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The only time she wasn’t invisible to men was when she was giving them attention they didn’t want.
Spike had been totally surprised to find Mad looking at him and the shock of meeting her eyes had cut off his train of thought. He managed to finish his story about the first fish he’d cleaned as a chef only because he’d told the thing so many times, it was rote.
No doubt Mad thought he was just a rowdy show-off. And as the people around him broke out into laughter, he thought she was probably right.
Mad, on the other hand, wasn’t rowdy or a show-off. She stayed away from the crush of people, lingering near the bank of windows, beautiful and still as a piece of art. In her regal silence, she made him feel awkward and unworthy, as if his stories were pathetic rambles with predictable starts and flat endings.
But then a lot of men at the party seemed to feel the same way about her. Every single male in the place had admired her from afar and obviously lacked the courage to approach her. What they settled for was looking at her from the corner of their eyes, watching her, measuring her. He saw all the glances and noted each one of them with a curse.
He knew exactly what kind of thoughts were going through those minds of theirs. The sexual speculation. The awe. The intimidation.
Because that sticky morass was swimming in his own head.
There was just something so…unreachable about her. It was as if she had seen things and done things on the ocean that none of them had come close to on land. And the gap worked against the men, setting them apart as pasty versions of something she probably didn’t want and definitely didn’t need.
And her beauty was downright threatening. Anchored by the strength of her body and her smart, smart eyes, she turned the other women at the party into f-words.
Frail. Flighty. Forgettable.
Spike felt something hit his chest lightly. Paige Livingstone or Livingworth—or something equally WASPy—seemed disappointed he’d retreated into his head. As did her sister, Whitney, who had somehow wiggled her way onto his lap.
Spike set Whitney aside and smiled in an empty way the sisters didn’t pick up on. An hour later, after the party had wound down, he showed them both the door even though they’d given him their number and plenty of come-hither-you-bad-boy looks. He just wasn’t in the mood to be their savage conquest fantasy. He’d done that before and had never really gotten much out of it even though the women had seemed to enjoy the experience.
Man…it was crazy, but for some reason, the sweater-set, pearl-draped, scarf-wearing types just went nuts for guys who looked like him.
Well, nuts for one night. Or maybe two. Though never longer than that.
Which was fine with him. He wasn’t looking for a relationship.
No, he’d given up on that a long time ago. With his past, he wasn’t ever going to settle down. As soon as a woman knew what he’d done and where he’d gone, she’d bolt and he was sure of this because it had happened to him. Since full disclosure was a guaranteed exit door, and he couldn’t stomach lying by omission, he was never going to be more than a short-term visitor in a woman’s life.
And he really was cool with that. He was a survivor both by nature and experience so his prime directive was clear. If you can’t change something, you adapt and move along.
As Spike shut the door on the two blondes, he took a deep breath. The penthouse was silent now and the lack of noise was a relief.
Except then he realized that Madeline had left and he’d never gotten a chance to say goodbye.
Maybe that was just as well. Usually he had a good rapport with women; he could charm the pants right off them if he wanted to. But with Mad, there was no way to fake the social fluff.
And besides, all things considered, he should be grateful. He sensed she was someone he could fall hard and sloppy for. And where would that land him?
Ah, yes. 71st Street. On his butt.
Sean came out of the kitchen, tie hanging loose, shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He had two cups of coffee in his hand and he held one out.
“Thought you might need a pick-me-up, too,” the guy said in a curiously disgruntled tone.
Spike took what he was offered and they made a beeline for the living room.
“So I think Alex and Cass had a fine time,” Spike said. “And they were really nice about my being late.”
Sean grunted. “You certainly looked like you were enjoying yourself. The Livingston sisters were all over you.”
“Yeah.”
They sat down on plush leather sofas that faced the bank of windows. Outside, the city glowed on the opposite side of the dense black square of the park.
“Too bad you spent so much time with them,” Sean muttered.
“Huh?”
“There were other women at the damn party, you know.”
Spike frowned and was about to ask what was doing, when he heard something behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. There was someone coming down the hall from the other end of the penthouse. A straggler?
Madeline came into the room as if he’d conjured her up from his fantasies. Her hair was all over her shoulders, rich and glossy, as if she’d just brushed it. And she’d changed out of that lovely dress and was wearing a pair of men’s boxers and a tank top.
The two didn’t quite meet in the middle so her belly button showed.
Spike shifted in his seat as Sean smiled and said, “Hey, Mad. Coffee’s in the kitchen.”
“Thanks.” She strolled into the other room.
Spike watched her go, his eyes latching on to the sway of her hips. And the muscles of her thighs and calves. And all the smooth, tanned skin of her legs.
Then it hit him.
“Sean? Is she staying here?”
“Yup.”
Spike put his cup down and pegged his hands into his knees. As he stood up, he was aware of a stinging suffocation.
“Where you going, my man?” Sean murmured, Boston accent coming out thickly.
