by Diana Duncan
Shivering beneath his unwavering regard, she started to follow suit.
He snatched the glass from her. “Oops. I almost forgot. No booze for expectant mamas.”
“Aw, crap. I needed that.” Mia’s nape prickled, and she turned to see Isabel shooting visual poison darts. “Your fan club over there looks a little petulant. No doubt missing your talented attention on the dance floor.”
“Didn’t get much choice. I couldn’t have her complaining to Esteban about me.”
“Where’d you learn the fancy footwork, McQuade?”
“Mama bribed me into taking ballroom dancing with all my sisters. I suffered through it because it honed my coordination for football.”
“Yeah, well, if you’d been dancing any closer to that bimbo, you’d have been inside her dress.” Watching Isabel grope Dallas like she owned him had been bad enough. But when the voluptuous siren had planted her mouth on his, stinging jealously had tempted Mia to submerge the bitch’s head in the fountain until the air bubbles quit coming up.
One broad shoulder lifted. “I was merely acting polite.”
She scowled. “Oh, is that what you call it in Texas?”
“I’m touched you got all hot and bothered on my behalf, darlin’.”
“I don’t appreciate my husband—make believe or not—getting groped in a public place.”
He smirked. “You’d rather grope me in a private place?”
“Funny as a hung jury, McQuade.”
Esteban sauntered into the room. As the band struck up an exhilarating salsa, Dallas flashed her a daring grin. “Esteban’s back, gotta advance the cause. Can you dance?”
“I did my share of musical theater, including a Latin show. Think you can keep up?”
Dallas set down his champagne flute. Set hers beside his. Straight white teeth flashed his bad-boy smile. He crooked his finger at her. “Dare you to find out.”
She offered her hand. Dallas took it and led her onto the center of the floor. He whirled her, caught her. Spun her backward, then forward to the fast, sexy salsa, sure hands guiding, lithe boot-steps instantly responding to her every move. Dallas McQuade was as powerful, graceful, and in absolute command on the dance floor as he was when fighting … or kissing.
When the band segued to a sensual rumba, Dallas’s smile warmed, grew wicked. One hand slid to Mia’s hip as the other turned her to smoothly pull her back against his front. She undulated her hips to the seductive rhythm, reveling in his sharp intake of breath and evident arousal.
The rest of the world ceased to exist. Their connection lengthened into forever … only the two of them, woven together with music and motion and the erotic play of seduction.
The background instruments softened. The lead guitarist drifted into the slow, throbbing beat of a Santana ballad. Mia and Dallas fluidly melded into an intimate embrace. She rested her cheek on his chest, let her eyelids flutter closed.
Dallas’ right hand cradled hers below his shoulder, his left arm securely wrapping her waist as they swayed, in perfect physical and mental sync.
The planes and angles of Dallas’ lean-muscled frame rubbed enticingly against her. His erection pressed into her stomach, his hard, strong body the ideal counterpart to her own soft curves.
If he made love as well as he danced …
Her belly clenched, and she stumbled.
Dallas’s arm tightened, holding her closer. The fine sandpaper of his cheek grazed hers as he nuzzled her hair. Satin lips brushed her earlobe. “Mmm.” His hot whisper shivered in her ear. “What’s suddenly tripping through that lighting brain of yours, and tripping up your feet?”
He read her way too well. Mia drew a shuddering breath. “I … ah … I was just … thinking … how different our bodies are.”
“And thank heaven for that,” he rumbled.
“Yes, but— If I had a body like yours—”
His low, carnal laugh vibrated through her. “Dancing together would be damned awkward.”
“But if … if I had a man’s power, a man’s strength … nobody could hurt me again.”
Dallas’ fingers gently squeezed hers. Without interrupting the rhythm, he eased back a few inches to look down at her. His eyes glittered with savage, primal resolve … fierce and wholly male. “Nobody’s gonna hurt you anymore, Mia. Not on my watch.”
Suddenly having a champion didn’t seem like such a terrible idea after all.
She gulped. Which was a very, very bad thing.
