by Maggie Way
“What remark?” With his head inside a cupboard, his voice sounded muffled.
“You know what remark.”
“Remind me.”
“He said the last thing he needs is a cop hanging around.”
Luke slammed a cupboard shut. “Tell me you have a skillet.”
She flung the quilt onto the island. At the stove, she retrieved a skillet from the bottom drawer and held it out to him.
He reached for it, but at the last second, she jerked it away. “Is this about Max?”
Rather than answer, his gaze dropped to her breasts and green sparks flared in his eyes. She ducked her chin to see her nipples poking through the thin fabric of her nightshirt.
Heat, both embarrassed and aroused, swept through her.
He snatched the pan from her grasp. “If a cop’s the last thing he wants hanging around, that’s exactly what he’s gonna get.”
“Do you really think that’s necessary?”
“Probably not, but until I know for sure, you’re stuck with me.”
“What, like barnacles?”
He bared his teeth. “Cute.”
She smiled, pleased with herself. “Thank you.”
“I was thinking something a little more glamorous, like, bodyguard or man-servant.”
“Man-servant? I like the sound of that.”
The smile with the dimples appeared. “Why don’t you see if you can toast a few slices without burning down the house?” He tossed her a loaf of bread.
Caught off guard, she bobbled the loaf and it hit the floor with a thud.
When she’d recovered the loaf, she slid slices into the four-slot toaster while Luke cracked eggs into a ceramic bowl. He added a splash of milk and whipped the mix with a whisk before pouring the contents of the bowl into the skillet. Then he retrieved an onion and a green pepper from the grocery tote.
He selected a knife from the drawer and she handed him a cutting board. His large hands handled the vegetables with extreme gentleness as he sliced and diced them with expert ease. While he worked, the weariness she only then noticed faded from around his eyes.
She grew absorbed in watching him, so much so that she startled when the toast popped. Indeed, a little overdone.
Admitting defeat, she left him to it and went to grab a shower. She sped through her routine, throwing on jeans, a clean bra, and a T-shirt before returning to the kitchen with her hair still wet.
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the other smells of breakfast and her stomach let loose an angry growl.
Luke turned away from the counter, a plate loaded down with eggs and toast in his hands. Catching sight of her, his warm gaze raked over her and the faintest hint of a smile touched his lips.
Her heart turned over in response.
“Are you hungry?” He set the plate on the kitchen island.
She hesitated all of one second before sliding onto a barstool and scooping up a heaping forkful of warm, gooey omelet.
A hand shot up to cover her mouth, stifling her moan of pleasure. “Omigosh, this is really good.” She licked the corner of her mouth. “Like, really good.”
A glimmer of light flickered in his eyes and he leaned with his elbows on top of the island. “I’m glad you like it.”
With her next bite, she couldn’t quell her groan of ecstasy.
He coughed and straightened abruptly. “I, uh, gotta get to work, or something.”
“Really?” She followed him to the back door.
In the mudroom, he stilled with his hand on the doorknob and gazed down at her, an odd expression on his face.
“Wh-what’s wrong?” She ran a hand over her hair. “Wh-why are you looking at me like that?”
A flicker of baffled confusion played over his features. “Because I want to kiss you.” He sounded surprised.
“Y-you do?”
His eyelids grew heavy. “I really do.”
So that’s what a smoldering glance looked like.
A thrill rushed through her with dizzying speed, but she told herself the light-headedness wasn’t specific to Luke. After a lifetime of scarce male attention, any man would’ve caused her heart to race and her palms to turn clammy. Any man who looked at her with naked hunger the way he did would’ve made her insides all hot and liquidy.
Any man taking such obvious sexual interest in her would’ve made her yearn to get naked for him.
It just so happened, Luke was that man. The first to flirt with her in forever, and while she didn’t yet understand the rules of the game they were playing, she suspected she’d suck at it even if she did know.
He was a Harley Davidson when she needed training wheels, but she couldn’t let her ignorance rob her of the chance to ride such a supreme vehicle. Whatever game they played, she’d learn along the way, and what better way to learn than with a man like Luke?
So she lifted her chin. “Then why don’t you?”
The soles of his shoes scuffed against the marble-tiled floor as he closed the distance between them. He fondled a strand of her hair near her ear. “I guess because I’m all twisted up inside. Afraid that I’ll do it wrong and then you won’t want me to kiss you anymore.”
He was teasing her, and for once, she didn’t mind. Indeed, she liked it. She liked that he caught her by surprise, and that he spent time thinking of ways to do so. She liked the intimacy of sharing a joke with him.
“W-Well, the only w-way to improve is w-with practice. Lots and lots of practice.”
Surprise touched his features. “You’re teasing me?”
She nodded. She couldn’t explain it, except he made her bold.
“I’m so proud of you.” His head bent low, until a mere whisper separated their mouths. “I should reward you.”
Her heart slammed against her breastbone. She’d pleased him, and the thought excited her. Probably more than it should.
“Lucky for you,” she whispered, “I respond well to praise.”
His smile faded, chased away by the lick of fire in his eyes.
