Yesterday's Scandal

by Gina Wilkins

  His apartment complex was aging but relatively well maintained. It catered to contractors and work crews and others who were in town only temporarily. People who were only passing through—like Mac, she thought with an odd, hollow feeling.

  He escorted her into a ground-floor apartment on one end of the main building. The furnishings, she noted, made the place seem more like a motel suite than an apartment, but at least it wasn’t cramped. The decent-size living room held a couch, two armchairs, a coffee table, an end table and a TV on a rolling stand. An efficiently compact eat-in kitchen opened off to one side of the main room, and a bed-and-bath combination off to the other. Set into the back wall of the living room was a door that led out to a tiny brick patio that held two plastic lawn chairs and looked over a neatly groomed grassy compound.

  “Not bad,” she said.

  Mac shrugged. “It suits my needs for now.”

  For now. Again, a reminder that he wasn’t here to stay. Could Sharon see him off with a smile, grateful to have known him even for that brief time, or would she be left brokenhearted when he moved on to the next project?

  She decided she wouldn’t think about that right now. One problem at a time, she told herself as she and Mac spread their lunches on his table. She’d noticed that Mac had cleared away a stack of legal papers to give them room; she assumed they were notes about the renovation project.

  “About the damage to your truck,” she said as soon as they’d taken their seats.

  “Did you do it?” he asked with one of his disconcertingly inscrutable half smiles.

  She blinked. “No. Of course not.”

  “Then don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.”

  “So you don’t think Brad had anything to do with it?”

  He took a bite of his sandwich, neatly avoiding an answer.

  “I know Brad has been unfriendly to you, but that’s only because he doesn’t adjust to strangers very quickly. He really isn’t a bad boy. He’s gotten into mischief a time or two, but he’s never vandalized anything before. He wouldn’t do anything that destructive or malicious.”

  “Mmm.” Mac bit into a French fry without elaborating.

  “You do believe me, don’t you? You have to admit, I know my brother better than you do.”

  “Of course.” He finished his sandwich and eyed the peach pies while she seethed in frustration on the other side of the table. “Everyone was right,” he commented after a moment. “This really is good food. Want a fried pie?”

  “You aren’t going to talk about this with me, are you?”

  “I’m perfectly willing to discuss this good food with you.”

  “That isn’t what I meant and you know it. I’m trying to talk to you about Brad.”

  “I see no purpose in discussing your brother just now. I have no proof that he damaged my truck, and you’re convinced he didn’t. That’s really all there is to say about it at the moment.”

  “It bothers me that you still seem to believe Brad is capable of doing something like this.”

  “You pointed out, yourself, that I don’t know the boy as well as you do. It will probably take a little more time for me to form my own opinions about what he is or is not capable of doing. All I know for certain at this point is that he dislikes me, for reasons of his own. That doesn’t bother me, particularly, unless it comes between you and me. And then I suppose I would have to do something about it.”

  He’d spoken so dispassionately. Did it really not bother him that Brad disliked him so intensely? It would trouble her if a member of Mac’s family took an immediate and unwarranted objection to her. Maybe that only further illustrated how different she and Mac were. Or maybe her family and friends didn’t matter all that much to him because he didn’t expect to be a part of her life for very long.

  “Here,” he said, pushing a paper-wrapped pastry toward her. “Have some pie. Guaranteed to put you in a better mood.”

  She sighed and accepted the dessert. “You are an infuriating man, Mac Cordero.”

  He chuckled softly. “Now there’s something I’ve never heard before,” he murmured, obviously lying.

  Shaking her head, she unwrapped the pie and bit into it. It was good—packed with sweetened dried peaches in a cinnamony filling, the flaky, half moon–shaped pastry crust deep-fried to just the right crispness. He was right; it was hard to be in a bad mood while eating a fried peach pie, but her worry about the conflict between Brad and Mac had only been suppressed, not eradicated.

