by Nora Roberts
a crack, just enough for her to see a pair of scowling, bloodshot eyes peering out at her. Laura narrowed her own and hissed. The door shut again with an abrupt snap.
She pounded again, heard a thump and a curse. Then saw a narrow light beam under the door. She angled her head and smiled blandly, certain Royce was staring at her through the Judas hole. An instant later, locks rattled open.
"What's wrong?" he demanded.
"Why should there be anything wrong?" She sailed inside. "Shut the door, Royce, you have a nosy neighbor across the hall." He shut the door, leaned back against it and struggled to orient himself. She looked as fresh and pressed as she had at ten o'clock that morning in her tidy pin-striped suit and practical heels. He felt as rumpled as last night's sheets in the ragged jeans he'd managed to find on the floor and tug on.
He rubbed his hands over his face, heard the crackle of beard against palm, then dragged his hands back and through his sleep-tangled hair. "Is it one in the morning, or did I oversleep?"
Laura turned her wrist, gave her watch a careful study. "It's 1:17 a.m. To be exact."
"Yeah, let's be exact. What are you doing here?"
Enjoying herself she wandered the tiny living area. "I've never been up to your place." She noted about a week's worth of dust on scarred furniture. Newspapers piled on the floor by a sagging sofa. A small, really excellent watercolor of Boston Harbor on the wall, a high-end stereo system on a set of pine shelves and a Berber rug that was in desperate need of a good vacuuming.
"Now I see why." She arched her brows. "You're a pig."
"I wasn't expecting—" He caught himself. It was one o'-damn-clock in the morning, he remembered. "Yeah, so what?"
"Just an observation. Do you have any wine? I didn't want to have a drink, since I was driving."
"Yeah, I think there's—" He pulled himself up short again. His brain was mush. It had been years since he had to wake alert at a moment's notice. "You came by for a drink?"
"Is that a problem?" She kept the casual, pleasant smile on her face and, judging the kitchen to be to the left, wandered toward it. "Do you want some wine?"
"No." He stared after her, raked his hands through his tousled hair again. "No. Help yourself."
"I will." He obviously stayed out of the kitchen as much as possible, she mused. It was neat enough to indicate disuse. But she did find a decent bottle of chardonnay in the fridge and, after a brief search through cupboards, an unchipped glass. "No frills for you, huh?"
"I don't spend a lot of time here." He moved toward the kitchen, watching her pour the wine. "It's just here."
"And I imagine you're funneling most of your profits back into your business. Which would be wise, and frugal. Are you wise and frugal, Royce?"
"Not particularly. I just don't need a lot of the extras."
"I like the extras." She toasted him and sipped. "I suppose I'm high-maintenance." She studied him over the rim of her glass. His eyes were heavy, she noted. Sleepy, sexy. His mouth was just a little sulky. The jeans weren't buttoned, and rode low on narrow hips. His chest was bare, well-defined, with a thin white scar slicing just under his left shoulder. "Did you get that on the job?"
"Get what?"
"The scar."
He glanced down, shrugged. "Yeah. What's the deal here, Slim?"
"I have a question to ask you."
"Okay, true or false, or multiple-choice?"
"Just yes or no." She made an effort to keep her eyes on his. Too much study of that tough, compact body was bound to distract her.
"Were you aware that my grandfather hired you to insure the MacGregor line continues?"
"Huh?"
"Just yes or no, Royce, it's not terribly complicated. I'll rephrase the question. Were you aware when you accepted the job to handle house security for me that my grandfather had selected you, as you fulfilled his requirements, as a potential mate for me?"
"Mate? What do you mean, mate?" His brain was beginning to clear. "You mean—You're kidding."
"I believe that answers the question." She started to move by him, but his hand snaked out and closed over her arm.
"Are you saying that he bought me for you?"
"In the nicest possible way."
"That's bull."
"No, that's the MacGregor." Laura patted Royce's hand. "Some men would be flattered."
"Really." His eyes were narrowed slits of flame blue. "Oh, really."
Because she understood, and appreciated his reaction, she patted his hand again. "You had no idea what he was up to? He's not all that subtle. He thinks he is, but he's not."
Royce dropped his hand, stepped back. "I got the impression—early on—I got the idea that he was trying to set something up. But I figured that was because you were incredibly ugly."
A laugh burst out before she could stop it. "Thank you so much."
