“No, but I’m sure getting plenty today,” she muttered under her breath. If he heard her words, he ignored them.
“The flowers were left alone, for the time being. As long as they don’t get too tall, they shouldn’t be a problem.” He read her mutinous expression accurately, and lectured, “You’re going to have to think like this, Raine. Start making some decisions based on what would be safest for you.”
Safest
. She regarded the word with irony. She wasn’t sure how safe she was ever going to feel in her home again, after this ordeal was over. She felt as though it had been violated, first by whoever was sending the letters and now by the security measures. It would probably never again seem as sacrosanct a haven, and she felt a melancholy regret.
“I plan to add several more security lights,” he went on. Glancing at her, he said, “We really didn’t have to do much rewiring. Some had been done fairly recently.”
“I had it done right after I bought the house,” she confirmed. Though she’d been anxious to move in right away, there hadn’t been near enough lighting for her to feel comfortable here. She’d had all new wiring done, with several more electrical plates installed.
She wondered if Macauley had thought it odd when he’d seen all the light plates in her house. The electrician she’d hired hadn’t made any attempt to hide the fact that it was one of the strangest requests he’d ever had. But it had been worth it to be certain that she would never have to walk into a dark room.
There would come a time, she hoped, when such measures would no longer be necessary, when she wouldn’t fear specters hidden by the dark. But until then, she’d taken the necessary precautions to make certain that she would never be trapped in the darkness again.
Chapter 6
Raine looked up from the grilled chicken breast she was cutting. Macauley was eating steadily, giving her no idea of his opinion of the meal. Her lips tilted upward. She guessed he was enjoying it. He wasn’t saying a word, but he was devouring the chicken, rice and potatoes she’d prepared. The garden fresh peas, she noted, were left at the side of his plate. She made a mental note not to prepare them again while he was here.
His eyes caught hers then, and he put his fork down. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to eat like a ravenous animal.”
She shook her head, still smiling. “It’s nice to see you enjoy the meal.” He ate like he did everything else, she observed, silently and efficiently. “There’s another chicken breast here.” She offered the plate to him, and he speared the meat, dropping it on his dish.
“I don’t get much chance to enjoy someone else’s cooking,” he admitted. “I usually order takeout or have to make do with my own concoctions.”
“What do you cook?” she asked curiously. As she’d done the grilling she’d decided that it would be a shame to waste the lovely evening, so they were eating on the patio.
He finished chewing and swallowed. “Well, my menu’s kind of limited. Mostly I stick to meal choices one, two, three or four.”
She laughed. “What in heaven’s name are they?”
“Meal one is chicken noodle soup with rice and mushrooms added.” Raine made a face, and he shook his fork at her. “Don’t knock it, it’s pretty good. Then meal two is hamburgers and French fries. Meal three is a steak and potato and meal four consists of kitchen-sink stir fry.”
“Don’t tell me,” she said, “you throw everything in except—”
“The kitchen sink.” He nodded. “Right.”
“Everything but peas,” she noted, nodding at his plate.
“You caught me,” he said without apology. “Even now that I have choices, I’m not finicky. There’s not much I won’t eat, and haven’t. But I draw the line at peas.”
Finicky would hardly describe his appetite, she mused. He’d eaten everything else she’d put in front of him. “What do you mean, now that you have choices? Has that been a recent change?”
He mentally cursed his verbal blunder. That was exactly why he hated these assignments. He didn’t know how to make the kind of casual dinner conversation that would keep his clients happy, and he damn well didn’t want to talk about himself. Four years out of the field had dulled his senses. He would never have made a slip like that before, or he wouldn’t have lived to get
out
of the field. But it wasn’t as if it mattered anymore. The only thing that bothered him was how quickly old habits were slipping away from him. He needed that vacation even worse than he’d thought. Wiping his mouth deliberately with his napkin, he said finally, “I was in the military.”
She cocked her head, startled. She couldn’t picture his hair in the short-cropped style still favored by most branches of the service, but his answer made sense when she considered his discipline and bearing. He must have been a commissioned officer, and that would explain the tone of voice he used, the one that commanded instant respect. Still, she was having difficulty reconciling the idea of this man taking orders from anyone. No matter how far he had risen in the ranks, he’d still had to answer to superiors. She shook her head unconsciously. It didn’t make sense.
His eyes caught the movement. “What? You don’t believe I was in the Army?”