  “WOULD YOU LIKE me to make some coffee or anything?” Mac asked when they’d washed down the last of the pie with their iced tea.

  “No, thank you.”

  He stood and gathered up the leftover garbage, tossing it into a wastebasket. “When do you have to be back at work?”

  “No specific time. Tressie’s quite capable of running the store while I’m out. If she needs me, she knows I always have my cell phone nearby.”

  He reached out with the swiftness of the jungle cat she’d often mentally compared him to and pulled her toward him. “Well?” he challenged. “Are you going to let your kid brother’s tantrums come between us?”

  It sounded so foolish the way he said it. Letting a teenager set the rules for her. It was long past time for her to make her own rules. Her own choices. Her own decisions.

  It seemed easier to show Mac her answer than to tell him. Pushing all her worries to the back of her mind, she focused solely on the moment. What she wanted now.

  She wanted Mac.

  Resting her hands on his shoulders, she rose on tiptoe to offer her mouth to him. She didn’t have to offer twice.

  He didn’t even try to lull her into a sense of security this time. He went straight for the explosions and the fireworks, stunning her senses, shattering her defenses, clearing her mind of anything but him. All she could do was to hold on—and try to set off a few fireworks of her own. Apparently, she succeeded. She heard Mac’s breath catch in the back of his throat, and felt his whole body grow taut.

  He locked his arms around her and deepened the kiss, invading and staking every inch of her mouth. She thought it only fair that she should have the same privilege. He seemed to agree, since he put up no resistance when she claimed her right to explore.

  His skillful hands were as bold as his clever mouth. He traced her curves with his fingers, as meticulously as a blind art lover studying a famous statue, seemingly intent on exploring and memorizing by feel alone. Yet Sharon wasn’t made of marble. Every nerve ending reacted to his touch, leaving her feeling as though tiny electric charges were sparking all over her body. She had the fanciful sensation that she would almost glow if someone turned out the lights.

  She hadn’t been fanciful before she’d met Mac.

  Dragging his mouth across her cheek, he nibbled his way to the soft hollow behind her ear, where her pulse pounded wildly against his lips. Even if she had wanted to, she couldn’t have hidden her reaction to him. She had been vulnerable to Mac from the beginning, and she suspected he knew it. She had to trust that he would not use that knowledge against her.

  It wasn’t easy for her to put that much faith in a man who was still very much a stranger. There was so much about Mac she still didn’t know—deeply hidden aspects of him she sensed but didn’t quite understand. She could only hope that her trust in him would prove justified.

  He lifted his right hand to the back of her head, buried his fingers in her hair, and tightened them until she was held gently, but securely, in place, gazing up at him. The move was an almost aggressive one on his part, but she had no fear as she stood in his grasp. Oddly enough, she felt safe there—the way she always felt when Mac held her.

  His voice was rough when he said, “This is between you and me, Sharon. No one else.”

  She could hardly think of anyone but him at the moment. “I know.”

  “You aren’t what I expected to find here,” he muttered, his lips hovering only a breath above hers.

 
; Her fingers flexed against the firm muscles of his upper arms. “What did you expect to find, Mac?”

  “Myself,” he answered after the slightest hesitation. And then covered her mouth with his before she could ask him to elaborate.

  This kiss was different, somehow. There was a new hint of masculine arrogance in his attitude—as if he’d won some sort of victory. She really should call him on it, remind him that nothing had been decided, no irreversible steps had been taken. She might even have convinced him of it—had she completely believed it, herself.

  She slid both arms around his neck, allowing herself to sink against him. His right hand fell to the small of her back, pressing her more snugly against him, giving her unmistakable evidence of where he wanted the next step to take them. It had been building toward this from the start, the urgency intensifying with every kiss, every touch, almost every glance that passed between them.