"No. Wait." He pressed his fingers to his eyes. Maybe he was having a dream, maybe not. Either way, he had to pick his way through it. "He mentioned you a lot, his granddaughter, Laura. Bright, brilliant, beautiful. Single. I thought he hinted pretty broadly and figured you must be desperate for… well, desperate. Then I got a look at you and decided I'd misread the signals." She cocked her head. "Now I suppose I should be flattered."
"You're telling me that he set this up so…"
"He wants me married. And raising a family. He thinks you'd breed well."
"That I'd—" Royce held up a hand, stepped back again. "Just hold on. I'm not in the market for… breeding."
"Neither am I. That's handy, isn't it?"
"The old bastard."
"Exactly, but be careful. We can call him that, but we don't take kindly when others do." She set her glass down. "Well, I thought it best to clear the matter up. Good night."
"Just a damn minute." He only had to shift to block her path. "You come here in the middle of the night, drop your little bombshell and stroll off? I don't think so."
"I thought you'd like to know, and to know that I've spoken with him and straightened things out."
"That's fine, that's your family business." He stretched an arm across the doorway, resting a hand on the jamb to hold her in. "And you should know I don't give a damn what your grandfather has in mind." He wrapped her hair around his free hand, tipping her head back.
"He's not here, your father's not here, your brother's not here, your cousins aren't here." Her heartbeat thickened. "No, no one's here except you and me."
"So why don't you tell me what you have in mind, Laura?"
"If I have to tell you, you're not nearly as quick as I thought you were."
"I want you to tell me. Exactly."
There was only one step between them. She took it, closed the distance. "I want you to take me to bed. I want you to make love with me for the rest of the night. Is that clear enough?"
"That's crystal."
He swept an arm under her knees. Her breath caught as he lifted her off her feet. Before she could shift to wrap her arms around him, his mouth was hot and hungry on hers. With a little murmur of pleasure, she sank into the kiss, kicking off her shoes as he carried her toward the bedroom.
The room was full of shadows, the sheets were tangled, and the mattress creaked under their weight. Lifting her arms, she drew him closer and let the kiss spin gloriously through her system.
He yanked her jacket over her shoulders, nipping his teeth over her throat as he dragged it free, tossed it aside. She was slim and eager beneath him, arching at a touch, sighing at a taste. He wanted to savor, moment by moment, inch by inch, but the need he felt was too huge, too strong, as if it had been strapped down and straining for years.
As her mouth slid and angled and gave under his, he ran his hands over her, torturing them both, pleasing them both. He heard her moan, felt her heart trip under his palm, then, unable to wait, tugged her blouse apart. Her bra skimmed low over the curve of her breasts, a shimmering line of satin against silk. He closed his mouth over her, reveling in t
he mix of textures. She nearly cried out, just from that, the sensation of lips and tongue on flesh. Oh, but she wanted more, she wanted all, and she curved up to offer, her nails skimming down his back in edgy demand.
It ached, everything he did, everywhere he touched, brought a low, throbbing ache. She hadn't known she could want so much, that the need for anything could be so sharp, so immediate. And when his mouth came back to hers, she all but wept from the sensation. She rolled with him, her body fluid, energized. Her breath was sobbing as he dragged off her skirt. Her mouth, seeking flesh, was as greedy as his.
Her flesh was smooth, hot, irresistible. Her hair, all that glorious black silk, wrapped around them as they wrestled over the bed, struggling to free themselves of the last barriers. Soft here, there firm, yielding, then demanding. He filled himself with her, too steeped in her to realize he'd never needed anything, anyone, this desperately.
When he cupped her, her moan was low and long and broken. In the dim light, he watched her eyes flash open, go blind, as he drove her over. She choked out his name, fisted her hands in his hair. And went wild.
She didn't notice that they slid to the floor, dragging trapped sheets with them. The air was thick and heavy, clogging her lungs, his hands were quick and rough, bruising her skin. She flung an arm out, as if for balance. Something crashed. Then he was inside her, forcing her over the edge again, where there was nothing to hold on to but him. Mindlessly she wrapped herself around him, matched his violent speed, craved more, as the storm raged through her.
She could hear nothing but the roar of her own blood, feel nothing but the unspeakable pleasure his body pumped into hers, see nothing but his face, those lake-blue eyes watching her.