“I better take off.” No way in hell he could be in the same apartment while Sean and Mad were in bed. Together. Doing unspeakable, fabulous things to each others’ bodies.
God, just the thought of them together made him nauseous.
“Sit down, Spike.”
“Nah, you need some privacy. I’ll see you later.”
“Spike, sitcha-ass down. It’s not like that with her, okay? You can relax.”
Spike narrowed his eyes and wondered if he’d given anything away about his attraction to the woman. It wouldn’t have been much if he had, but when it came to his friend, it wouldn’t have to be a lot. The trouble with O’Banyon was the guy was flipping brilliant. Never missed a thing, especially when people were trying to hide their inner goodies.
Usually it was a point in the man’s favor. Not tonight.
Sean’s voice stayed level as he nodded to the sofa. “Sit.”
Spike sank back down. And then another thought shot through his head. He tried to remember how many bedrooms the place had. Not enough.
He eyed the couch. Pushed at it with his hand.
Good to go, he thought, imagining himself stretched out with his head on one of the cushions.
“Don’t even think about it,” Sean said.
“What?”
“Sleeping out here. There are two perfectly good beds in that guest room and you guys are going in them. She’s already said she has no problem with it.”
Him and Madeline Maguire in the same room? Alone? For like, six, seven hours? He’d be lucky if he wasn’t limping by the time it was morning. All the pent-up desire in his blood would probably turn him into a pretzel.
Abruptly, Sean snorted and stared over the brim of his cup. “Why’d you have to spend so much time with Paige and Whitney?”
“They’re easy.” Spike picked up his coffee again. “I mean, they’re simple. You know, just two women. And why do you care?”
“You should have spent more time with Mad.”
Spike narrowed his eyes on his friend once again. “Are you trying to set us up?”
“Yes, I am. So the least you can do is be a gentleman about it and try and kiss her after the lights go out.”
Spike nearly spit out what was in his mouth. “What the hell—”
“It’s obvious you’re into her.”
He coughed, trying to clear his windpipe. “How do you figure I like her? I didn’t talk to her all night long.”
“Precisely. She was the only woman you were not comfortable around. And that spells attraction, buddy. At least the way I see it.”
“You are deranged.”
“True. And I’m right, aren’t I? You like her. And like her, like her. Not just like her.”
Spike rolled his eyes. “Holy hell, I feel like I’m in elementary school with this conversation. Where’s my lunch box?”
“Same place your head is at.” Sean’s voice dropped down low. “I have it on good authority she’s into you.”
“And this is because she didn’t talk to me, either? Sean, buddy, stick to finance. You’re a rotten social worker.”
“No, she—”
At that moment, Mad came back into the room, sipping from a mug.
Sean put his coffee aside and clapped his hands on his thighs. “I’m turning into a pumpkin. ’Night, all.”
As the man left, he shot Spike a don’t-you-dare-screw-this-up look.
And then Spike was alone with Mad. She didn’t look at him, just walked over to the windows and stared out at the city. Silence elongated until he wasn’t sure whether they’d been in the room fifteen minutes or ten days.
Well, if this wasn’t awkward.
Spike said quietly, “I don’t want to crowd you tonight. I can crash on the couch.”
She shrugged. “If you want to. But bear in mind, I sleep on a boat with twelve men on a regular basis. No amount of snoring is going to get my attention. I can sleep through anything.”
God, the small of her back was beautiful. He wanted to press his lips to the indentation of her spine. Run his hands around to her flat stomach. Reach down and ever so gently stroke her thighs—
“Spike?”
“What?” He looked up, meeting her calm stare as she glanced over her shoulder.
“You just made a funny noise.”
“Did I?”
“Sounded like a groan.”
Well, at least that was better than a squeak of desperation. Much more manly.
Although when it came down to it, he was surprised she couldn’t hear the roar of his blood as the stuff slammed into all kinds of extremities.
“Can I ask you a question?” she said.
“Go ahead.”
“Your eyes. Are they real? I mean, they’re contacts, right?”
Spike looked away. He knew his irises were a peculiar color, but they’d been that way since birth. And most women liked them…thought the yellow was unusual and attractive. She was the first to suggest they were a cosmo-vanity statement.
Which told him a lot about what she thought of him.
And as he abruptly wished his peepers were normal, like a brown or a green or a blue, he got frustrated with himself.
He punched his weight into his feet, standing up in a quick surge. “I’m going to head for the shower. And then I’m hitting the sack.”
“Spike, I didn’t mean to…” Her voice drifted off.
“You didn’t mean to what?”
“Offend you. I’ve just never seen eyes like yours before.”
He shrugged. “I know they’re weird, but, whatever, nothing I can do about it. ’Night, Madeline.”
He put his coffee cup into the kitchen sink and then went down the hallway to the guest room. When he stepped through the door and glanced around, he expected to find her stuff all over the place. It wasn’t. There were no errant hairbrushes or perfume bottles or clothes or shoes dotting the dresser or the desk or the chaise lounge in the corner. All he saw was a black duffel bag at the foot of the bed on the left.
