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Dammit. She’d temporarily forgotten Mac was in the room. He’d witnessed that silly conversation. She turned slowly. How could she explain this without going into the embarrassing details? She managed to find a smile, unaware that it didn’t come anywhere near her eyes. “Sorry about that.” She made herself laugh. “My folks, slightly touched.”
Mac’s skeptical look told her he didn’t buy her breezy attitude. Yet there was something in his eyes that suggested sympathy, that made her want to confide in him, to tell him why her parents drove her batty. She had the strange idea that he might understand.
Rory bit the inside of her cheek, confused and feeling off-kilter. Since meeting Mac again, her life had done a one-eighty. She felt like she was standing in a fun house. The reflections didn’t make sense...
“Excuse me a sec,” Rory said before walking through her bedroom to the bathroom. Grabbing the counter in an iron-fisted grip, she stared at herself in the mirror.
What was she doing? Thinking? She simply wasn’t sure and she wished she had more than five minutes to figure it out. This thing between her and Mac was getting out of hand, and she needed, more than anything, to control it, to understand it.
She was about to fly away with him and how was she going to resist him?
It was just sex, she told herself. Sex was physical. It wasn’t a promise to hand over her heart. If she slept with Mac she would be sharing her body, not her soul, and she wouldn’t be risking anything emotional. Could she be laid-back about such an intimate act? She would have to be, because love wasn’t an option. She wasn’t interested, and Mac wasn’t the type of guy a girl should risk her heart on anyway.
But...
But it would be cleaner, smarter, less complicated if she didn’t sleep with him. Passion and chemistry like theirs was crazy. Her libido was acting like a wild and uncontrollable genie. A genie who would be impossible to get back in the bottle if she popped the cork. It was far better to keep the situation, and her lust, contained.
Rory pointed her index finger at her reflection and scowled. “Do not let him pop your cork, Kydd.”
* * *
In his seat, Mac scowled at his computer screen through his wire-rimmed glasses and wished he could concentrate. He needed to make sense of these balance sheets and read the profit and loss statements for a couple of sports bars they owned in Toronto. How was he supposed to do that when his mind was filled with Rory? He turned his head sideways to look at her and smiled when he saw she’d curled up in her seat and fallen asleep. He picked up a lock of hair that had fallen over her eyes and gently tucked it behind her ear.
So much more beautiful than she’d been at nineteen.
Mac pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, conscious of the fiery throb in his arm. His head ached in sympathy. Truth be told, he was relieved to be leaving the city and to stop pretending he was fine. He could take the pain tablets, zone out and try not to worry about Myra and the investor and the fans and, God, whether the press would find out how serious his injury actually was and how much pain he was living with.
Rory let out a breathy sigh and he looked at her again, his stomach churning with the need to have her. That need worried him.
With her, he didn’t feel in control and he hated that sensation. In his real life, he dated to get laid. He and the woman both had fun and then they moved on. He understood how much it hurt to have unmet expectations so he made no promises, offered no hope to the women who slept with him. In his world, sex didn’t involve talking, sharing, caring. In that world, conversation took place horizontally; bodies spoke, not mouths.
He didn’t confide in any of his lovers. He never shared his feelings, and the one guarantee his lovers had was that he’d always leave.
He never allowed anyone to get too close; he’d learned a long time ago to be his own champion, his own motivator. His mother hadn’t believed in or supported him so he didn’t expect anyone else to either.
Rory was different. She made him feel more, made him say more, want more. He was out of his depth with her and flailing...
Mac rubbed his temples with his fingertips. He was definitely losing it. Flailing? Over a woman? God, he sounded like a fool.
Irritated with himself and his introspection, he picked up his tablet computer and swiped his finger across the screen, immediately hitting the link for his favorite news site. Instead of focusing on the US elections or the migrant crisis in Europe, the headlines detailed the breakup of a famous Hollywood golden couple after ten years and fostering six kids.
Mac had been caught in the same type of media hype, on less of a global scale admittedly, and it had sucked.