“I don’t think it was just the Army, no,” she admitted, her gaze steady. “There had to have been something more to draw you to a life like that. I have a hard time imagining you joining up for the chance to jump when someone else demanded it. You’re disciplined, but not a follower.” She didn’t notice the stillness that crossed his features at her words. “There had to have been something . . .” She stopped then, her eyes widening. “Rangers?” she asked in a whisper, but it wasn’t really a question. The danger would have lured him; living on the edge would have sustained him. It would also explain how he acquired that still watchfulness of his, that solitary manner. The lone life would have forced him to rely only on himself. No wonder he bit out commands in that terse voice of his. He was used to ordering lives to suit himself, as means to an end.
“They must have recruited you right out of high school,” she said in a quiet voice. “Or was it on a college campus?”
He stacked their plates economically, walking away from her into the kitchen. She followed him to the doorway, and then leaned against the doorjamb. He set the dishes in the sink with a clatter and went to the refrigerator, opening it and extracting a long- necked bottle of beer. He offered her one and she shook her head. He must have had one of his crew stock her refrigerator, she realized for the first time. She rarely thought to buy beer, never having acquired a taste for it. Usually there were some strays in there, leftovers from a guest. He’d taken his bottle from a six-pack.
He still hadn’t answered, and she realized suddenly that he had no intention of doing so. He walked deliberately toward her, but she didn’t move. Stopping inches from her, he stared into her face. His mouth was set in a firm straight line, and his eyes were hooded. The masculine stubble on his chin was at eye level, and for an instant she experienced an overwhelming urge to mach up and touch it, to scrape it with her fingernail. How would that roughness feel against her skin? she wondered a little dizzily. Dragged across her cheeks, or her lips? Or lower?
She caught her breath at the uncharacteristic thought. She’d never been attracted to tough-as-nails, emotionless men, not that she could ever remember meeting one before. To be truthful, she’d really never been overly attracted to any man. Safety had always been the number-one quality she looked for in a date. She’d faced that fact squarely years ago. She’d tested her wings—there was no other phrase for it—on two men in her life. They’d been little more than boys, really. But this was no boy in front of her, nor was he safe. She didn’t know why, then, standing this close to a man who emanated danger and hands-off, would make her throat clutch.
“May I?” His words were rusty.
Her gaze traveled fascinatedly, watching his mouth form those words, to his eyes, back to his mouth. Had he read her mind, captured her errant thought and determined to make it his own? Then he moved and his meaning became clear. She shifted out of his way on legs that suddenly seemed wooden. Mac brushed by her and walked to the patio. Pulling a chair around, he set it down facing the west, apparently with the intent of taking in the sunset.
She took a deep breath and followed him out the door. She sat in a chair near his. Silence prevailed for a time as they watched the sun sink in brilliant splendor. “Simple pleasures,” he murmured after a time. Turning his head lazily to her he added, “I can see why you bought this place. The view is great.”
She nodded, tucking her feet under her on the chair. “The smog isn’t as bad out here. And it’s peaceful without being too isolated. I loved it the moment I saw it. I barely gave the electrician time to complete the work I hired him to do before I moved in.” She looked at him consideringly. “Where do you live?”
“I have an apartment.” He shrugged. “I’m not there much.” Certainly it wasn’t a home, not the way her house was. It was pretty sterile, now that he thought about it. But he didn’t have the faintest idea how to go about making it any other way, and damned if he was going to hire one of those high-priced decorators with pinstriped suits and ponytails to come in and do it for him. He wasn’t really interested in matching color schemes and draperies, but it would be nice to come home to something more than a refrigerator and a bed. Maybe some pictures on the wall would help. He would want something he liked, something he wasn’t going to get tired of looking at. Hell, maybe he’d even buy some of Raine’s paintings. Though he hadn’t any idea of their worth, he had money saved. And he already knew that he liked the ones he’d seen.
But maybe that wouldn’t be such a wise choice. He was anxious to walk away from this job, and when the time came, he didn’t want any reminders of it, or of her. The knowledge that such reminders would disturb him was irritating but undeniable.
“How long have you been out of the Army?” she asked.
After a brief hesitation he answered her. “Four years.”
“I was right, wasn’t I?” He turned to pin her with a look. “I know the Rangers do special ops work for the Army, but I don’t know much more than that.”
“Drop it, Raine.”