The men in her life had betrayed her in one way or another. Depending on anyone was perilous. She’d learned that lesson the hard way when no one had listened to her childhood cries for help. When her ‘friend’ Paul and his father had turned out to be corrupt, vindictive bastards.
Men she’d thought she could count on always let her down when she needed them the most.
She wasn’t about to abandon the one thing that had kept her safe all these years—her reliance only on herself.
Mia pulled out of his arms. “It’s late. I should be leaving.” She pivoted toward the exit. “I’ll meet you at Esteban’s for brunch tomor—”
“Whoa, hold the stampede.” Dallas snagged her elbow, brought her around to face him. He leaned close, his drawl quiet. “You want Montoya to find out we’re staying at separate houses? Because he’ll know five minutes after you reach your apartment.”
Mia’s stomach flip-flopped. “I— We—”
“Non-negotiable addendum, darlin’.” His mouth curled in that lazy, dangerous smile. “For the duration of our ‘marriage,’ you’ll be sleeping with me.”
Chapter 8
Mia fumbled the buckle into the seatbelt slot while Dallas’ black Jeep nosed out of the country club’s parking lot and into scant one a.m. traffic. She set her purse and bundled jeans and lavender T-shirt, which she’d put into coat-check when she arrived at the party, on the floorboards.
She hadn’t spoken since they’d left the dance floor. Her nerves were dancing their own solo salsa.
She was going home with a man whose mere touch destroyed her every inhibition.
His affection might be faked, but the desire arcing between them was shatteringly genuine. When they touched, kissed, danced—hell, when they looked at each other—he got unmistakably “hot and bothered.”
And God help her, so did she.
Dallas braked for a red light. “The prospect of sleeping with me renders you speechless?” he drawled. “I should’ve suggested it hours ago.”
Mia managed a disdainful snort. “Camping out on your sofa is the least of necessary evils lately. I’m faint with hunger, that’s all. My last meal was a couple of airport mystery meat sandwiches and some party hors d'oeuvres.” She pointed to the famous golden arches. “There’s a Mickey D’s. Let’s eat.” A rueful smile sneaked out. “Zane’s treating.”
Dallas shook his head as he accelerated through the now green light and swung into the drive-through lane. “Take it from me, you do not want to get on Wolfe’s bad side.”
“A day late and a three-hundred-and-fifty dollar plane ticket short.” She requested a double cheeseburger meal with an extra side of fries. “He and Carlos work for you, right? I’m your ‘wife,’ so what can he do?”
Dallas ordered a spicy chicken sandwich and a large orange juice. He plucked a twenty from his wallet to pay the bored teenage boy at the window. “Diaz and Wolfe take orders from me, but they’re employed by Montoya as live-in bodyguards. They were already in his service before I started. When Esteban designated me as head of security, it caused some hard feelings with Zane—and your stunt isn’t gonna help.”
“I’ll apologize. And reimburse him.”
“That’s not the real issue, Mia, and you know it.”
“Yeah, well, all’s fair in combat.”
“You get into a scrimmage with Zane, you’re gonna lose.”
“Appears like we already went head-to-head, and we know who won.” She unwrapped his sandwich so he could eat as he drove,
then attacked her food.
By the time they cruised down a deserted suburban road nearly thirty minutes later, she was stashing the last of the wadded napkins in the bag.
Dallas turned into the driveway of a two-story sage green Craftsman house set at the back of a double lot surrounded by trees—the only house for miles. He pressed a remote on the visor, the garage door motored up, and he parked inside. The door rumbled down. He shut off the engine.
Dark.
Silent.
Completely alone with Dallas McQuade.
Suddenly the cheeseburgers and fries weren’t sitting so comfortably.
Dallas exited, rounded the hood. She climbed out seconds before he reached her, just in time to see his rueful headshake. “My Mama taught me to open doors for ladies.”
“While I appreciate good manners as well as anyone, I’m used to doing things for myself.”
“Thus the problem,” he muttered. His hand on her back guided her through the darkness to an interior entry lit only by a keypad. He tapped a code too rapidly for her to catch, swung open the door.
