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“How clear would you like them to be?”
Mike crossed his arms over his stomach and stared at her grimly. His shoulders were broad, tanned and intimidating. A dark whorl of hair descended down his chest, narrowing until it was a thin line, disappearing beneath the top button on his jeans. Abruptly the muscles in Callie’s throat had trouble working, so she set the glass on the counter.
“You’re not my brother, Mike. And I stopped needing a guardian a long time ago.”
From the flicker of his eyes she knew she’d hit pay dirt. As long as he could object to her clothing like a brother, he was safe. He didn’t have to see her as anything but his sister’s friend—the preacher’s daughter who was expected to act and dress in a certain fashion.
Criminy. Mike had moved away from Crockett sixteen years ago to attend college and he still had the same ideas as the ninety-year-old widow who always sat in the same pew every Sunday. This was going to be even tougher than she’d thought, and a flutter of uncertainty hit her, stronger than before.
The sound of a vehicle driving up the hill only increased the tension in the air.
Callie drew a deep breath. “That must be Donovan. I’d better go out to meet him.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t wait up for me.”
A bleak, frustrated anger filled his eyes. “Not a chance, doll.”
“Well…I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Whatever.”
Mike watched Callie leave, feeling like the ground had been ripped from under his feet. He didn’t know the woman who had just walked out of his house. She was a stranger in a black dress, high heels, and scented with the seductive fragrance of an expensive perfume.
Her legs couldn’t be as long as they looked—her head didn’t even reach the top of his shoulder. She had a body that wouldn’t quit, fiery green eyes and a set of wonderfully kissable lips.
A stranger.
“God, I’m losing it,” Mike muttered and grabbed his tea, draining the bottle. For the first time in his life he really needed a drink. He tried to remember if there was any alcohol in the house. Not being much of a drinker, he couldn’t remember.
None in the pantry.
And none in the refrigerator—not even beer. Mike slammed the door shut and scowled. A vision of Callie bending over and searching the interior made him choke. He backed away from the appliance.
Wait a minute.
He still had the bottle of Glenfiddich Scotch Ross had given him for his birthday. It was a shame to use fine whiskey for the sole purpose of getting smashed, but what the hell—it was medicinal.
The last time he’d gotten drunk was the traditional blowout after college finals. His last finals. Graduation. Freedom from cracking the books. Sometime in the middle of that evening he’d kissed the hottest girl on the face of the earth. He couldn’t remember her name, her face or where she’d come from, but he remembered that kiss.
That’s why he hadn’t gotten drunk since. Too many questions. Too much wondering if she was as hot as he’d thought, or if it was an alcohol-induced fantasy. A fantasy lady for a fantastic kiss.
Mike dropped onto the couch in his living room and poured himself a shot of the Scotch. He wasn’t “waiting up” for Callie, he was just enjoying a pleasant drink as he watched the view. He’d paid a lot for that view and was entitled to watch it anytime he wanted. For that matter, Callie had been awfully impressed with the entire house.
His eyes narrowed. She’d made it clear she didn’t want his protection, but if she came in crying, he’d make Donovan pay.
Hours later Mike was still “not waiting up.” The sun had set shortly after 10:00 p.m. They hadn’t reached the summer solstice yet, but it wouldn’t be long. A wide yawn split his mouth and he realized he was dead tired. They’d been pulling double shifts lately, trying to cover the office and fly and run the business at the same time.
“Mike, why are you sitting in the dark?” Callie asked from behind him.
The question made him jerk upright. He’d fallen asleep and hadn’t heard her come in. Mike lifted the bottle and blinked at it. Almost full. That’s right, he’d only had two drinks. Unfortunately the alcohol had gone straight from an empty stomach to his weary head.
“Just watching the view, doll.”
“In the dark?”
He tried to shake himself wider awake, but his brain wouldn’t cooperate. “I’ll do it my way, and you do whatever you want. That’s what you said, isn’t it?”
“Actually…I said we should keep out of each other’s way.” Callie switched a table lamp on and he sighed. While it was dim, the extra light hurt his head, and he wasn’t too tired to ignore the exhilaration in her eyes, or the mussed condition of her hair.
She certainly wasn’t crying, so he wouldn’t have to kill Donovan after all.
Even if he wanted to.
Callie had certainly flung him into a highly illogical state. Of course, women had been doing that to men for thousands of years; why should anything be different now?
“Turn that off,” he ordered. And to his complete astonishment, she complied.
“Have a little to drink?” she asked.
“Just a little, and it’s quality Scotch, not a bender,” he said defensively, though she didn’t seem offended. “I’m just tired.”
“I know. Elaine says you hardly drink at all.”
Had his sister volunteered that information, or had Callie asked? For some reason Mike liked the idea of Callie keeping tabs on him. She’d always been a nice person.
Nice…? Wrong. His brows drew together. She didn’t want to be called nice. “Did you have a good time?” he asked, keeping his tone neutral.
“The best.” Callie sat on the end of the couch and tucked her feet beneath her. “The northern lights were really wild. Donovan said it was unusual this time of year, so he took me up in his plane to see them better. We opened the windows up and the wind blew in…. It was incredible.” She laughed and shook her hair across her shoulders. “I’m all tangled, but it was worth every minute.”
Hmm. Mike felt better. At least Donovan had kept his hands to himself for that part of their date—even Donovan had never mastered the art of flying a Cessna with his feet.
“I hope you wore a coat. It gets pretty cold up there.” He yawned again and his eyelids drooped.
“Don’t worry—I won’t get pneumonia and deprive you of an office manager.” The slight edge in her voice hinted she was still angry over their earlier “discussion.”
“I’m not worried. You’re a pal to help out.”