“Is the reason you don’t want to talk about it the same reason you decided to quit?”
“I said drop it.” His voice was clipped.
“Something plagues you at night,” she said softly. “I’ve seen you pacing out here. I couldn’t sleep, either, and I watched you. Was it something you did for the Army, is that it?”
If the woman had one ounce of self-preservation she would be retreating. Right now every sense she had should be screaming a warning to her. Men a hell of a lot bigger had been known to quail before his temper. She was either unaware or unafraid of it. He didn’t know which was more galling.
“What the hell do you know about it?” he snarled.
She met his gaze steadily. He was angry. No, more than that, he was furious. At her. Because she wouldn’t back off and let him remain in that emotional cave he isolated himself in. It should have frightened her, the thought of this man angry. He was dangerous-looking at the best of times. Right now he was lethal. Yet his temper had a curiously calming effect on her. It was a rare sign of emotion from him, and for some reason she wanted to stoke it. Wanted to force him to respond as a man, not as a machine.
“I know how every regret a person has can compound at night until it threatens to choke you. I know that fear uses the daylight to hide and the darkness to prowl in.” Her voice dropped. “And I know that people who can sleep do, and those of us who can’t usually have a reason.”
He rose from his chair so suddenly it clattered behind him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he growled. “You think your ivory-tower existence has prepared you to talk about regrets? Lady, you don’t know what regret is. Up to now, the biggest fear in your life has been whether you’ll sell well enough for Klassen to keep you as a client. Hell, you don’t have the sense to be scared when there’s a real threat out there. You let Klassen talk you out of reporting those letters at first because you wanted to believe him. You couldn’t even make a decision about it until Winters forced you to!”
She looked away then, but he didn’t relent. He had her on the ropes, and the thought gave him a savage delight. She’d poked and prodded at him like a child tormenting a puppy, and then had the guts to compare the two of them. The little girl from California, the successful artist, had nothing in common with Mac O’Neill.
“I’m saying that a person doesn’t have to be in intelligence to—”
“It’s called covert operations, baby, and most of the time it has damn little to do with intelligence.” His face was savage. “Do you know what that job entails, hmm? It doesn’t involve nine-to-five office hours pushing papers across a desk. It’s carried out in the searing heat of deserts halfway around the world, and in jungles with air so thick you can barely breathe. People don’t matter there, obtaining goals does.”
“And did you attain your goals?” she asked almost soundlessly.
“I did my job.”
The tone was flat, the words bleak. And she knew in that moment she had been right about him. She’d sensed that something rode this man, sensed it as only someone who’d been in that kind of pain herself could have done. And she felt for him, felt all the unspoken despair behind his outburst.
He clenched and unclenched his fists, angry that he’d allowed her to goad him into this admission, feeling as though she’d stripped away protective layers to reveal the ugly black center of his soul. And because he felt exposed, because he was uncomfortable with his own disclosure, he attacked. “What is it with you? You can’t find enough problems in your own sheltered little existence to keep you occupied? Do you need more to get inspiration for your work, is that it? Concentrate on the creep who’s harassing you, that should be trouble enough for anybody. Anybody with the sense to feel caution, that is.”
“There’s a difference between not noticing danger and not allowing it to ruin your life. I’m sure you realized a long time ago that it’s not the threats from without that keep people running, that scare them the most. It’s the ones we carry inside us.”
He stared at her wordlessly, his eyes arrowing into her. Where did she come up with these ideas? From what he knew of her, from her father, she’d had the sheltered upbringing of a society princess. He remembered something Grady had said once, that Simon Michaels protected his wife against anything in her life that might be unpleasant, and he figured the man had done the same for Raine. Certainly his voice when he spoke of her had been full of feeling. He had been concerned enough about her safety to hire Mac.
So what had happened to Raine Michaels along the way that would give her these kinds of insights?
“What is it about you?” he murmured, gazing intently at her.
“We’re alike, you and I,” she answered, and the truth of those words struck her violently. For some reason she’d felt it at the beginning—there was something she recognized in Macauley O’Neill. Something that had struck a chord in her. It wasn’t a solely physical attraction, though she was only beginning to recognize that, too, existed. It was some element she hadn’t been able to put her finger on until she’d seen him pacing alone in the moonlight. Now that common thread seemed to wrap around her, coaxing her to draw closer to the man, in spite of every self-protective tendency she’d ever had.