  As cautious as she had been during the past few years, every action deliberate and carefully considered, every potential consequence studied and weighed, she found it hard to believe that she was even considering a reckless fling with this man. She wouldn’t be acting on impulse, exactly. She knew precisely what she would be putting at stake—her heart, her reputation, her relationship with her brother. Even her professional status, since she would be getting involved with a client, which was never a prudent choice.

  Yet when Mac held her this way, when he kissed her with a hunger that seemed at times to border on desperation, she found herself believing that no risk was too great. Being with Mac could well be reward enough for whatever price she might have to pay.

  He slid his hand beneath her fitted top. His fingertips brushed against the frivolous scrap of black lace she wore underneath. A slight shudder went through her at the thought of having his hand against her sensitive bare skin.

  Attuned to her reactions, he murmured against her mouth, “Am I frightening you?”

  “No,” she managed to say candidly, though her mouth was dry and her heart seemed to be tap-dancing in her throat. “You’re seducing me.”

  He gave a low groan and crushed her mouth beneath his again, pulling her so tightly against him that she was quite graphically convinced that she wasn’t the only one being seduced.

  Long, heated moments later, he broke off the kiss with a gasp. “This wasn’t why I brought you here,” he groaned.

  Distracted by the firm line of his jaw, she traced it with a fingertip. “Why did you bring me here?”

  “To, uh…” He caught her wandering hand and pressed a kiss against it. “To talk.”

  It occurred to her that she hadn’t seen him without a shirt. She didn’t know if his chest was smooth or furry. She would bet on smooth. Curious to discover if the bet would have paid off, she unfastened a button of his shirt. “What did you want to talk about?”

  He seemed to hold a silent debate between several options, then apparently rejected them all. “Never mind,” he growled as she undid two more buttons.

  She slid one hand slowly into the opening she’d made. Smooth, she thought. I win.

  She rewarded herself by lifting her mouth to his again. As eagerly as he responded, he seemed to be under the impression that he had won something.

  “Mac,” she murmured into his mouth, sensing a slight hesitation.

  He caught her lower lip gently between his teeth. “Mmm?”

  “I need to be back at work in another hour or so.”

  His lips moved against her flushed cheek. “That doesn’t give us much time.”

  “No,” she whispered, surprisingly bold. “So let’s not waste any of it.”

  Moving with a speed that made her a bit dizzy, he swung her into his arms and began to move toward the bedroom. She laughed breathlessly, clinging to him as excitement and anticipation mingled with shivery trepidation. She knew this wasn’t a safe or sensible choice, but the woman Mac had dragged out of Snake Creek was much more adventurous than the old Sharon had been. She didn’t believe in wasting opportunities.

  Mac had left his bed neatly made that morning. He tumbled with her onto the top of the covers, pushing pillows to the floor with a sweep of one arm. Sharon’s heart was beating so hard in her chest she was surprised it wasn’t shaking the bed. This was not what she’d expected when she’d dressed for work that morning. This wasn’t at all the sort of thing that ever happened in the middle of her workday.

  Not that she was complaining, she decided as Mac’s mouth closed over hers again.

  She felt a tremor in his hand when he fumbled with the buttons of her jacket. Muttering a curse beneath his breath, he tried again, having more success this time. She felt cool air on bare skin when he gave her an endearingly sheepish smile. “Sorry. I really wasn’t prepared for this.”

  She had expected him to be smoother, more polished. It delighted her that he wasn’t. This glimpse of vulnerability made her even more certain that Mac Cordero was as special as she had come to believe.

  “Changing your mind?” she asked, sliding her hands inside his open shirt.

  His response was half laugh, half groan, making his chest vibrate against her fingertips. “Hardly.”

  “Good.” She pushed his shirt off his shoulders, baring him from the waist up. She felt her insides turn to jelly as she looked at him. Beautiful was all she could think as she gazed at his taut brown skin, sleekly defined musculature and flat, firm stomach. There were scars, as well, evidence of a hard life. But, overall—perfection.

  She couldn’t wait to see the rest of him.