Callie glared at Mike, getting provoked all over again. He’d been dopey and endearing, and she’d been almost ready to forgive being called trashy—almost. And now he was calling her a pal. She wasn’t his pal. Why couldn’t he simply see her as a desirable woman?
Maybe she could throw herself at him. Kiss him senseless. But that would be rather obvious. And it might ruin things altogether.
What if she got up and slipped on her high heels…? She could fall across him and see what happened.
Yeah, it was a possibility.
Callie stretched. “It’s late. I’d better get some sleep so I can start work early. Donovan says the office is a horrible mess.”
“Uh-huh.”
Mike sounded awfully sleepy, so Callie put her hand on his leg to help herself upright. His eyes shot open.
“Yikes…” She laughed. “Sorry about that. I didn’t realize how deep the couch was.”
Trying to make her “fall” look good, Callie twisted her ankle as she tumbled over Mike, letting out a genuine yelp of pain.
That hurt, she informed herself. I hope it was worth it.
The bottle he’d been clutching clunked to the floor. “Are you okay?”
“Sure. I love bruising my dignity.”
His chest rumbled with a chuckle and waves of heat rolled through Callie. Brother, this was disgusting. She got close to the man and her body went crazy. She hated acting like a spinster stereotype, but she did feel rapacious and love starved, especially sprawled all over him.
Mike’s hands slid over her waist and Callie held her breath. He was going to push her away, do the gentlemanly thing and help her up.
Dammit.
Callie ruefully acknowledged her level of frustration with the mute curse. She didn’t often swear, but when she did, it was for a good reason…or at least a strong reason.
But she gulped when Mike’s hands closed over her bottom, hard and sensuous at the same time. She didn’t say anything. Talking might bring him to his senses, and that was the last thing she wanted at the moment.
The unmistakable outline of Mike’s arousal pressed into her abdomen, making her dizzy.
His hands seemed to be urging her up his body. She was glad to comply, especially when one of those hands reached up to stroke her face—strong fingers, combing through her hair, pulling her into a kiss.
Dear heaven…the moan from Callie’s throat was lost in his mouth, drowned in the unique flavor of Mike and Scotch. This is what she’d been craving. Even when she’d succeeded in pushing him from her mind—sometimes for months at a time—she’d craved the excitement and passion of his embrace.
She straddled Mike’s waist and stroked her tongue over his lips, an erotic invitation to deepen the kiss. It was instinctive, a knowledge born of hope and longing and feminine intuition.
He rewarded her urgency, his fingers rhythmically squeezing and releasing her bottom, intensifying the tremor spinning through her core. His tongue delved into the humid warmth inside her mouth, tracing the even edge of her teeth. Velvet on velvet, infusing their lungs with the other’s breath.
Shaking violently, Callie finally tore away and collapsed on Mike’s chest. She couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but feel and taste him.
Taste and feel…
Callie moaned again, unable to resist exploring the muscled contours beneath her cheek. She tasted the saltiness of his skin, tracing the hard points of his flat nipples with her fingernails, and sensed a deep shudder rising from him. This wasn’t her need alone, it was the mutual desire of two people who were surely meant to be together.
And then…she heard a quiet snore in her ear.
What?
She wanted to hit him. Passion was zinging through her veins and the dope was sound asleep.
Rat.
Louse.
Cretin. How could he fall asleep on her?
When she’d finally called him every insult available, Callie slid to the ground and drew her knees against her chest. She’d be glad in the morning that nothing happened, but it wasn’t morning and she was hurting. Unrequited love was bad enough, but unrequited passion was physical torture…not that she should complain. More than one boyfriend had pointed out the discomforts of such a condition.
She wished she’d been more sympathetic.
Mike probably wouldn’t remember this kiss, either. He’d been kissed by so many women, what was one more?
Callie scowled.
The northern lights still danced across the sky, spinning pink ribbons of light that eclipsed the stars. No wonder Mike loved Alaska so much. She’d love it, too, if she got the chance.
Right. Callie nodded. She hadn’t grown up managing her family for nothing. Those skills must be good for something…like winding Mike around her little finger.
At the same time a sigh welled out of her chest. Mike wasn’t easily convinced. By tomorrow he would have shored his defenses and she’d have to tumble them down again.
Well, too bad.
The trick was not letting him affect her so easily.
The ghostly lights continued to dance as Callie repaired her resolve. She might not succeed, but Michael Fitzpatrick was about to take one heck of a ride. Maybe along the way he’d discover his heart…and the girl he’d left behind.
Chapter Three
His neck hurt.
Mike opened sandpapery eyes and gazed blearily at his world. It didn’t look right. Then he realized he was in the living room, rather than his bed.
It still didn’t look right.
Damnation. He’d fallen asleep in the middle of talking to Callie. Yet, there was something else…a vague memory of Callie falling and landing on his chest.
He’d bet it was those idiotic spike heels she’d been wearing. They weren’t safe, even if they did make her legs look a mile long. It had to be the heels doing that. Amazing what the right clothing could do for a person.
Mike raised his head and sniffed hopefully. A blanket had been solicitously tucked around him, but he smelled nothing resembling caramel pecan pancakes…or coffee, bacon or any other hint of domestic comfort coming from the kitchen.
Great, not only had he slept badly, but he’d have to make his own coffee.
“Callie?”
Silence reigned.
He climbed to his feet and stumbled to the kitchen. He needed a shower, a toothbrush and a bottle of aspirin. And coffee most of all. He’d fight one of Callie’s polar bears for a cup of coffee.
“Hey, Callie?”
The kitchen was spotless except for a square of white paper on the counter, the corner weighted down with an empty bottle. He lifted the note and squinted at the letters.
Mike,
