek with her, because the hill was too much for him; instead he'd wait at the bottom for her and Tricks to return. Tricks always bounded to him in a paroxysm of delight, as if she hadn't seen him in days instead of less than half an hour. By the fourth walk, he was going partway up the hill. By the seventh, he was keeping pace with her. His rate of recovery astounded her, but of course he'd been in phenomenal shape to begin with, so he didn't have as far to go as the average person would have.

Unfortunately, working like a fiend on the tech-writing projects meant that there were inevitably lapses when she didn't have any to work on because she'd already finished them. She couldn't manufacture projects out of thin air. Very occasionally she'd been able to pick up a last-minute job when something happened that prevented the tech writer already lined up from doing the work, but for the most part the work was something scheduled ahead of time.

Her options then were to sit in her room or watch television with Morgan. She watched television.

She'd always been an on-off watcher; sometimes there would be a program that she liked and watched, but for the most part it was something she'd have on while she read, or worked on a tech project. With the schedule Morgan had had while he was operational, he hadn't had the opportunity to watch much beyond sports and news—or the interest, truth be told. He liked hockey better than basketball, football
better than baseball, but shortly after coming to stay with her he developed a passion for women's fast-pitch softball. Thanks to her satellite system, he got to watch a lot of women's softball; because she didn't have a preference for anything else, she found herself also watching softball.