by Jule McBride
But of course she never had.
“Excuse me—” Knowing he’d better move, he brushed past her, got some shirts and returned, hanging them next to her suits.
“You put your T-shirts on hangers?”
“I don’t work on Wall Street, Lillian. All men don’t wear starched shirts.” Or move in a world of high rollers, money deals and power brokers where you feel so obviously at home. He’d kept his tone light, but there was no help for the depth of feeling this woman kept wrenching out of him. Shane, you’re acting like you’ve never talked to a beautiful woman before. And you’re not really playing house, this is an investigation. You’re here to search the place and help arrest her. Where’s your professionalism?
Lost in Lillian’s eyes, that’s where.
“Here,” she said. She held up a stack of pajamas, still in cellophane wraps. “Jammies.”
He suspected she was doing everything in her power to make his male presence less threatening. But did she really think he wore long powder-blue pants to bed? He couldn’t help but allow himself one piercing stare. “My Aunt Dixie Lynn gives them to me every Christmas. I don’t wear them. I sleep naked, Lillian.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh.”
He offered a glimmer of a smile. “Just in case Ethel wants to know an intimate detail from our marriage.”
“Right.”
She sounded throaty, and tension was hanging in the air again. It slipped beneath the surface, hovered above, and slid between them. It was so strong he could almost shudder from it, and their eyes were still locked.
Fortunately, Fin growled, “And what about this box, mister? It looks like pans.”
Lillian abruptly broke the gaze. Backing away, she suddenly whirled around gracefully, then took long-legged strides into the hallway. “Pans can go in the kitchen.”
“Or maybe you oughta just throw ’em out, lady. These are bent, burned and made of aluminum. And this—” As Shane entered the hallway behind Lillian, Fin lifted out a Dutch oven with flaking Teflon and shook his head in disgust. “It’s just a good thing you two are getting married. This guy obviously won’t survive much longer without a wife.”
“So true,” Lillian agreed.
“My wife wouldn’t even boil water in these,” Fin continued. “And she says cooking with aluminum can give you Alzheimer’s.”
Shane frowned. “Aluminum?” he muttered. “Is that bad?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of the pans,” said Lillian in a tone so matrimonial that Shane felt seriously unsettled.
Fin chuckled. “Judging from his old apartment, I guess he’s one of the most committed bachelors I’ve ever run across. No evidence of roots, if you know what I mean.”
“Well, he’s put down roots now,” Lillian said sweetly.
Once you gave her the ball, Shane thought, she sure ran with it. Fin nearly doubled with laughter. “Well, mister,” he said, “at least you and your dog are now living in the lap of luxury.”
Shane thought of his tumbledown cabin in East Texas, which hadn’t been much better furnished than the studio apartment he’d just left. Was this all he owned? He glanced at the boxes. All his life amounted to?
“He was kind of a lone wolf,” Lillian explained to Fin. “At least until I tamed him.”
The talk of taming him made him feel edgy, but soon enough, the agents would be gone and then Lillian’s cool self-possession, which roused his need to dominate, would fade quickly enough. He doubted she’d chance even the most subtle dare when they were alone.
“—Congratulations on your wedding plans, anyway,” Fin was saying. “So, is he taking you out for a nice romantic dinner?”
“Great idea,” Shane said smoothly, not about to let Fin rile him. “Why don’t you let me take you to one of the waterfront places, Lillian?” Given her psychological profile, plying her with wine over dinner would probably loosen her tongue. He guessed he wouldn’t mind having a candlelit table near the river, where they could gaze out at the boats…. Shane remembered one of the boats belonged to the FBI and snapped back to his senses.
“Really,” Lillian whispered, as Fin disappeared into the bedroom with another box. “I’d rather eat here and get right down to the business of getting to know each other. I’ll throw some dinner together while you finish arranging your stuff.”
So much for an expense-paid meal on the FBI. He nodded. “Fine.”
For an awkward moment, she merely stood there.
“Well, go on, wife,” he forced himself to tease mildly. “Put on the victuals.”
