A Wanting Heart

by Christie Adams

  And they still had to talk. There was plenty of time for that. Ryan wasn’t deluding himself, though—there was every chance that the conversation might head in a direction completely at odds with where he wanted it to go.

  Still, he wasn’t going to push for that discussion before she was ready. He’d tried to do something similar before, and all he’d succeeded in doing was losing her. She knew they needed to talk, and she’d agreed to come all the way to Scotland with him—matters would take their natural course, and Fiona would let him know when the time was right.

  He wrapped his arms around her, the gesture both protective and possessive, and closed his eyes.

  Now he was ready for sleep.

  Chapter 4

  It was the music that woke him. Specifically, The Rolling Stones and Jumpin’ Jack Flash. The next thing he became aware of was Fiona’s absence, swiftly followed by the unmistakable aromas of grilling bacon and fresh coffee. Pulling on his jeans, he padded out of the bedroom and down the passage to the kitchen—to be greeted by the stunning sight of Fiona bumping and grinding her delicious, denim-clad curves around the kitchen, in perfect time with The Stones. The table was set for two, and there was a full pot of coffee on the machine. A decadent cooked breakfast was well on its way to completion.

  He leaned against the doorway, arms folded across his chest, legs crossed at the ankles, simply loving the sight of Fiona so clearly enjoying herself. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her so happy. Nor had he had any idea that she had a set of moves like that—first time around, whenever he’d taken her dancing, she’d been much more restrained. He’d obviously picked the wrong song for the dance at the wedding reception.

  Then he remembered the feel of her in his arms. Maybe not.

  At least she wasn’t singing—his woman couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. A combination of Fiona, tequila and karaoke was about the most lethal weapon of mass destruction known to mankind. Even now, hearing the song she’d slaughtered back then could still make him break into a cold sweat.

  At that moment, she caught sight of him watching her. She stopped dead in her tracks, eyes wide, teeth worrying her bottom lip as she just looked at him, waiting for him to say something. Her face was almost as red as the shirt that clung snugly to her breasts, emphasising the beading of her nipples, the effect of which zeroed in on his groin like a guided missile.

  “Don’t let me stop you,” he grinned, pushing himself away from the doorway with only a slight wince at the shift of denim over a burgeoning erection. “I was enjoying the floor show.”

  Her smile filled the room with sunshine. With a slow, deliberate pace, she approached, stopped right in front of him, and stood on tiptoe. Without touching him in any other way, she placed a sweet, gentle kiss on his lips. “Good morning, sir. May I show you to your table? Breakfast is almost ready.”

  “It smells delicious.” He leaned in for another kiss. Probably not a good idea to tell her he’d happily trade breakfast for another extended session in the bedroom. “Not as delicious as you, though. Just got to wash my hands—I’ll be right back.”

  With a smile, she spun away from him, heading back to the range—and treating him to another display of those deliciously swaying hips. His hand twitched—he was so tempted…

  “Hey! Quinn!” She rubbed her backside where his palm had connected. He thought he was screwed when she pivoted slowly; he knew it when he saw the look on her face. His brain recognised it as theatrical menace, but on a different level entirely, his body responded as if he were in real trouble. The way Fiona was looking at him released something in his chest, something he hadn’t even realised was held captive there. He couldn’t put a name to it, he wasn’t even sure he should like it…but sure as hell, it was turning him on.

  He didn’t need to wash his hands—he needed to feel the lash of an ice-cold shower instead.

  A plate of beautifully cooked food was waiting for him when Ryan returned a few minutes later, thankful that whatever it was that had affected him so strangely had passed. Work had been crazy lately—getting shot hadn’t exactly been part of the mission plan—so the chances were that he could lay the blame for the aberration at that particular door. He sat down, smiling to himself as Fiona brought him a glass of juice, her hand gentle on his shoulder as she leaned down to kiss his cheek. “Have you looked out of the window this morning?”

  Mouth watering in anticipation of the feast—and given that her breasts were inches from his mouth, he wasn’t especially thinking about food—Ryan told her he hadn’t, glancing appreciatively at the chef as she moved away to take her place at the table.

  “Coming straight here last night was a good call—there’s a foot of snow out there and it’s still coming down. We could end up snowed in for days.”

  Not that she sounded too upset about the prospect. Nor was he, Ryan had to admit as he made a start on the banquet set before him.

  As the thought struck him that this was the first meal Fiona had ever cooked for him, an explosion of complementary flavours had his taste buds rolling over in complete surrender. He’d had no idea she could cook like this, and since none of his previous girlfriends had shown any culinary talent, he’d subconsciously assumed the same of Fiona. And without engaging his brain, he said so.

  The ensuing silence triggered a horrible sinking feeling in Ryan’s stomach. He risked a glance at Fiona. She looked calm enough, but his instincts were telling him that that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. The woman he’d once known would have been upset by a stupid remark like that, but not the Fiona who sat a few feet away from him now; she simply smiled sweetly at him and carried on with her own breakfast, although he did experience a feeling not unlike imminent doom curling round his spine like a constricting snake. That sweet smile was nothing of the sort—it was a silent vow of revenge.

