Callan's Proposition

by Barbara Mccauley

  She understood what he meant when he said he wanted her so badly it hurt. She hurt, too. Physically, yes, she ached for him to touch her, to kiss her. But it was her heart that hurt the most.

  “Abby, for God’s sake,” he said hoarsely. “Talk to me.”

  Talk about how much I love you, then watch you run for the hills? she thought. Or worse, he might laugh at her. Or the worst of all, feel pity. She couldn’t do it, couldn’t survive the pain. She wanted only good memories, only the ones she could take with her and hold close.

  Without taking her eyes from his, she reached behind her and turned off the burner on the stove and lifted her face to his.

  “Kiss me.”

  He went still, then his arms were around her, lifting her. Melting into him, she slid her hands up his chest, around his neck. Heat shot through her veins, went from simmer to boil; her heart swelled and pounded. Glorious, she thought. Marvelous.

  Good heavens. She was ready to break into song.

  But when he suddenly spun her, lifted her onto the counter, her mind went blank. She felt the cupboards on her back, the cool tile under her thighs and his mouth consuming her with an urgency, an intensity, that made her head spin.

  A low, soft moan rose from the depths of her throat. His wonderful, sensual assault on her mouth continued, and she met each hot, wet thrust of his tongue, trembled when he slid her to the edge of the counter and pushed her dress up.

  He moaned loudly.

  “Abby,” he said raggedly, breaking the kiss to stare down at her garter belt. His fingers slid over black satin, and she trembled. “Tell me you know CPR, or I’m a dead man.”

  Laughing softly, she watched him move his hands over the soft, sensitive flesh of her inner thighs. Trembling, she closed her eyes and leaned back. He inched her dress up higher and parted her legs, stepping between them and intimately closing the distance between their bodies. She felt rough denim and hard male press against the vee of her thighs. She wrapped her legs around him, drawing him closer.

  His scent, soap and man and sex, excited her, aroused her as surely as his hands which were now sliding the straps of her dress off her shoulders, easing velvet down. He filled his hands with her, kneaded, caressed, then bent to taste.

  On a moan, she let her head fall back when he managed the hook of her strapless bra and tossed the strip of black satin behind her. His warm breath skimmed over her skin and when he took one beaded nipple in his mouth, she arched upward and dragged her hands through his hair. He was the one killing her, she thought, and cried out when his tongue swirled hotly over her. Shimmering waves of desire coursed through her blood and pooled between her legs.

  “Callan,” she whispered, reached for the buckle on his belt, nimbly worked it free. “Make love to me. Now.”

  Abby’s words inflamed Callan, snapped the last thread of his control. He’d never experienced anything like this before, never felt so completely off balance. He couldn’t get a foothold on what was happening here, but when she flipped open the snap of his jeans, he absolutely couldn’t think, he could only feel.

  Her skin, milky-white against the black satin of her underwear, was smooth and soft. He slid his hands over her flat stomach, her hips; his fingertips lingered for a moment on the straps of her garter belt, then slipped deeper and touched warm, quivering skin, slipped deeper still into the damp heat of her. Sweat beaded his forehead. He caught her mouth again as he stroked, brought her to the edge. Her soft moans and the sensual rocking of her hips brought him to the edge, as well, and he knew he had to have her now.

  Her panties were nothing more than a thin strip across her hips, and he hooked one finger underneath and yanked. She gasped, and when he brought her to him and drove himself inside of her, she made a soft, wild sound deep in her throat that made his blood boil.

  She hung on, met every hard, deep thrust, until her body tightened fiercely around him and she cried out, shuddering against him, into him. He felt the bite of her nails through his shirt, plunged deeper into her as his own shattering climax slammed into him. The sound he made was primitive, victorious, and he buried his face into her neck, wishing desperately that he could pull her inside of him.

  Several long moments passed before he could breathe, then several more before he could speak. As the insanity eased, he realized that they were still in the kitchen. Good Lord. The kitchen.

  “Abby,” he said, his voice strained, “I…I’m sorry. I should have at least made it to the bedroom.”