Phoenix is currently being treated for depression and begs the media to give her some privacy, he read. He’d heard that Shay had suffered with depression during their breakup and the constant press attention had made the situation ten times worse. He couldn’t do that to Rory, couldn’t risk her like that. Yeah, it was Puerto Rico. Yes, they would be flying under the radar. But it just took one determined paparazzo, one photograph, and their world would implode.
Not happening. He had to keep his hands off her.
“You look like your brain is going to explode,” Rory softly said.
Mac rolled his head on his shoulders and watched as she stretched. “It feels that way,” he admitted, knowing he had to address this longing for her. Now or never, he thought.
You won’t die if you don’t have sex. You might think you are going to, but you won’t.
Mac rubbed his temples again. “Look, Rory, I’ve been thinking.”
Rory sent him an uncertain look. “Uh-huh?”
“Despite my smart comments about us sleeping together and that hot kiss, maybe it would be better if we didn’t. Sleep together, that is.”
He couldn’t help noticing the immediate flash of relief in her eyes. So something had shifted in her after that bizarre conversation with her father. When she’d returned from the bathroom, sexy Rory had disappeared and had been replaced with enigmatic Rory. He still didn’t know what to make of that.
“Want to clue me in on why you’ve had a change of heart?”
You scare the crap out of me? When I’m with you I feel like I am on shifting sand? I don’t want to see you hurt or scared or feeling hunted?
Yeah, he couldn’t admit to any of the above.
So he fudged the truth. “My arm is killing me. I’d like to get to the house and chill, take my meds and just zone out for a while. I want to relax and not have to worry about you or keeping you happy, in bed or out.” Mac stared past her to look out the window. “I’d like us to play it cool, just be friends.” Because he was a man and believed in keeping his options open, he tacked on a proviso. “For now?”
Rory didn’t answer, her gray eyes contemplative. “Sure. Fine.”
Mac watched her out of the corner of his eye and sighed. Fine. God, he hated that word, especially when a woman stated it in that hard-to-read way. What did it actually mean? Was she okay with waiting? Was she pissed? Did she actually want to say “Screw you”?
Sometimes, most times, women made no sense. At all.
Six (#uca1e6103-1046-569c-9dc3-be7732d0a588)
Rory loved the Cap de Mar beach house. Shortly after her arrival, she claimed one of the smaller guest rooms, partly because it had an excellent view of the U-shaped bay and mostly because it was a floor below and a long way from the massive master suite.
She pulled on a bikini, a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and, walking barefoot, she set out to explore the house. As Mac had said, the living areas, sitting and dining room and the kitchen were all open-plan, leading onto a massive balcony filled with comfortable chairs and daybeds either under the balcony roof or under umbrellas. Tucked into the corner of the balcony was a huge Jacuzzi and she could easily imagine sitting in that tub watching the sun go down.
It was mid-afternoon now, Rory thought, resting her elbows on the railing and looking down into the sparkling pool below her. In a perfect world she’d like to take a swim, lie in the sun and then sit on the beach with a glass of white wine in her hand and wait for the sun to paint the horizon in Day-Glo colors. That, she thought, would be a wonderful end to a rather difficult day...
Rory saw a movement out of the corner of her eye and saw Mac step out of his bedroom through the doors that led straight onto this balcony. He’d shucked his jeans and shirt and pulled on a pair of board shorts. He hadn’t bothered with a shirt. Why should he? He had a torso to die for.
The rest of him was pretty spectacular too.
Rory huffed out a sigh. She had to corral her overexcited hormones. Speaking of hormones, she’d been caught flat-footed at Mac’s suggestion they postpone sleeping together. She hadn’t expected Mac would let his arm get in the way of pleasure, or that he was humble enough to admit he was in pain and needed some time.
Mac, barefoot, walked over and gestured to the cove. “Nice, isn’t it?”
“Gorgeous,” Rory agreed. “It almost feels like we are part of the beach.”