  Holy crap. At that moment, the significance of Fiona’s interest in the view from the window and the possibility of being snowed in coalesced in his consciousness, coming together around the recollection of one of her childhood tales, of the snowball fights she used to have with her little sister. It had been the look on her face that had given her away…a fiendish enjoyment of chasing Natalie around the garden, melting snowball in hand, ready for delivery, and then running away screaming when, bent on sibling revenge, Natalie came after her.

  He was doomed—he could feel the snowball going down the back of his neck already, and her next words served only to confirm that.

  “For that, Quinn, when we go outside later…you’re toast.”

  Oh well, at least the condemned man was having a hearty breakfast.

  “Would it help if I offered to do the dishes?” It was worth a try.

  “Your doing the dishes is a given.” She sipped her juice. “It doesn’t get you off the hook. I’m not mad, Ryan—but I will be getting even. Count on it.”

  “I am.”

  Ryan wasn’t sure whether he was joking or not.

  At the end of the meal, he cleared the table, very aware of Fiona’s eyes on him at all times from where she sat on the sofa with her legs curled up beside her. He was having a hard not time not grinning like an idiot—he liked the feeling of being on the receiving end of Fiona’s ersatz indignation. He wasn’t sure why, but he liked the idea of her keeping him in line.

  While he washed the dishes, he gazed out of the window at the snowy landscape beyond. Other thoughts tumbled through his mind too, such as how much he liked the idea of having a sense of order in his private life as well as his professional life, a sense of purpose. The order was having a home life that consisted of more than just crashing out and sleeping for a few hours when he got home from work—the purpose was caring for a family.

  He was particularly attracted to the concept of coming home to Fiona every night. Suddenly, the idea of dealing with the suits instead of being out in the field wasn’t quite as dreadful as he’d originally thought.

  Leaving the dishes to drain, he strolled over to join
her. Her nose was buried in a tablet, but an indefinable something told him that she was still keeping one eye firmly on him.

  She glanced up. “Shower!”

  “Come with me?” Ryan prompted hopefully.

  “Nope. I did that first thing, while you were snoring your head off.”

  “Hey, I don’t snore! Now that you’ve had a chance to take advantage of it, what do you think of the bathroom? Like it?”

  He could tell from the way her lips twitched that she did. After all the years of basic bathing facilities ashore and, at best, restricted facilities while he’d been on deployment in the Navy—and he didn’t even want to think about what they had to do while on a mission—the bathroom had been his one concession to luxury, back when he’d bought the cottage and had it renovated.

  “All that marble and glass doesn’t exactly encourage you to rush, does it?”

  “That’s the whole idea. You could still join me. I could even give you the guided tour.” Yes, it was scraping the bottom of the barrel, but he really didn’t care.

  “Nope.” She didn’t look up from her reading. “I have plans to make while you’re making yourself respectable.”

  That did not bode well. Plans meant revenge—she was definitely going to get him for that smart-arse comment. “What plans would they be?”

  “Oh, just plans. I shall be working on what we can do when you’re spruced up, depending on whether it’s still snowing or not.”

  “Care to let me in on the secret?”

  “Nope.” She lifted an elegant forefinger and pointed towards the passage. “Shower. Now.”

  Ryan was used to being the man in charge, the man giving the orders and making the decisions—taking the responsibility. For now, it seemed that Fiona had assumed that mantle, and as he mulled the concept over, he decided it wasn’t such a bad thing.

  In fact, it wasn’t a bad thing at all.

  Without moving her head, Fiona swivelled her eyes to watch Ryan leave. No doubt about it—front and back, that man filled a pair of jeans to perfection. Turning down the invitation to join him in that ridiculously indulgent bathroom had taken more self-control than she’d believed she had.

  Not only that—the inverted triangle of broad shoulders and narrow waist caused a feral unfurling of sheer animal need low in her belly. She’d never felt this way for any man until she’d met Ryan, and time apart hadn’t changed that.

  The fun over breakfast had brought her a twinge of sadness, in addition to the humour. She’d never had the chance to make breakfast—or any other meal—for him in the months they’d been together previously. At the time, they’d lived a considerable distance apart. His quarters had been on the base where he lived when not on deployment, and she hadn’t been living alone. That they’d even met in the first place was a complete fluke. They’d seen each other as often as they could, and when possible, talked every day on the phone.

  She’d never told him about her mother; she’d tried to keep something of her life for herself, for Ryan, something insulated from the effects of her mother’s failing mental health. That was why she’d never been able to ask him to stay the night at her place. It had always been hotels for them, even when they’d spent the week together after his six months away.

  Nat had insisted on coming back home to take care of their mother for that week, so that Fiona could have the time to be with Ryan. Going into respite care would have been too detrimental for their mother at that stage, or so Fiona had thought—sometime later, with the benefit of hindsight and with Ryan no longer a distraction in her life, she’d wondered if that was when she should have looked into full-time residential care.