  He’d gotten his momentary, uncharacteristic lack of composure under control. His fingers were skillful when he returned to the task of removing her clothes. And when the trim gray pantsuit lay on the floor, along with the lacy garments she’d worn beneath, he revealed a talent that left her dazed.

  Demonstrating the attention to detail she’d observed in his work, he concentrated on exploring every inch of her, his hands and mouth moving over her slowly and painstakingly. Leaving her breasts damp and heaving with her gasping breaths, he moved lower, tracing her ribs, nibbling her belly, making her squirm with a pleasure so intense it almost hurt. She wanted to reciprocate, to do some exploring of her own, but he had somehow drained all her energy. She wasn’t even sure she could lift her head from the pillow. The only movements she seemed capable of making were completely involuntary.

  She tried to focus on the physical, rather than the emotional, elements of their lovemaking. The heat of Mac’s skin against hers. The roughness of his work-callused fingers. The sound of his uneven breathing in her ear. The feel of his heart pounding against his chest. The hardness of the erection straining against the zipper of his jeans. Her own reactions—racing pulse, tightened throat, oversensitized skin. A deep, wet ache in her lower abdomen.

  It was safer concentrating on those sensations than on the feelings bubbling inside her. The heart-swelling emotions threatened to overcome her, bringing a hint of tears to her eyes and a certainty that nothing would ever be the same for her after this.

  She couldn’t think about that now. She had other things to concentrate on—like what Mac was doing with his right hand at that moment. And, oh, was he doing it well!

  He laughed softly when she tugged at him with impatient hands. “In a hurry to get back to work?” he asked in her ear.

  She was in no mood to be teased. “Mac—”

  “What do you want, Sharon?”

  “You,” she whispered, moving against him in a way that made it very clear what she wanted.

  “Happy to oblige, ma’am,” he murmured, reaching for the snap of his jeans.

  He kept condoms in the nightstand. Sharon didn’t want to think just then about whether he stored them there as a general precaution or because he found himself in frequent need of them. She decided, instead, to be grateful he had them available now.

  It didn’t take him very long to return to her, but it felt like forever. She wanted him so badly, she ached. Desper
ately needed him to appease the hunger he’d created in her. “Now,” she demanded, reaching for him.

  Amusement mixed with desire in his voice. “You really are the take-charge type, aren’t you?”

  She cupped his gorgeous face in her hands. “I’ve had to be,” she answered simply. “Does that worry you?”

  “You worry me,” he said, and the amusement was gone now. “But that doesn’t seem to make any difference.”

  She didn’t always understand this man, but that didn’t seem to make any difference, either. She brought his mouth to hers. “Now, Mac,” she said against his lips.

  He settled between her raised knees. The muscles of his back bunched beneath her hands as he prepared to thrust forward—like a sleek cat getting ready to spring, she thought, still enamored with the imagery.

  Holding himself very still, he looked at her, his dark eyes burning with roiling emotions she couldn’t begin to interpret. She only knew that she trusted him. “Sharon,” he growled, “whatever happens—don’t regret this.”

  “No,” she whispered, utterly certain that she was telling the truth. “No regrets.”

  His muscles rippled, and he moved again—and the mental image of a wild, dangerous animal dissolved into shards of pure sensation. She was no longer able to maintain coherent thought.

  Her fingers curled into his shoulders, as if clinging to sanity. A choked cry lodged in the back of her throat, trapped there by the press of his lips against hers. She could do nothing more than whimper as he pushed her higher and farther, toward a conclusion they both desperately craved.

  He tore his mouth from hers with a harsh groan, and the cry he had imprisoned escaped her. Thin and quivery, it seemed to echo in the small room as shudders of release coursed through her, again and again.

  Even as the echoes died away and the shudders subsided, Sharon realized that she’d been right to be wary of this. She’d been afraid her life would never be the same. Now she knew for certain she’d been right. Everything had changed.

  Now that she had been with Mac Cordero, she would never again be content with ordinary.