Then, as if he knew it was the final thrill she needed, his mouth crushed down on hers, and they broke free together. He gathered himself together enough to roll over so that he lay on the cold floor and she was cushioned by his still-overheated body. Then he decided he'd die happy if he could stay, just like this, for the next twenty years or so.
"Are we on the floor?" Her voice was slow and slurred, as if she'd downed the whole bottle of wine, instead of less than one glass.
"Yeah. I'm pretty sure we're on the floor."
"How did we get here?"
"I don't have a clue." He shifted, winced at a small stab of pain. When he found the energy to lift a hand and brush his fingers over the back of his shoulder, he saw the slight smear of blood. "There's broken glass on the floor."
"Uh-huh."
"And there is now broken glass in my back."
"Oh." She sighed, rubbed her face cozily against his chest, than shot upright "Oh! Did something break? We're naked. We'll be cut to ribbons."
"Whatever happens, I'll always say it was worth it" With a strength that made her blink, he nipped her at the waist and hauled her up until she sat on the bed. "Stay up there until I clean this up."
"I don't think you should—Damn." She squeezed her eyes shut, covered them with her hands when the light flashed on. "Is it glass?
Don't step on it"
"I already did." He swore ripely, making her giggle.
"Sorry," she said immediately. "I've never heard those words phrased together quite that way." She opened one eye, and was immediately contrite. "Royce, you're bleeding."
"In a couple of places. It was just a drinking glass. I've got to get a broom."
"I'll tend your wounds," she said with a smile that became dreamy as she watched him walk toward the door. "God, you're built." Disconcerted, he stopped, glanced back over his shoulder. She was sitting on his bed, all long, slender limbs and tumbled hair. "Same goes, Slim," he murmured and slipped out.
She bent over the bed, and had shaken the glass off the sheet when he came back with a broom and dustpan. "You'll have to launder this. There might still be glass in it."
"Just toss it over in the corner. I'll get to it."
She lifted a brow, glanced around the room. It had a bed, a dresser, a chair. Or at least she assumed that was a chair under the heap of clothing. There was a mirror that needed resilvering, and a desk that was overpowered by a sleek computer and printer.
"All the comforts of home."
"I told you, I don't spend a lot of time here." He dumped the glass in a wastebasket, then left the broom and dustpan tipped against the wall.
"Do you ever actually do laundry?" she asked him.
"Not until I have absolutely no other choice."
She smiled, patted a hand on the bed beside her. "Sit down. Let me see that cut." When he did, she clucked her tongue and touched her lips to his shoulder. "It's just a scratch."
"If we'd fallen off the bed the other way, you'd be kissing my butt."
Laughing, she rested her cheek on his back. "How's the foot?"
"Just a nick. I've had worse."
"Hmm." She shifted, ran a fingertip over the scar high on his shoulder. "Like this."
"Didn't wait for backup. Rookie mistake. I didn't make it again."
"And this?" She touched the small mar on his chin.
"Bar fight. I was just drunk enough not to feel it, and stupid enough to have asked for it. I stopped making that mistake, too."
"Reformed, are you, Royce?" She eased forward to brush her lips against his chin.
"More or less."
"I like that it's more or less." Empowered by the desire darkening his eyes, she knelt to wrap her arms around his neck. "I'd hate for you to be a completely solid citizen."
"Isn't that what you are?"
She laughed, bit his bottom lip. "More or less."
"More, I'd say, than less. Laura MacGregor, of the Boston MacGregors." His hand rode up her side to brush her breast. "What are you doing in my bed?"
"You could say it occurred to me that's exactly where I wanted to be." She nibbled at his mouth. "I have a habit of going after what I want. It's a family trait." Her lips trailed over his jaw. "And I wanted you. I want you. Take me, Royce." Her mouth closed over his, and destroyed any hope he had of thinking clearly. "Take me back where you took me before." He dragged her hard against him, and took her back.
Chapter 8
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Snow buried the East Coast and caused school-age children to dance with joy. Hard winds blew down from Canada and brought bitter cold. Pipes burst, cars stalled, and streets turned to ice rinks.
The brave or the determined crowded the shopping centers and malls to hunt for Christmas presents, to ponder bright wrappings and ribbons. Holiday cards arrived in the mail, and kitchens smelled of baking.
Boston shivered, shoveled out, and watched another six inches of snow fall.
Bundled in layers against the cold and armed with a snow shovel, Laura trooped out to clear the driveway. The sunlight bounced off the white ground and stung the eyes, so she tumbled a pair of sunglasses out of her pocket. The chill air bit her cheeks, burned her throat. She couldn't have been happier.