He took a small nip of her mouth, and another. His lips nudged hers apart and his soft tongue explored her. Tasting, savoring. He tasted like lemon drops. Sugary and sweet, potent and tangy.
Their joke wasn’t far from the truth, except she was the student learning from a pro like him. She mimicked his slow, erotic kisses. With her first tentative nibble, he moaned, and her world spun.
The kiss deepened and held, and his hands came up to cradle her head.
Then it was over.
His fingers lightly toyed with the hair at her temple. “Have you had a kiss better than that?”
“Tons,” she breathed.
“Tons of kisses or tons better?”
“Hmm-mm,” she purred.
His smile flashed only briefly. “Damn, I’ve got a lot to learn. Better get some more practice.”
His head slanted over hers and his mouth came down with greedy possession. He suckled her bottom lip and a jolt of yearning spiraled through her to simmer low in her belly. A moan dragged from her and her hands sought out the warmth of his flesh beneath his T-shirt. She smoothed her palms over the taut skin of his abdomen.
With gentle pressure, he tilted her chin and took slow, lazy licks of her mouth. Each caress sent liquid fire pulsing downward between her legs.
Her fingers danced along the waistband of his jeans.
On a gasp, he broke the kiss and pressed his forehead to hers. “God, Emily, you make it hard to breathe.”
She held on to both of his wrists to keep herself from sinking to a puddle at his feet.
Gripping a fistful of her hair, he nipped several more kisses. When he pulled away, she nearly cried out with the loss of him.
“I have to go.” He opened the door.
“Wh-why?” She didn’t care that her desperation showed.
He snatched her to him once more. “Because if I stay I… I’ll….” His mouth covered hers once more, this time with punishing possessi
veness.
“I don’t care,” she said between kisses. “Luke, I don’t care what happens.”
With a growl, he released her. Backing away, his heel caught on the doorsill and he tripped over the threshold.
When he looked at her, she glimpsed a stark terror lurking in his eyes. “But I do.”
Then he was gone.
Chapter Ten
The early morning stillness hung over the island when Luke parked his SUV under the oak tree in Emily’s driveway. He didn’t exactly know why he was here. He shouldn’t be. Emily Cole was proving to be far more dangerous to his self-control than he’d ever imagined. If yesterday’s kiss hadn’t convinced him of that, then the fact he couldn’t stop himself last night from stroking out another climax with her name on it should have.
No, he shouldn’t have come back, but neither could he stay away. Not after what he’d gleaned of her life two nights before. She deserved a break. And a friend. He wanted to give her that much.
He just had to do it while keeping his damn hands off her. He had to stay in control of himself. Be the good guy. For her.
The wind rustled in the trees overhead and a bird chirped at him from the bushes as he rounded the side of the house.
He’d always enjoyed Thief Island, with its wild weather and the constant roar of wind and sea, but this spot, Emily’s house, was particularly alluring. On the northernmost tip, her property sat up high and boasted one of the best views anywhere on the island. His pace quickened.
A split second before he reached the backyard, an unusual sound reached his ears and he lurched to a stop. He crept forward, slipping around to the back of the house. Until he saw her, and froze.
A garden hose in her hand, she moved around the patio, giving water to the flowers bursting out of the ground, and all the while, she sang. Struck by the sight and sound of her, Luke stood in the grass, his hands loose at his sides.
Her voice, though strong and sure, and without the slightest hint of a stutter, didn't overpower. It was soft, sultry even, and heartfelt. Genuine and unassuming, like the woman. At the crescendo, a rasp came into her tone that grabbed him by the balls.
Her. He wanted her.
She sang of a long-ago lover, her song at once a celebration and a lament, a bittersweet mix of the joy and sorrow, and a flood of emotion—every emotion—rushed forth to drown him. Captured by her voice and her peaceful heart, he was unable to move toward her or run away.
He had to have her.
It didn’t make any sense, why he wanted her so badly. He could have any woman. But no other woman had managed to do what the shy, unassuming Emily Cole had.
Get him hard and keep him hard with wanting.
Just then, she startled and spun in his direction. “Luke!”
The spray of water from the hose shot across the patio and he lunged to avoid its frigid shower.
He showed his palms. “Don’t shoot.”
She let go of the nozzle and the water stream collapsed.
Needing a moment to regain his composure, he bounded up the porch steps.
“I already m-made breakfast,” she called after him.
He turned and narrowed his eyes at her. “What did you make?”
“I bought m-muffins and pastries.”
His lip curled. “Store-bought muffins? Are you serious right now?”
The screen door snapped shut behind him, his last glimpse of her tripping over the hose and scrambling after him.
He ate his smile.
When she burst into the kitchen, he closed the refrigerator door, a carton of eggs in his hand.
“I’m p-perfectly capable of feeding a lone houseguest.”
“There’s a time and a place for processed junk food,” he informed her. “Breakfast is not it.”
She flipped open the cardboard box from the bakery. “You’re a cop. I thought baked goods were your weakness.”
“I’m watching my figure.”
Her gaze flitted down his frame and back up again. “Nice job.”