He tried to tell himself he’d get through this, that when she was locked up, it would all be worth it. But he still remained powerless over how much he wanted her. As she turned and strode across the living room, the almost painful tension in his body eased with her receding steps. The farther away she got, the less hold she had on him, but only when she’d entered the kitchen could he really breathe again.
Before she was gone, Shane figured she’d felt the steady burn of his gaze that swept down her because she’d turned back, just once, with a fleeting glance. Surrounded by the gilt-framed mirrors in the hallway, Shane reminded himself that’s all she was—just an image. A careful reflection calculated to disguise the woman beneath. He decided he was going to have to try to lighten the mood between them during dinner. The casual flirtation he’d engaged in today was sure preferable to whatever he was feeling now, and she’d seemed more comfortable with it.
Fin came from the bedroom, chuckling softly. “So, the lone wolf’s about to get hitched, huh?”
Shane raised a lazy eyebrow as if to say Lillian’s beauty didn’t unhinge him in the least. “Now, Fin, you’re just jealous.”
“Ah, is the bridegroom nervous about his honeymoon night?”
Shane couldn’t keep the sudden edge from his voice. “You know we’re going to arrest her before it comes to that.”
Fin merely laughed. “You sound nervous.”
Hell, maybe Shane was. After all these years, he’d gotten his wish—to penetrate Delilah’s lair—but when he’d watched her vanish into the kitchen with Lone Star, her hips swaying and her navy skirt teasing the backs of her knees, Shane was suddenly sure it was he—not her—who’d just walked into the trap.
CHAPTER FOUR
“I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS, Ms. Lone Star!” Lillian scratched behind the scraggly dog’s ear, feeling panicked. Jefferson had called about something at the office, so Lillian hadn’t even started dinner yet. Right now, Shane Holiday was probably in her bedroom again. That was bad enough. But soon he’d be coming into the kitchen, looking for her.
“And you need a makeover, don’t you, Ms. Lone Star?”
Lone Star thumped her tail on the kitchen floor.
“Ah,” crooned Lillian. “I bet you’ll need a whole spa week at the doggie Elizabeth Arden! But don’t you worry. We’ll get you a nice bubble bath and a hair trim. Maybe some pretty pink polish for those toenails and bows for your hair. Why, you poor thing. When it comes to what a little girl needs, Shane Holiday doesn’t have a clue!”
Lone Star barked in agreement. But Lillian’s pulse suddenly accelerated, breaking through her denial. Given Shane Holiday’s good looks, he was probably no stranger to female needs. How had she convinced herself that she was only interested in him because he might be able to help her adopt Brandon? When she’d opened the apartment door this evening, she’d almost gone into the kind of old-fashioned Southern swoon for which her Grandma Fontenont had been famous.
He was exactly the same man, but somehow his mild blue eyes were now a strange, hard-edged silver. Staring from a tanned, craggy face, the pupils of those eyes pierced everything they touched, and the razor straight hair he never managed to get out of his eyes drew attention right to the disturbing gaze. He was older than she’d thought, and hard and taut all over. Uncompromising but with glimmers of rusty humor.
Lillian fought down pure panic. Oh, she couldn’t quite pinpoint all the differenc
es. But they added up to one big difference: the man couldn’t sleep under her roof. Not tonight. Not ever. And yet without him, she’d never get the baby. When he’d arrived, she’d simple done her best to cover her shock. But now she wasn’t even sure what she’d said for the past half hour. Had she goaded him? Gotten on his nerves? Flirted? He did have a hands-off reserve that brought out the worst in her, making her want to tease him.
“What did I just get myself into?” she muttered.
Sighing, she stared at Lone Star again, trying to get her mind off Shane. No self-respecting caseworker would let a newborn near this rangy mutt. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” she murmured, frowning guiltily. “It’s not your fault your daddy’s been so negligent. But we’ll fix you up.”