Dallas steered her through the kitchen and living room without turning on any lights. Not difficult, since the house had minimal furniture.
“Did you recently move in?”
“I’ve lived here for years, why?”
“It’s ah … really clean.” And empty.
“Nobody’s been here before. In my line of work, you can’t be too careful. No one knows where I live, including my family. You’ll be completely safe.”
Meant to reassure, his deceptively casual statement honed Mia’s awareness of his expertly disguised inner turmoil. Only one thing made a person this cautious. This wary. This isolated.
She recognized the symptoms because she carried them herself—self-protection born from pain. “Your family doesn’t ever visit?”
“I go there. Mama doesn’t like to leave her garden in someone else’s care, and it’s simpler than carting the babies and their paraphernalia on an airplane.”
Sounded plausible, but Mia’s instincts were thrumming. The circumstantial evidence added up. Dallas McQuade had been damaged, like she had. And like her, he was fighting a grim internal battle he hid from the world.
He ushered her up a wide, open flight of stairs and across a loft overlooking the living area before he finally flicked on a light switch inside the master bedroom. The enormous room’s design was true to the house’s classic Craftsman style. Mia studied the builder’s beige walls, bare oak-plank floors, stonework corner fireplace, and generous wood-framed windows fitted with supposed-to-be-temporary paper shades. He kept it pristine, and furnished only by a square mahogany dresser layered with framed photographs, a wooden TV tray for a nightstand … and a king-sized bed.
Incongruous amidst the Spartan non-décor—which he’d obviously left as-is after buying the place—an amazing russet, moss, and ivory quilt topped the thick mattress, its hand-pieced workmanship showcased between the gleaming mahogany and iron-railed headboard and footboard.
The by-now frequent, staggering urge to snuggle up in bed beside him stole Mia’s breath. She gave herself a mental head-smack before turning to her inscrutable roommate. “So where’s the guest room?”
“Kind of tough for you to sleep in a guest room, seeing as how there’s nothing in any of ‘em.” When she frowned, he shrugged. “I don’t have guests. I’ll be bunking in my office across the hall.”
“Dallas, I’m not putting you out of your own bed for your office.”
“You’re not putting me out. The office has a big comfy leather couch and I’ve napped on it plenty.”
“I’ll take the offi—”
“It’s settled.” He held out his palm. “Hand over Wolfe’s wallet and phone.”
Resigned, she retrieved them from her purse. She may have met the one person on earth more stubborn than her.
Dallas pocketed them, then gestured at the neatly made bedding. “I changed the sheets this morning, so you’re good to go. We can stop by your apartment tomorrow to pick up your stuff, but until then …” He walked to the closet, then in a repeat of their “honeymoon,” tossed her one of his clean white button-down shirts. He pointed to another door on the right of the closet. “Master bath. We’ll be sharing, because the smaller bathroom at the end of the hall is empty, too. No shower curtain, towels or toiletries.”
Her chest ached for reasons she couldn’t name. Dallas didn’t really live here … he merely existed within this echoing space. A house, not a home.
Clutching his shirt, she studied the photos propped on his bureau, dozens of joyful, candid family snapshots. The lone picture on his tray nightstand was of a younger, rain-drenched Dallas wearing a muddy football uniform and a carefree grin, his arm slung around the shoulders of a chestnut-haired teenage girl. The girl had very familiar indigo eyes. But in the picture, Dallas looked confidently happy … while the girl’s eyes had the same haunted look Dallas’ now wore.
The photo was positioned to be the first thing he saw in the morning and the last thing he saw at night.
No coincidence there.
Mia cleared the sudden constriction from her lungs. “What a beautiful girl. Is that Tyler-Anne?”
“Yep. At my last game.” His jaw tightened. “Two weeks before we … we lost her.”
“I’m sorry. I can tell you were very close. How old was she?”
“Not quite sixteen. Daddy passed from a heart attack when she was two, and Torie and Christie were four—they’re twins. I was eight. Mama and a friend opened a quilting shop and worked full-time in order to support us. I stepped in to help take care of the house and the girls. Mama didn’t remarry until we were all adults.”
