He might be the hell-raiser, but even he wasn’t so reckless, so dishonorable that he would throw sex into this mix. His pranks had always run along the lines of shaving the eyebrows off a drunken friend, putting cling wrap beneath the toilet lid, and the one that had made him infamous at Mars Hill Academy, dismantling a Civil War era cannon and reassembling it in the Headmaster’s office. Mick inwardly smiled, remembering. That one had been good, if he did say so himself.
Nevertheless, wanting her to want him was the physical equivalent to hell, because he couldn’t have her. While reams of paper could be written on his shortcomings, a faulty moral compass wasn’t one of them. Furthermore, while he knew he was supposed to keep a close eye on Sarah Jane for Ranger Security, he suspected sleeping with her would fall well beyond the bounds of protocol.
Ultimately, Mick had decided that he had to be mistaken. That she couldn’t possibly be genuinely interested in him that way. She was merely friendly. Southerners were notorious for their hospitality, after all. That had to be it, he told himself, hoping that if he repeated it often enough, it would be true.
But then, only moments ago, she’d blown his theory--his admitted self-delusion--all to hell and, as a result, he was teetering on the verge of hysterical laughter, skating the edge of some sort of breakdown.
He’d fought terrorists. He’d survived enemy fire. He’d disabled bombs.
And yet this hard-working, down-to-earth little spitfire had somehow managed to instill a dart of fear straight into his heart with alarming accuracy and even better speed. Why? Who knew? He suspected it had something to do with his inappropriate, unnamed feelings and a healthy dose of self-preservation.
Allowing himself to act on this attraction would be wrong on more levels than he could count. Which was a crying shame, because he’d never--never--felt this bone-deep driving, almost elemental need, for lack of better description, to put himself inside a woman. On a civilized level he would imagine it was as advanced as clubbing her over the head, then dragging her away to his cave by her hair. Or peeing around her yard, marking his territory.
“Is something wrong with your sandwich?” Sarah Jane asked.
Mick blinked. “Er...no. It’s excellent.” And the bite of chicken salad she’d caught from the side of his mouth and fed him with her thumb had tasted even better. His groin tightened, just thinking about it.
Mason set his sandwich down and grimaced uncomfortably. “Nothing’s wrong with mine, either, but I can’t eat it.”
A concerned line emerged between Sarah Jane’s brows. “Why not? What’s wrong?”
He took a small sip of lemonade from his Star Trek thermos. “I’m feeling a little queasy.”
“Do you think it’s the heat? Have you gotten too hot?”
Mason slowly shook his head. “I don’t think so. It hasn’t been as warm today as it was yesterday. Maybe it’s just something I’ve eaten.”
“You’ve eaten the same thing I have and I’m not sick. Come on,” Sarah Jane said, standing up from the small folding table they’d set up in the corner of the old dining room. “I’ll take you home. You don’t need to be here.”
“No,” Mason protested, shaking his sweaty head. “I’ll be all right. I just need a---“
Sarah Jane reached out and placed her hand on Mason’s forehead, then her expression darkened. “You’ve got a fever. I’m taking you home.”
His eyes widened in outrage. “How can you tell I’ve got a fever? It’s almost one-hundred degrees in here.”
“I can just tell,” she said, shoving the rest of her food into a bag, now fully into mother bear mode. “Now come on and get your things together.”
Mason looked as if he would like nothing better than to go home, but firmed his non-existent chin and prepared another argument. “You don’t have time to take me home, Sarah Jane. The salvage is taking longer than we thought and time is running out. I’ll be fine. I--“
“How about I do it?” Mick offered. “I could give you a ride.”
Sarah Jane’s hopeful gaze swung to his, unexpectedly pulling the breath from his lungs. “Really? You wouldn’t mind?”
“Not at all.” Mick shrugged, trying hard not to feel like her knight in shining armor. “You need to work. He needs to go home.” Furthermore, it would give him some time alone with Sarah Jane--a blessing and a curse--but more importantly, it would give him the opportunity to see if she would open up to him about her father. He needed to know if there was really a will and he couldn’t ask her without tipping his own hand.