Lillian opened the freezer door and stared inside at the stacks of TV dinners, then she opened the fridge’s other side, considering. At least she’d bought pasta and vegetables. Not that she was much of a cook. Still trying to deflect thoughts of her sexy new roommate and upcoming marriage, she forced herself to bustle around—boiling water and throwing butter into the sauté pan. She began dicing, starting with garlic cloves and broccoli. Now, if she could just remember where she put those bottles of expensive red wine Jefferson gave her last Christmas. It was nearly a whole case….
“How’s my fiancée doing in here?”
Determined to keep her composure, she turned and smiled. “Fine. Are you completely settled, Shane?”
“Yeah. Anything I can do?”
“You mean like tie rice bags?”
Shane smiled. “Just don’t throw me the bouquet at our wedding. If I catch it, we might have to get married for real.” He glanced around. “Sure I can’t do anything?”
“Really,” she managed. “Everything’s under control.” But it wasn’t. The man’s black cowboy hat was sitting on the marble-topped table next to the front door, as if it had found its permanent home. His underwear was in her drawer, and his shirts were in her closet. Oh, she understood the need to create the illusion that they were lovers, but it was unsettling. Besides, wasn’t he taking it a little far? Surely, they could keep separate underwear drawers. But then, such things would make their supposed relationship more convincing. As she watched him set up Lone Star’s dishes, she reconsidered serving wine with dinner. Shane might get ideas. And he couldn’t. It was why she’d turned down his dinner invitation even though going out would have been more convenient.
“There, Lone Star,” he said. “Have some grub. Mind if I turn on the radio?”
“Please.”
Maybe that would break the tension. But it didn’t. No more than the frisky dog that kept popping up between them. Lillian could have sworn Shane was as lumpy as the linen jacket he’d worn earlier, but he had wide shoulders and a strong back. Jeans that were faded to white molded over a tight behind and around extremely long legs.
He wheeled the radio dial until it was playing classical. That came as a surprise. “Classical?”
He shot her a quick sideways glance. “In case you want to start filing away facts about me, I like Debussy.” He frowned. “I noticed relaxation tapes in with your CDs. You have trouble sleeping?”
Realizing her eyes had settled on his broad chest, she suddenly felt tired of the tension between them. Deciding to try a new tack and meet it head on, she shot him a sudden saucy smile. “Afraid I’ll sleepwalk into your bed or something?”
“Who knows?” The gaze that swept down her didn’t seem nearly as placid as his voice. “You look like you could be a dangerous woman.”
Despite his smile, the words struck too close to home. After all, dark dreams did invade her sleep and awaken her with terror. Memories she’d buried resurfaced at night, bringing explosions and gunfire. She mustered a smile of her own. “Well, Shane, I promise not to bite. Now, if you don’t mind checking those cabinets, I think there’s a bottle of red wine…”
“Glad to.”
“Thanks.”
Feeling shaky, she threw some red onion into the sauté pan and began rinsing celery stalks, silently wishing she didn’t want a child so desperately. Should she call this off? Could she really marry this man who’d just moved out of his apartment and into hers? Everything had happened so quickly that she felt strangely man-handled. Not that Shane had touched her. And he’d come at her invitation. Besides, Ethel Crumble had spoken so highly of him. It wasn’t as if he was a complete stranger….
Still, that she’d invited him here was a definite testament to how badly she wanted to adopt Brandon. Her gaze slid to Shane again. The ease with which the man moved around her kitchen calmed her a little. He seemed less cagey now than he had when he was unpacking. He still moved with caution, but he didn’t seem nervous, and he instinctively seemed to know where she kept things. It was as if he was already acquainted with the layout, or had been inside her apartment before. As if he belonged here.
“Excuse me,” he murmured.
Before she could react, he reached around her and opened the silverware drawer. The fleeting sensation of his body—his chest grazing her back and his groin brushing her hip—was already gone by the time she drew a sharp breath.
“Sorry,” he said absently, still standing so close she could feel his heat. Setting the wine bottle on the counter, he angled the corkscrew into the cork. “Any more garlic,” he teased mildly, glancing over, “and you can bet there’ll be no good-night kiss.”