Mac half smiled. “That was the intention when I designed it. I wanted to bring the outdoors in.”
“You designed this?”
Mac sat down on a daybed and leaned back, placing his good hand under his head. His biceps bulged, his shoulder flexed and the rest of him rippled as he swung his legs up onto the cushions. “Yeah.”
She remembered something about him and architecture, about studying it in college. When he was dating Shay, he’d just completed some business courses and Rory had been super impressed that he’d managed to study and still play for the Mavericks. He hadn’t needed to study further; he was earning enough with his salary and endorsements that, if he invested it properly, he could live comfortably for a very long time.
This wasn’t living comfortably, Rory thought, looking around. This was living large. An island home on a secluded beach translated into big-boy money. She recalled what Troy had said about him and his friends investing in property and businesses, and her curiosity had her asking, “How many properties do you own? How many businesses do you have?”
Mac looked at her from below half-closed eyes. “Enough.” He yawned and dropped his arm to pick up a pillow and shove it behind his head. “You want a statement of my assets and liabilities, Rory?”
Rory flushed. Okay, admittedly, she had no right to ask him that; they weren’t lovers. They weren’t even friends. And she’d rather die than ask any of her other clients such a personal question.
“Kade, Quinn and I have our own projects but a lot of our assets are held together in a partnership, and all the assets we share have to generate an income, this house included. It’s our rule. If it doesn’t make money, we ditch it. That is why we get to use this property but, for the most part, it’s rented out. Not so much during the summer months because it’s so damn hot and it’s hurricane season.”
Rory darted a quick look toward the endlessly blue horizon. “Hurricanes?”
“They happen,” Mac replied. “They aren’t that bad. A lot of wind, a lot of rain.”
“Super,” Rory said drily.
Mac shifted in his seat and winced when he moved his injured arm, trying to find a more comfortable position.
“Did you take your painkillers and the anti-inflammatory pills?” Rory demanded.
“Yes, Mom, that’s why I’m feeling so damn sleepy,” Mac murmured. He waved a hand toward the house. “Food and drinks in the kitchen. I asked our rental agent to arrange for someone to stock the place. I’ve also arranged for someone to come and clean and do laundry a couple of times a week. Otherwise we’re on our own.”
On our own was a phrase she did not need to hear.
“Okay,” Rory said, watching him fight sleep.
“Jeep in the garage. Keys in the kitchen. San Juan is thirty-five minutes away, north. Casinos, restaurants five minutes away, south.” Mac yawned again. “Make yourself at home.”
“Will do,” Rory said, but she doubted he’d heard her because he’d drifted off to sleep. He still had a frown on his face as she moved an umbrella closer to him so he could sleep in the shade. Her thumb moved over the creases on his forehead and she wondered what was making him worry. Their deal to buy the Mavericks franchise, his injury, being alone with Rory in this house?
She might have her fair share of problems but Mac had his too.
He wasn’t always who she expected him to be, Rory admitted. Sure, he could be overconfident about his abilities and about the effect he had on her, but he was also honest enough to admit that their attraction was a two-way street. She affected him just as badly. She didn’t know Mac well, not yet, and because he was so damn reticent, she probably never would. But she did know he wasn’t the arrogant jerk he’d been ten years ago. He was ambitious and determined, but he wasn’t selfish. He was smart and loyal and, yes, infuriating.
It was a surprise to realize that she liked him. A lot. And that liking had nothing to do with his masculine face and sculpted muscles.
There was a great deal more to Mac McCaskill than his pretty packaging. Dammit.
With every conversation they shared he shattered another of her preconceptions. If they continued these conversations, she’d start to like him a little more than she should, and there was a possibility she would feel more for him than lust and attraction.
She couldn’t let that happen. She would have to try to ignore him, try to avoid him. Because falling in lust with him was one thing, falling in like with him was another.
Falling in love with him would be intolerable.
So she simply wouldn’t.