His bark of laughter surprised him. God, she was fun. He enjoyed everything about her. Her animated features and frequent blushes, her sharp mind, and even the way she talked. Not the stutter necessarily, though he found it endearing, but her slow, deliberate speech intrigued him more and more all the time.
She didn’t fight to be heard or toss around careless thoughts or sentiments. Everything she said was specifically chosen for him, and he found himself waiting to hear the words she’d selected as worthy for his consideration.
His laughter died when she plucked a cinnamon roll from the box. She bit into the sweet treat, and the next few moments became an exercise in torture for him. When her pink tongue darted out to lick a splotch of white frosting from her lower lip, a punch of lust stole his voice. She mentioned something about taking a shower, and he grunted.
Alone in the kitchen, Luke sliced into a potato and tried to block out the images of her under the warm spray. Water sloughing over her smooth skin and beaded nipples. His mouth closing over one pink areola.
He slammed his mind back to the potato wedges. In the past, he’d enjoyed cooking. Enjoyed getting lost in the mechanics, the mixing of flavors and aromas, the precise timing.
Today, it wasn’t working.
Emily returned on a fresh-scented cloud as he finished frying the potatoes. She’d dried her hair and pulled it into a ponytail that hung down her back in soft waves. As usual, not a speck of makeup marred her pretty face and a pair of worn blue jeans hugged her heart-shaped ass. The pale blue tank top she wore exposed the ivory skin of her shoulders, still dewy with moisture.
“M-Max still hasn’t come down?”
“Nope.” Luke popped a hot potato wedge into his mouth.
She worried her plump bottom lip. “He hasn’t left his room in two days.”
He swallowed. “He hasn’t left at all?”
She shook her head and her ponytail shimmied about her shoulders. “Do y-y-you think—” Her throat worked. “Sh-should I knock?”
“You should knock.”
She hesitated.
He headed for the kitchen door. “Follow me.”
They passed through the dining room and in the foyer, crossed to the massive staircase. He stopped.
She gazed up at the second floor.
“At the very least, you have to make sure he isn’t dead.”
She blanched.
“I’m kidding.” He nudged her with his shoulder. “We’re going to have to work on your sense of humor.”
“Later, okay?” She climbed one stair, and then whirled to face him. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You say ‘the kitchen closes in ten minutes. If you want to eat, you need to do it now.’”
Her features pulled into an adorable frown. “That sounds rude.”
He waved a hand in front of his face. “Say it however you like, but that’s the general message you need to convey.”
She plopped down hard on a step and her expression twisted with such misery, he almost took pity on her.
Almost.
“You know, there are a few things I’d like to ask him.” He started up the stairs. “Why don’t I just—?”
“No!” Emily surged to her feet. “I’ll do it. I’ll do it right now.”
She backed up several steps before she turned and started to climb. At the top, she snuck a glance back at him over his shoulder.
He gave her a stern look. “You can do it.”
“I’m not very good at talking to p-p-people,” she whispered.
A pang struck him in his chest. “Visualize.”
Her eyebrows inched upward.
“Studies prove visualizing success increases the likelihood you’ll achieve real success.”
“It does?”
He had no freaking idea, but it sounded like something he might hear at one of the seminars Cynthia kept sending him to. Plus, he had to say something to bring some color back into her cheeks.
/> “It’s true if you make it so,” he said.
She didn’t look convinced.
“Okay, visualize this.” He raised both hands before his face. “You’re a piranha. A small fish with a big bite.”
Startled laughter burst from her, and he stared while the light, lyrical sound filled the foyer.
Truth be told, he couldn’t find a single humorous thing about the moment. Not the thundering beneath his breastbone, nor the white-hot lawlessness suddenly surging through his veins.
When he’d started this thing with her, he’d wanted a distraction, and certainly he’d gotten that much. What he hadn’t bet on was the desperate quality of his growing desire for her.
And as her laughter faded and she turned from him, her terror at speaking a few simple words to a not-quite stranger palpable, something inside him shifted, forever changing what he would see when he looked at her.
A small smile touched her lips as she made her way down the hall.
He’d taken the time to figure her out, and he’d used his knowledge to challenge her, a fact that rendered her insanely giddy.
Her mind turned to the task ahead of her. She visualized herself knocking on the bedroom door and informing Max that a scrumptious breakfast awaited him downstairs. He’d thank her and go with her downstairs to enjoy the food Luke had prepared for him.
She lifted a hand and knocked two soft taps on Max’s door. She waited, but no noise reached her from within the bedroom. Was he asleep? She gulped. Or dead?
She knocked again, louder this time.
A crash and thump sounded on the other side of the door, and then a clamor erupted. The thunder of footsteps shook the floor and Emily took a step back just as the door swung open. Max loomed before her.
He wore black running pants, but nothing else, and his dirty-blond hair stood on end. He peered at her with bloodshot eyes, red rimmed and heavy lidded. It appeared as though he hadn’t slept in days.
“Are y-y-you hungry?”
“No.” He pushed on the door.
Her hand shot out and stopped it from closing. His gaze flew to her face, but words jammed in her throat.
He shoved both hands through his ruffled hair. “Look, I’m right in the middle of something—”