Waving a knife in his direction, she drawled, “Careful there, mister, or you’ll be sleeping on a bench in Central Park.”
He smiled. “Just testing your boundaries.”
The exchange, which was more akin to the casual flirtation they’d shared earlier, made her breathe easier. She guessed it would take a while to readjust to the fact that he now lived here. “Testing boundaries is fine. Cross them and you’ll eat elsewhere.”
He popped the wine cork. “Well, if you wind up having to drink all this wine by your lonesome, I can’t vouch for your ladylike behavior when I get back.” When he waved the cork beneath his nose, his soft male grunt of appreciation teased her spine with a sudden, delicious shiver. His voice was husky. “Great wine.”
She shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. It was a gift.”
“No classical music. No taste in wine.” Shane’s gaze caught hers, as he checked through the cabinets, shaking his head in disapproval. “For such a classy-looking woman, you sure don’t get out much.”
“And this,” she drawled, noting how he easily he found her best wine goblets, “from the man with the three-legged mutt and pink underwear.”
“Hear that, Lone Star?” Shane poured the wine and tasted it. “Whoever sent you this has excellent taste.”
“It was Jefferson, my boss.” When Shane held out the other glass to her, she lifted her hands, so he could see they were peppered with vegetable bits. “I’ll taste it in a minute.”
He swirled the goblet beneath her nose. “Just a sip.”
When he came closer, the movement of his body swept away her breath. He brushed against her as easily as air, even though he was all lean, rock-hard muscle. He was tall enough that even she—no slouch herself—had to lean her neck back to look at him, which she did. And then she was utterly captured, ensnared by a gaze so steady she felt utterly weak.
When he thrust his free hand though his hair, distractedly forcing it off his forehead, his groin brushed her side, making her pulse accelerate. “C’mon. I won’t bite. No more than you will.”
She had to struggle against the florid heat threatening to flood her face. And against gravity, since her knees weakened. Who was this disturbing man who’d come so suddenly into her structured life? He strode in on these long, lean legs and now threatened every ounce of the control she’d fought so hard to achieve. Somehow, she found her voice. It was amazingly steady. “Maybe just a taste.”
Amusement flickered in his eyes. “You look so worried.”
Determined to prove she wasn’t, she parted her lips. Only whe
n Shane pressed the full goblet to her mouth and tipped, did her knees quiver. In a quick movement, she righted herself—and red liquid splashed down her blouse.
“Damn!” Shane swore. “I’m sorry!”
Swiftly, he set the glass aside, grabbed a wet dish towel and started mopping the stain. As he did so, his fingers reached around her neck, cupping it. “Hold still,” he commanded.
Was he kidding? With his thumb nestled behind her ear, Lillian was frozen to the spot. At least the music covered the quickening of her breath. No man had touched her for years. Not so much as a hug or kiss. And then to have this sexy man… She fought the sudden urge to ask how old he was. And to inquire about his last girlfriend. But no, this was very definitely the wrong time for date questions.
“I’d better watch you carefully,” he was saying grimly. “One sip of good wine and you’re already out of control.”
Her? He was soaking her thin silk blouse with the cold wet cloth, making the fabric transparent. She quickly reached up, clamping her hand tightly around his wrist to stop him. “That’s okay,” she managed. “Really, Shane. I think I can get this.”
Too late, she realized the pressure of her hand had brought his lower arm to her breast. Her nipple constricted against the dampened blouse, against his arm.
He didn’t move.
And she couldn’t. Especially not when she felt his pulse. And met his eyes. His expression was unnervingly bland, offering no indication he was affected, but his pulse was racing, drumming beneath her fingertips. She became conscious of the radio announcer, who was saying, “We hope you’re staying cool in the heat wave…”
She suddenly remembered the whole left side of her blouse was soaked with frigid water. Shane’s tone was impossibly even, almost formal. “That cold water ought to take care of the wine, Lillian. It won’t stain.”