Beneath her red ski cap, she wore headphones. Music trilled in her ears. Christmas music, as bright and cheerful as her mood. Her life, she thought as she scooped up the first shovelful of snow, couldn't be more perfect.
She'd won her first case the week before. Just a small property-damage suit, of little consequence to the legal world, she thought. But she had faced the judge, argued her points. And she had won. She had two new clients who wanted wills drawn up. She was just beginning.
Christmas was just around the corner, and she couldn't ever remember looking forward to it more. She loved looking at the colored lights sparkling on houses, at the silly Santas and reindeer flying over lawns, the glimpses of brightly decorated trees behind windows. She even looked forward to braving the crowds and the madness to do her own holiday shopping. It didn't matter if Julia and Gwen rolled their eyes at her when she burst into song or stared dreamily out the window. She could laugh off their comments about Laura in love. She wasn't in love, she was simply enjoying the thrilling adventure of a romance with an exciting
man. That was entirely different. If she was in love, she'd be worried. She'd sit by the phone and chew her nails, waiting for him to call. She'd think of him every minute of every day, plan every night around him. She'd lose her appetite, toss and turn in bed and suffer from wild mood swings. None of that was true, she decided, putting her back into her work. Well, maybe she thought of him a great deal, at odd times. Almost all the time. But she didn't sit by the phone, she wasn't off her feed, and her mood was up and steady. Had she sulked because he refused the invitation to share Thanksgiving dinner at Hyannis Port? Of course not. She'd missed him, and certainly she'd have liked him there, but she hadn't pressed or nagged or wheedled.
Therefore, Laura concluded as she tossed snow over her shoulder, she wasn't in love.
When hands gripped her hips, the shovel went flying. She was whirled around before she could manage more than a strangled scream, and then she was staring into very annoyed blue eyes. She noted that Royce's head was covered with snow, that it coated his shoulders. And that his mouth was moving.
"What?"
He shook his head, took a deep breath, then shoved one end of the headphones off her ear. "I said, what the hell are you doing?"
"I'm clearing the driveway."
He raked a hand through his dark hair to scatter snow. "So I noticed."
"Did I hit you with that last shovelful?" She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, and struggled to keep her voice sober. "I'm sorry." A laugh hitched out, poorly disguised as a cough, as he narrowed his eyes. "Really, I didn't know you were behind me." She gave up, wrapped her arms around her stomach and let the laugh free. "I really am sorry, but you keep sneaking up on me."
"If you weren't blasting music in your ears, you'd be able to hear the rest of the world. And why the hell are you out here shoveling snow?"
"Because it's there, and so's my car, and I have to get into the office."
He took the sunglasses off her nose, slipped them into the pocket of her coat. "I don't suppose there's a single young boy in this neighborhood who could use ten bucks for shoveling your driveway."
"I'm perfectly capable of doing it myself." Suspicious, she fisted her hands on her hips. "If you're even thinking about saying something insulting, like this is man's work, I'll have to pick up that shovel and brain you with it." He caught her chin in his hand, drew her face up, close to his. And smiled in challenge. "It's man's work." She let out a sound like a hissing kettle and whirled. But he beat her to the shovel. "Go inside," he ordered. "Warm up. I'll take care of it."
"I'm doing it." She gripped the handle of the shovel and frustrated herself with a useless tug-of-war. "It's my car, it's my driveway."
"I'm not standing here watching you shovel snow."
"Oh, and I suppose I should take myself off to the kitchen and make you some hot chocolate."
"Good idea." He knew exactly what he was doing, what he was risking when he scraped the shovel under show. "Hold the marshmallows." He didn't even flinch when the snowball exploded on the back of his head. "We'll play later, as soon as I finish this."
"I am not making you hot chocolate."
"Coffee'd be fine."
"Don't you have anything to do? Don't you work?"
"It's only seven-thirty. I've got time."
And he'd needed to see her, it was as simple as that. He'd told himself he was going into the office early. Then his car had simply ended up in front of her house. He'd sat in it watching her, just watching her. She'd looked like a column of fire against the snow, in that long red coat, the red cap snug on her head.
So he'd sat in the car watching her, wanting her. And it worried him.
The next missile caught the small of his back. He ignored it, kept shoveling.
From the upstairs window, Julia and Gwen studied the scene, their noses