  When he started to ease away, she held him tightly to her. “We will,” she murmured, then kissed his neck, his shoulder.

  He laughed softly, wrapped his arms around her as he carried her to the bedroom. Abigail Thomas was one amazing woman.

  And from out of nowhere Cara’s words echoed in his head, Watch out for cliffs, and he was suddenly afraid, terrified that he finally understood what she had meant.

  He woke to the sound of an early-morning summer rain and Abby murmuring in her sleep beside him. She had one lovely, long, smooth leg draped over his and her cheek on his chest. Her tousled hair lay like a golden silk scarf across his shoulder. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this contented.

  Or satisfied.

  Gently he brushed a strand of hair from her eyes, tempted to give in to the urge to wake her just so he could kiss those amazing lips of hers. But since he’d kept her up most of the night, or she’d kept him up—he grinned—he thought it best to let her sleep a little longer.

  Although, maybe not too much longer, he decided as her fingers moved restlessly, even though she was still asleep.

  Surely she would listen to reason now, he thought, covering her hand with his. They were great together, in bed and out. They could date each other and still work together. People did it all the time. Who the hell cared what those damn magazines said?

  This wasn’t a fling. This was…well, this was a relationship. An exclusive one. She wouldn’t see anyone else, and neither would he.

  He smiled at the idea, suddenly felt ravenous. When she murmured something again, he pressed his lips to her forehead.

  “Abby,” he said softly.

  “Hmm.” Her warm breath fanned his chest.

  “I’d love a great big breakfast,” he teased.

  “I love you, too,” she murmured back, and snuggled her head in the crook of his arm.

  His smile faded. He went very, very still. Struggled to breathe.

  Whoa. Hit the pause button.

  Love?

  She loved him?

  Abby isn’t the type to take love lightly. That’s what Cara had said, Callan remembered. He felt the blood drain from his head. To a woman love meant marriage, which meant house and kids and dog and mortgage. The word husband popped into his mind, and he felt his skin turn cold.

  When the phone beside the bed rang, he started to reach for it, but Abby jerked awake and grabbed it instead.

  “Hello.”

  Damn, but she sounded sexy in the morning, her voice deep and husky and laced with sleep. When she sat on the edge of the bed, she also offered a spectacular view of her bare back. He propped his head in his hand and followed the curve of her shoulders down to her hips.

  “Oh, good morning.” That glorious back of hers straightened, and she glanced over her shoulder at him. “No, it’s not too early.”

  Callan frowned. He thought nine o’clock on a Saturday was early. Who the hell was she talking to?

  His jaw tightened when she laughed softly. Jack Palmer, dammit. Callan knew it was him.

  Business client or not, Callan decided he’d rip the guy apart.

  “I’d like to get back to you on that. Yes, I do have your number.” She paused. “All right. Yes, I will.”

  When she hung up and started to reach for her robe, he snagged her arm and dragged her back into bed with him. She tumbled against him, her eyes still sleepy, her lips rosy and still swollen from his kisses last night.

  “That was Jack Palmer, wasn’t it?
” he said more roughly than he intended. “What the hell is he calling you at home for?”

  “Callan—”

  “You’re not taking that job, dammit.”

  Abby sighed, then combed her fingers through her hair. “That’s my decision. One I haven’t made yet.”

  “You like it here in Bloomfield. You told me that. Why would you leave?”

  “Monday is my last day at work.” She kept her gaze level with his. “I’m considering all other options.”

  “Well, consider this,” he said tightly. “Jack just wants to get you in bed.”

  Her green eyes frosted over. “Well, if that were true, then I suppose my life wouldn’t be any different in Boston than it is here, would it?”

  “Don’t you dare compare me with Jack Palmer.” Callan felt his blood go on fast boil. “It’s not like that with you and me.”

  “And what is it like, then?” she asked evenly.

  What was it like? He opened his mouth, closed it again. Hell, he didn’t know.

  Her words, I love you, too, felt like a weight settling on his chest, making it hard to breathe. He heard the rain falling heavier now.