“I don’t like you being out here by yourself, Sarah Jane. It’s dangerous.”
Sarah Jane’s gaze grew steely and her adorable chin lifted into that stubborn little angle he’d quickly come to recognize. “Mason, we’ve been over this before. I am perfectly capable of working alone. I did it for years before you came along. I am capable, I am responsible and I am careful. I don’t need a constant babysitter. You need to go home and I’ll be fine.”
From the beleaguered tone of her voice, this was an argument they’d had many times before. Though she probably wouldn’t like to hear it, Mick actually agreed with Mason. This was a remote area and a bit of danger was inherent in her profession. She worked with sharp tools, in old dilapidated houses which were at risk of falling in. One misplaced footstep on a rotten board could result in a broken ankle, or worse. Like it or not, accidents came with the job description and being here alone wasn’t altogether safe. It wouldn’t be for anybody, not just her.
“I’ll be coming back out,” Mick told them. “I need to get a few more pictures.”
“Are you sure?” she asked, quirking a brow. “You’ve taken quite a few today.”
So she’d noticed, he thought, wondering if she suspected he’d been taking more photos of her than the actual progress. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “I’ll need to catalogue each phase of the process,” he lied, hoping it sounded believable.
Evidently so, because Sarah Jane nodded. “Okay, then.” She smiled gratefully at him. “I really appreciate this,” she said. “Er...why don’t you let me make it up to you by showing you around our fair city this evening? Give you the grand tour so to speak.”
Even better for the case, Mick thought, though on a personal level, he knew he was beyond screwed.
Because he grimly suspected this was going to be a date.
And, while he was new to the security business, he was relatively certain he was not supposed to date his target. But then the list of things he was not supposed to do or notice was quite long.
For instance, he was not supposed to notice the fullness of her breasts beneath her cotton t-shirt, the way her shorts rode up on her rear when she bent over, or the delicate tendrils of hair clinging to the back of her neck. He wasn’t supposed to want to suck her bottom lip, or taste that little patch of skin behind her ear, or stretch her out on a blanket beneath that huge oak tree in the front lawn. He wasn’t supposed to imagine her naked and hot and writhing beneath him. He wasn’t supposed to want to fill her belly button with ice cream and lick it up. He wasn’t supposed to dream about eating blackberries from between her thighs or suckling her sex until she came.
And he sure as hell wasn’t supposed to--and for his own personal sanity didn’t need to--agree to go out with her, but that’s exactly what he did. It was the only way he was ever going to glean all the facts. Payne had told him to assess and adjust as necessary.
This was necessary.
“Sure,” he told her, mentally cursing himself. “That sounds great.”
She smiled at him. “Don’t eat,” she said. “I’ll treat you.”
That was exactly what he was afraid of, Mick thought, imagining all the ways he’d love for her to treat him. To a kiss, for starters, he thought, his gaze dropping to her unbelievably carnal mouth. Then to bare skin, to pouting nipples and welcoming thighs, to her tongue on his body and her hands wrapped around his dick. To soft sighs and screams of release. To break
fast in bed and a hot, shared shower. Then to more of the same. He released a shuddering breath as the ache in his loins reached maximum capacity and he shifted, angling for any sort of relief.
It didn’t come.
And he grimly suspected the only cure, ironically, meant he would have to.
* * *
Sarah Jane looked at the dismal contents of her closet and repressed the growing urge to scream. Evidently bewildered by her extended stare into the abyss of denim and t-shirt’s, all three dogs and one of her cats sat at her feet, stared into the space as well. She looked down at them, rolled her eyes and grinned, thinking about the picture they undoubtedly made. “What do you say, guys? You see anything in there that says ‘casually sexy’? Hmm?” Her shoulders sagged as she sighed heavily. “I thought not.”
Note to self, Sarah Jane thought. The next time you buy clothes, keep a man as opposed to comfort in mind.