He’d raised Tyler-Anne from a toddler? Losing her would’ve been like losing his own child. “Oh, Dallas. I wish there was something I could say or do that would help. I’m a good listener, if you want to talk about it.”
“I don’t. See you in the morning.” He pivoted and stalked out.
Halfway down the hall, his boot-steps slowed, stopped. “Mia,” he called. His voice was resolutely calm, but underlying torment rasped the low drawl. “As I said before, you’re a hundred-percent safe. If you need anything, push one on the security system panel beside the door. It’ll page my phone wherever I am, even if I’m out of the house. I’m usually up most of the night and tend to wander around—so don’t be scared if you wake up and I’m not in my office.”
Mia fought to even her ragged respiration while her pulse pounded in her ears. He’d told her in Vegas he didn’t sleep much, but she hadn’t realized how little. Hadn’t realized the significance of his hidden tortured emotions.
Dallas’ sorrow, quiet rage … and his guilt twisted her insides as painfully as those same emotions that drove her. She wasn’t the only one fighting personal demons.
Dallas McQuade’s wounds had scarred him to the depths of his soul.
Her husband was on the warpath. And it seemed wrenchingly obvious to Mia that he was his own worst enemy.
* * *
Dallas jackknifed upright on the sofa, ripped awake by the nightmare that flayed his subconscious night after night. Shattering metal, searing flames, the stink of burning flesh … and the animal screams of the trapped and dying.
The closer he got to his prey, the more the nightmares haunted him.
He scrubbed shaking hands over his sweat-dampened face. He’d slept in a white tank shirt and black drawstring martial arts pants. He didn’t own pajamas or a robe, and it would not be a good idea to run into Mia in the middle of the hallway bare-assed. Not when he was already too damned tempted to join her in his bed and make those expressive amber eyes glow with pleasure … all night long.
He prowled downstairs on silent bare feet in the gloom, padded through the kitchen. He glanced at the lit numbers on the microwave as he passed on his way to the glassed-in sun porch he’d turned into an exercise room. Five a.m. He’d managed almost three consecutive hours of sl
eep, a record for him lately.
Mia was the first person besides himself who’d been inside his house since he’d bought it. The remote house gave him the privacy an apartment lacked, but the quiet emptiness got to him sometimes. Her intrepid, effervescent spirit made the empty ache better … and yet so much more painful. Her presence taunted him with longings he couldn’t ease. Reminded him of what he could not have.
He studied the workout equipment washed red by an ominous sunrise bleeding through the windows, then strode to the ceiling-mounted punching bag. He couldn’t afford to get emotionally invested. Even with the woman he’d married. His right fist slammed into the bag, and he dodged the bucking back-swing. Especially her. If he were going to get involved with another woman—which he was not—Mia Linden was the worst possible choice.
His left fist drove into the black leather. He liked her. A lot. Too much.
Smart, brave, funny, sexy—she was also obstinate, heedless, and leapt into trouble with both feet every friggin’ chance she got. His nightmare personified. A ramrod right stung his knuckles. Yeah, he ached to bury himself deep inside her, more than he’d ever wanted anyone.
But lust wouldn’t kill him.
A vicious left-cross hit to the bag, another dodge. He’d soothe her fears. Guard her. He’d comfort her, joke with her. He could be supportive, could take care of her without caring. His policy on every job was strictly no feelings involved.
Hell, he lied to everybody, every damned day. He made his living adapting his persona like a chameleon.
He’d ensure Mia’s safety until he finished this, then turn her loose. It would be just another con. Dallas pummeled his swinging opponent with rapid, savage strikes. He forbid himself to become attached. He’d never again risk his heart.
Because losing someone he loved tore out a man’s guts.
Especially when he’d caused her death.
* * *
Mia stirred, drifted unwillingly toward consciousness. When had her mattress become so cushy? She inhaled, smelled woodsy-fresh masculine scent. She jolted awake.