  “It’s just different.” He swung out of bed and grabbed his jeans. “I have to go to the job site and cover up lumber. We’ll talk about this later.”

  He wanted desperately to grab her to him, to say something, anything, but he was too tied up in knots, and he was certain he’d said too much already. When he calmed down later, he’d be able to talk to her in a more rational manner, make her see it was ridiculous for her to leave Bloomfield. Right now he just wanted to yell.

  She said nothing as she watched him dress—or when he snatched her to him and fiercely kissed her goodbye.

  She said nothing except goodbye.

  Abby stared out her kitchen window, watched the drops gather on the glass, then slide slowly down the panes. The sound of water dripping off the eaves of her roof mixed with the sputter of coffee brewing in the pot.

  She hated that Callan had left angry, especially after the wonderful night they’d shared, but she wasn’t surprised. Because they’d made love last night, she was certain he thought that she’d changed her mind about leaving, that everything would be fine again. He’d never taken her seriously, any more than he’d taken their making love seriously. He no doubt assumed that whenever the urge struck, they would jump into bed again.

  She’d asked him right to his face how his wanting to sleep with her or Jack Palmer wanting to sleep with her was different, and he hadn’t been able to give her an answer. Which was an answer in itself.

  She knew without a doubt that she and Callan could never work together again, that they could never just be friends, as she’d suggested before. She loved him too much for that. Every time she saw him, her heart would tear open again. How could she move on, get on with her life, knowing that she might turn around in the market or the post office and he’d be there? That when he didn’t want her anymore, he would be with other women. What would she do if she saw him with someone else, smiling at another woman, holding her hand or even kissing her?

  The thought ripped through her like a dull knife. She couldn’t live with that. He’d made it clear he wasn’t the marrying type, and sex, as wonderful as it was, wasn’t enough for her.

  All or nothing, she thought, and sat at the kitchen table. The open Yellow Pages advertisements stared back at her.

  Sabrini Brothers. Expert Movers. Short Notice Welcome.

  Abby made a note of the number. She wondered if today was too short notice and glanced at the next ad.

  Westworld Movers. We Move Memories. Insured Against Breakage.

  We move memories. Abby felt the moisture burn her eyes as she wrote that number down on her list, wishing the breakage insurance included hearts.

  At the sound of the doorbell, the heart in question slammed in her chest. Callan wouldn’t be back this soon. She didn’t want him to be, couldn’t stand to face him right now. She knew she would say the one thing he wouldn’t want to hear. I love you.

  Her hand shook as she opened the door. It wasn’t Callan.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” Aunt Ruby and Aunt Emerald said together.

  Wide-eyed, she stared at her aunts.

  “May we come in, dear?” Ruby asked when Abby didn’t say anything. “It’s a bit wet out here.”

  Abby blinked, then threw the door open and stepped aside. “Oh, I’m sorry. Of course.”

  That’s when she noticed the cane Emerald was using and the look of pain on her face as she limped into the house. “Aunt Emerald, what happened?”

  Emerald shook her head, winced with every step as she moved to the sofa. “Such a silly thing. Ruby and I were visiting the Rhumba Club in Miami. I missed a tango step and ended up with a twisted ankle.”

  “But your cruise.” Abby looked at the thick layers of bandage wrapped around Emerald’s ankle. “You’re supposed to leave tomorrow.”

  “Such is life.” Ruby sighed and sat down beside Emerald. “I’m afraid we won’t be going anywhere for a while. We thought we’d visit with you and Callan for a few more days before we head back to New York. Is he home, dear?”

  Abby looked at her aunts, saw the bright, expectant look in their eyes. She couldn’t lie to them anymore. She was done pretending.

  Straightening her shoulders, she sank into the armchair and faced them. “Aunt Emerald, Aunt Ruby, there’s something I have to tell you.”