* * *
A week after landing in San Juan, Rory and Mac watched the sun go down in the small fishing village of Las Croabas. She was full to bursting from demolishing a massive bowl of crab seviche. She was relaxed and a little buzzy. The single glass of wine couldn’t be blamed for that, she thought. No, it was a combination of the spectacular sunset—God was painting the sky with vivid purples and iridescent oranges—and the equally magnificent man who sat opposite her, hair ruffled by the balmy evening breeze.
A lovely sunset, a rustic restaurant, a really hot guy with a girl eating dinner...they could be an advertisement for romance, Rory thought. There would be no truth in that advertisement. Mac hadn’t laid a finger on her since they’d arrived in Puerto Rico and he hadn’t kissed her again. Truthfully, she hadn’t given him any opportunity to do either as she’d made a point of spending as little time with him as she possibly could without shirking her duties.
But a girl had to eat, and over dinner she’d intercepted a couple of intense looks from him, which made her think he’d catch her if she decided to jump him.
Which she wouldn’t. But the will-he-won’t-he anticipation was, admittedly, very hot and incredibly sexy.
“There’s something I have to tell you,” Mac said.
That sounded ominous, Rory thought. “What is it?”
“There’s a hurricane on the way.” He lifted his seviche-filled fork to his mouth.
“A big one?” she squawked, half lifting her butt off her seat and whipping around to inspect the horizon. It was still cloud-free. Shouldn’t there be clouds?
Mac shrugged. “Big enough.”
“How big is big enough?” Rory demanded. How could he eat? A natural phenomena was about to smack them in the face. “When will it arrive? Should we evacuate? Are there bunkers?”
Mac sent her a puzzled glance. “It’s a hurricane, not a nuclear bomb, Rorks.”
“You’re not giving me any information!” Rory wailed. She tried to recall what she’d read about preparing for a hurricane and, unfortunately, it wasn’t a lot. Or anything at all. “Don’t we need to put boards up or something?”
“I’ve arranged to have some guys come over tomorrow to put the boards up. Stupid, because I could do them if it wasn’t for this arm!”
“I’m sure I can do it,” Rory bravely suggested. She didn’t know if she could but she thought she should offer.
Mac smiled at her. “No offense, Rorks, but it’ll take them a couple of hours and it would take you two weeks.”
“Why do people always say ‘no offense’ and then go on to offend you?” Rory grumbled.
“How often have you wielded a hammer?”
Rory lifted her nose at his smirk. “I pound in my own hooks to hang pictures.” Well, she had once and had lost a fingernail in the process. Troy then banned her from using tools. He’d fixed her cupboard door, replaced the broken tile in her shower, fixed the leaky pipe under her sink. Troy also changed the tires on her car, made a mean chicken parmesan and removed spiders. He’d be her perfect husband if he only liked girls. And if she was even marginally attracted to him.
“Liar,” Mac said cheerfully.
His ability to see through her annoyed the pants off her. Actually, the way he looked, his deep voice, his laugh—all of it made her want to drop her pants, but that was another story entirely. “Tell me about the hurricane!”
Mac dug his fork into his salad. “I’m not sure what you want to know. There’s a hurricane approaching. It’ll probably hit land around midnight tomorrow night. There will be wind, rain. We’ll be fine.”
Rory scowled at him. “You are so annoying.”
Mac’s lips twitched. “I try.” He dumped some wine into their glasses, picked hers up and handed it to her. “Drink. We might as well enjoy the gorgeous night before we die.”
Rory rolled her eyes. “If you’re going to be a smart-ass, there has to be some smart involved. Otherwise you just sound like an ass.” She took the glass from his hand, looked into his amused eyes and sighed. “I’m overreacting, aren’t I?”
Mac lifted his glass to his lips, sipped and swallowed. “Just a little.” He sent her another quick, quirky smile. “We’ll be fine. If I thought we were in danger, I’d be making arrangements to get you out of here.”
Rory nodded and took a large sip of her wine. Okay, then. Maybe she could cope with the hurricane. She glanced at the sky. “Tomorrow night, huh?”