Okay, time to get a grip, she decided and selected yet another pair of denim shorts and a red gingham-checked sleeveless shirt. She wouldn’t make the cover of Vogue, but she liked the way both items looked on her and that was good enough, right? After all, he’d agreed to go out with her when she’d been wearing a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, dripping with sweat and dirt. Despite all of that, she knew he was attracted to her and to say that knowledge made her inwardly squirm with joy would be a mild understatement. Sarah Jane gave a little eyeroll.
Of course, after the way she’d practically thrown herself at him today, she didn’t imagine that she’d left him with any choice, she thought, mildly embarrassed at her transparent behavior.
She’d smiled, she’d laughed, she’d purposely stared at his mouth--and un-purposely as well because she couldn’t seem to help herself. She’d brushed up against him. She’d offered him water. She’d caught a little piece of food from the side of his mouth and fed it to him from her thumb.
Er...she’d made herself clear.
And he’d said yes.
Take that, Chastity, you bleach-blonde thieving bitch, Sarah Jane thought, mentally doing a little hoo-yah dance because she was going to win.
And thoroughly enjoy herself in the process.
Honestly, when his gaze had tangled with hers and his lips had closed around her thumb, gently sucking, she’d felt that little tug all the way to the heart of her sex. She’d come within a gnat’s ass of having an immaculate orgasm, a phenomenon she’d never experienced. In fact, she could honestly say that orgasms had been so few and far between she was beginning to suspect they were like unicorns and mermaids, the stuff of fairytales.
But they wouldn’t be with him, Sarah Jane thought, releasing a shaky breath.
Mick Chivers had that look. That, Baby-I-could-rock-your-world-beyond-your-wildest-dreams, turn-you-inside-out-and-back- again, make-you-scream-the-hallelujah-chorus-until-your-eyes-roll-back-in-your-head-and-your-bones-melt look. It was in the wicked curve of that slightly crooked smile, written in the sloping sexiness of those heavy-lidded electric blue eyes. It was in the way he moved, unhurried yet determined. It was in every hard, perfectly proportioned, muscled inch of his body--sex appeal, satisfaction guaranteed.
No warranty, she was sure, because he had that look about him as well. Aside from the fact that Monarch Grove didn’t have enough excitement to satisfy Mick’s acute sense of adventure--another point which had been hammered home again today when he’d mentioned he’d actually swam with sharks off the coast of Australia--Mick was entirely too restless, unsettled, and a bit wild, she thought, once again reminded of a lonely mustang.
Only a woman looking to have her heart trampled out of her chest would ever dream of trying to put a bit in that mouth, she decided, making a mental note to keep that in mind lest she make the fatal mistake of becoming emotionally attached. This was about physical attraction, about keeping him from Chastity and nothing more. Did she like him? Certainly. Mick was charming, funny and intriguing.
But he was also temporary--she didn’t think he’d ever stay here--and more importantly...damaged.
Every person had a story, Sarah Jane knew, but for whatever reason, she suspected his had recently taken a tragic turn. There were shadows lurking in those beautiful eyes, a guardedness that spoke of untold pain. What had happened to him? Sarah Jane wondered. Heartbreak? Call her insane, but she didn’t think so. Instinct told her it was more personal that that. She shrugged into her shirt and tugged the hem into place. It went deeper, she decided, further, she imagined than he’d ever let anyone plumb.
Because she had the “fix it” syndrome, she’d like nothing more than to try to help him. Sarah Jane had always been that way. Champion for the underdog, righter of any wrongs within the scope of her power, and she hated injustice of any sort, which was why Chastity keeping her things more than hurt her--it pissed her off to no end. It was why she fostered animals, why she always adopted an “angel” from the tree at Christmas, why she made a point to befriend the friendless. She couldn’t help herself. “Do-good’er” was hardwired into her DNA. Any time she saw a person in need, she had the inherent urge to help.
Mick Chivers needed help, but something told her coming to his aid would be at her own detriment and any effort would be rebuffed. Better to let him tackle his own demons, she thought, knowing that it was the prudent decision, if not the easiest for her to execute.
A knock at her front door announced his arrival, causing a flock of nerves to wing through her belly. The dogs went wild and rushed to the door ahead of her. Sarah Jane checked her reflection once more in her bedroom mirror, deemed herself presentable, then released a pent-up breath and, nudging Perv aside--her biggest dog of unknown origins--opened the door.