  Twelve

  The weather seemed to mirror Callan’s mood. Dark, heavy and just muggy enough to bring out a sweat. He’d spent the morning covering equipment and tools, and with the last tarp finally in place, he stomped up the trailer’s steps behind Lucian, scrubbed the worst of the mud off his boots, then stepped inside.

  “Damn rain.” He stalked over to the coffeepot, poured a cup, nearly choked on the pungent fumes. “God, Lucian, if the toxic-waste inspector comes by, you’re in for one hell of a fine.”

  He took a sip, anyway, then swore fluently when he burned his tongue.

  “You’re looking a little ragged around the edges today, Cal.” Lucian grabbed a cup of coffee himself, then settled back in his chair. “Something gnawing on you?”

  “Just your mouth,” Callan grumbled.

  Lucian grinned. “Maybe that sweet mood of yours has something to do with where you went after you left the tavern early last night.”

  “Who said I went anywhere?”

  “So, did she slam the door in your face?”

  “Shut the hell up.” Without thinking, he took another sip of the sludge in his cup, wincing when he burned his tongue again.

  Lucian’s grin widened. “I’ve got a choice for you, Cal. Either we can go a couple of rounds, and I’ll knock off that chip you’ve got on your shoulder, or you can tell your little brother all about it.”

  “Here’s a choice for you,” he snapped back. “Either you can shut up or kiss my—”

  “Damn, it’s starting to come down hard,” Gabe said as he walked in, slapped his black cowboy hat against his leg then settled it back on his head. “Hi, kids.”

  “Hey, Gabe, pull up a chair.” Lucian folded his hands behind his head. “Your little brother here was about to tell me all about his love life.”

  Gabe headed for the coffeepot. “That shouldn’t take longer than thirty seconds.”

  “Who the hell said anything about love?” Callan swiped a hand over his face. “Did I say anything about love?”

  I love you, too.

  He couldn’t get the words, or the woman who’d whispered them, out of his mind.

  Brows raised, Gabe looked at Lucian. “He really does have it bad.”

  “Appears that way.”

  “The hell I do,” Callan barked. “She’s just a woman, a damn complicated one at that, and do I need complications? Hell, no. Light and easy, that’s my motto. Keeps everything simple.”

  “Yeah, simple.” Gabe raised his cup to Callan. “That sounds like y
ou.”

  “You’re supposed to be on my side, dammit.” Callan slammed his coffee cup on the desk and stood. Then started to pace. He sure as hell wasn’t going to tell them that Abby had told him she loved him. “Palmer offered her a job.”

  Gabe whistled softly. “Did she take it?”

  “She’s considering it.” He raked both hands through his hair. “If she loves me, dammit, why the hell would she be considering it?”

  Callan froze, clamped his mouth shut, though obviously too late. Dammit anyway, why had he blurted that out?

  “So, she told you that, did she?” Gabe lifted one brow.

  “No wonder he’s in such a mood today,” Lucian said, sucking his cheeks in. “Looks like our boy’s bit the big one.”

  “I haven’t ‘bit’ a damn thing.”

  “Why don’t you put yourself out of misery and marry the girl?” Lucian said with good humor. “Course, that would be putting Abby in misery, but she’d have three understanding brothers-in-law and one sister-in-law to ease her pain.”

  “Marry?” Callan choked on the word. “Why the hell would I get married?”

  “That’s true.” Gabe took a sip of coffee and grimaced. “There’s all those other women out there waiting for you. By the way, that cute little waitress at the tavern asked me for your phone number.”

  He wasn’t one bit interested in that waitress. The only woman he thought about was Abby.

  The only woman he wanted was Abby.

  “And now that Abby’s come out of her shell, you might say,” Lucian said, picking up where Gabe had left off, “she probably wants to have a little variety herself. I doubt she wants to marry anybody, especially old sweet-tempered Cal here, until she looks around a bit more. Too bad she’s not hanging around Bloom-field. Maybe she’d like to look my way. I’m prettier than Cal, anyway.”

  They were trying to make him mad, Callan knew. Trying to get a rise out of him. And it was working, dammit. Red swam in front of his eyes, and he clenched his fists at his sides.