  Fiona shook off the shadows of the past. That was history now, and nothing could be done to change it. Her mother was gone, and Fiona’s life had changed completely since those days. She was in control of her life now, and for whatever reason, Ryan had come back into it.

  And she owed him for that snippy comment about her cooking skills.

  Fiona took another look out of the window. Snow was still falling, so a walk and a snowball fight, while perhaps not entirely out of the question, might not be the best idea right now. But at some point, she was going to drag Ryan out in the winter wonderland to play. Then she’d get even.

  However, there was the separate matter of indoor entertainment. The hot chocolate and rum weren’t the only things she’d squirrelled away in one of her bags; she’d persuaded Ryan to stop off at one of her favourite speciality stores en route where she’d bought a selection of items intended to make their stay a little more…interesting. What she had in mind would work better in the evening, in the intimacy of the bedroom, with the lights low and romantic music playing in the background.

  A slow smile spread across her face. She could see it all now: a long, slow soak in the huge bathtub that was big enough for both of them, followed by a retreat to the bedroom—she could organise what she needed there while Ryan took care of running the bath—and then she could lead him to their haven and have her wicked way with him.

  Except that what she planned wasn’t wicked—it was an expression of her feelings for him, a way she could show him without words how she felt about him. The words would come eventually…she just wasn’t quite ready yet.

  The shower was still running. Ah, so much temptation. Fiona pictured him standing under the luxurious cascade, the movement of his muscles as he soaped his body, his hair—longer than he’d worn it while serving—slick with water…It was no use—she couldn’t resist the allure of those images drawing her to the bathroom door. She pushed it open.

  Oh wow. She didn’t think she’d ever get tired of looking at him. In the shower enclosure, with his back to her while washing his hair, he was one beautiful, male animal who appealed to all her more basic instincts. Her eyes devoured the sculpted muscles of his back, all the way down to his waist and then lower, to the tight curves and hollows of his backside. They skimmed over the scars he’d acquired in the service of Queen and country. The scars didn’t mar his body—they were badges of honour that served as a reminder of some of what made him the man he was.

  “I’m going to sell tickets,” she declared without a trace of shame. “I’ll make a fortune.”

  He turned round, at the same time sluicing off the shampoo. “I did ask you to join me, a chuisle.”

  “I know.” She looked smug. “Wait till tonight. I have something even better planned.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “It’ll be worth the wait—provided, of course, you don’t give me reason to change my mind.” Oh, the power!

  “And what do I have to do to ensure that you don’t change your mind?” His verbal response told her that he wasn’t averse to joining in the game; his body’s response said he was ready to jump in and play right now. Her body’s response was to let him, but her mind was holding up a huge STOP sign.

  “That’s easy. You just have to be very…very…good.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  When he snapped off the perfect salute, Fiona decided that she now owed him two snowballs…and they would be delivered in unmentionable places. And maybe, just for the hell of it, she’d have him salute and call her ma’am a little more often.

  A little while later, Ryan was sitting at the kitchen table, using the comms system on his high-spec laptop to host a conference call with his team leaders. He was supposed to be on sick leave—under normal circumstances, he’d have left this in Joel’s capable hands, as his second-in-command, but given that Joel was occupied elsewhere with his brand-new wife, Ryan was taking care of the daily calls. As he’d explained, responsibility for the safety of his people ultimately lay with him. For Fiona, the statement was a chilling reminder, along with his recent injury, of the potential risks associated with Ryan’s line of work.

  Curled up comfortably on one of the sofas, she continued to watch her man, while trying not to listen to what he was saying; it was all serious stuff, and in the not-too-distant past, it had p
ut a bullet through his shoulder. Needing a distraction from the way her mind was in danger of going, Fiona retrieved her sketch pad and pencils, and began to draw.

  She wasn’t a trained artist, but she did have a natural talent for sketching and painting. In fact, it was one of the ways she’d been earning a living since she’d walked out of her office job. With a few strokes, she captured the essence of the man seated a few yards away from her, and then began to fill in the details, the planes and the curves, the light and the shadows.

  What Fiona particularly wanted to portray was the intensity and the dedication of the man she loved. It was clear that he was passionate about what he was doing, and from the snippets she caught of his side of the call, his absolute priority was ensuring that the people who worked for him stayed as far out of harm’s way as possible.

  Equipped with a wireless headset, he wasn’t tied to the kitchen table; given the energy emanating from him, Fiona wasn’t surprised when he stood and started pacing round the kitchen, at one point leaning on the edge of the sink with his back to her. He could have been looking out of the window, but Fiona suspected that his concentration was focused like a laser beam on his conversation. The muscles in his arms flexed with the movements he made and all of a sudden, she was struck yet again by the strength and power of this remarkable man.

  Fiona was above average height, but at six-three, Ryan towered another eight inches over her. By no means overweight, she was no lightweight either, as her hourglass figure with its ample curves would attest, yet more than once she’d experienced the white-knuckle ride of being picked up and hefted over his brawny shoulder like a sack of potatoes, before being very firmly put in her place—usually slap-bang in the middle of a bed.