To her embarrassment but not her surprise and true to his namesake, Perv immediately went forward and nudged Mick straight in the crotch.
Mick grunted, taken aback, then chuckled uncomfortably. “Whoa there, buddy,” he said, carefully moving the dog’s head from his zipper. “I, uh... I don’t know you well enough for that.”
Sarah Jane smiled a bit fatalistically. “Mick, this is Perv. You can imagine why.”
He continued to pat the dog’s head and glanced up at her. “I don’t have to imagine,” he said, a smile in his voice. “I’ve got intimate knowledge.”
Chuckling, Sarah Jane opened to door a little wider, welcoming him in. “Move back,” she admonished the dogs, frowning playfully at them. “Let the man inside.”
Hair still wet and curling from a recent shower, the smell of aftershave hovering around him, Mick earned points by bending down and taking time to pet each of her animals. The dogs lapped up the attention, while the cats looked on in curious distain. “You’ve got quite a little zoo here.”
“I know,” Sarah Jane said. “But I love them.”
He looked up and quirked a brow. “Strays?”
She nodded, once again broadsided by the almost overwhelming urge to slide her fingers over his lips. His mouth was quite honestly one of the most beautiful things she’d ever seen. “P-perv was abused,” she stammered, struggling to focus. “I, um... I volunteer at our local animal shelter on the weekends, just checking in on the animals, and was there when his owners dumped him off. He was so bewildered, so pitiful.” A droll smile tugged at her lips and she ran her hand over her sleek back. “Despite the lamentable habit of shoving his nose into unsuspected crotches and rears, he’s a sweet, loyal dog.” She gestured toward another of her brood. “That’s Wink. She’s part beagle, part something else.”
“Wink?”
“She’s got a droopy eye,” Sarah Jane explained, smiling drolly. “It’s part of her charm.”
She pointed the smallest of her furry family and sighed. “And that’s Spaz.”
Upon hearing his name, the little dog starting running in circles, leapt up on the couch, ran from end to end, then jumped back down and repeated the process.
Mick chuckled. “No explanation needed on that one,” he said.
“I’ve also got t
hree cats--Winken, Blinken and Nod.” She gestured to each in turn, then sighed heavily and smiled. “Their favorite pastime is sleeping, so their names fit.”
“You’ve got quite a little group here,” he said, smiling fondly at her pets. “I’ve always wanted a dog.”
Sarah Jane blinked, surprised. “You’ve never had one?”
Something dark shifted behind his gaze, then he offered her a sheepish grin which seemed more manufactured than sincere. “I was never home long enough,” he said. “I went to boarding school most of my life, then joined the military right after college.” Another shadow clouded his eyes. “And with my current job I’m gone for days at a stretch, so it’s not ideal circumstances for a pet.” He smiled again, albeit awkwardly. “Maybe later.”
Boarding school, then the military? Sarah Jane thought, a bit shocked and more than a bit curious. She knew that boarding schools were more popular in the north east, but Mick was definitely rocking a southern drawl. Military school then? Had he been a problem child? Her gaze slid over that restless frame, the one that made her knees melt and her spine sag, and instinctively knew her guess could fit. Nevertheless, it seemed a bit harsh.
Though she hadn’t given much thought to children--aside from wanting to have them at some point in her future--Sarah Jane couldn’t imagine shipping them off away from home to go to school. What sort of parents had he had? she wondered. Robots? She knew he’d mentioned spending summers with his grandfather, a little tidbit he’d shared today when she’d commented on his carpentry knowledge. So...if he’d spent months away at school and summers with his grandfather just exactly when had he been home?
Furthermore, the military admission fully fit. There was a precision in the way he did things, a confidence in the very way he moved which bespoke of some sort of specialized training. How long was he in the military? she wondered. Which branch? And how did one make the leap from soldier to photographer? Though he obviously knew his way around the camera and was comfortable behind the lens, she had to admit, given his particularly brand of energy, that he seemed more prone to the former than the later.
Men Out of Uniform: 6 Book Omnibus Page 68
