“Jack!” Sandra, a small, dark-haired woman who, Jack realized, looked exactly how he imagined Mia in twenty years, turned from the stove, her face alight with affection. For him.
It made him pause, realize how little affection he had in his life. Now that Mia was cold as ice toward him, there was no one in the world who would greet him like that. No one whose face would light up at his presence.
He looked over at Mia, who was staring down at the limes she was juicing as if they might fly away without all her attention.
How sad was that? Thirty-five years old and he’d burned every bridge that might have led him toward family. Toward belonging to anyone.
Sandra wiped the thick cornmeal goo off her hands onto the tea towel tucked into the tie of her apron, and crossed the kitchen to wrap him in a huge hug, her strong arms a vise around his waist.
She smelled like corn and spice and roses. And he closed his eyes, remembering the thousands of these hugs he’d had while growing up. Every afternoon when he came home from school, Sandra would turn from the dinner she was making and hug him, ask him about his day, bring him a cookie and a glass of milk.
In the aftermath of Victoria’s rampages, Sandra would be there, a small shadow offering comfort and a cold cloth. Until he grew such a hard shell he no longer believed he needed such care.
He’d forgotten the good things, pushed them away so as to keep his goals sharp. Those goals became the swords that he used to hack away at the ties that bound him here. But there had been good things at the Rocky M. Mia, her mother and sister had been those good things.
And he’d used those swords to keep them away.
“We’re so glad you are safe,” Sandra said, looking up at him, her brown eyes warm and worried. “And here!” she cried, “Finally, where you belong.”
“Oh, come on, Mom.” Lucy, tall and thin, covered in gold bangles and bone necklaces, approached. Her eyes caustic, her smile too bitter for comfort. “Jack belongs to the world.”
Sandra stepped aside, and Lucy breezed into her place. Jack tensed, wondering if he was about to get disemboweled.
But Lucy hugged him and leaned up to hiss in his ear, “You’re making my sister sad.”
“That’s not my intention,” he said quickly.
She stepped back, assessing him for a moment, and clearly found him lacking. “It never is, is it, you ass,” she whispered and moved away.
Her hips bounced to the beat of the music on the radio and she smiled at Jack, as if she hadn’t just called him names. “Margarita?” she asked.
“What?” he asked, feeling as if he’d fallen down the rabbit hole. This place had felt more or less like a waiting room the past few weeks. A cafeteria. And suddenly, it felt like a bar.
Or a home.
“It’s Saturday,” Tim said, as if he’d been waiting his whole life for just such a day. And the way he watched Lucy indicated he’d been waiting for just such a woman. But that was the power of Lucy.
Every woman liked her.
Every man wanted her.
“Sandra’s making tamales,” Walter said, slicing limes with a steady hand. There was something different about Walter, as if a light had been turned on. The old man’s eyes practically glowed and Jack wondered how many margaritas he’d had.
Jack’s stomach growled.
“Go,” Sandra said, pushing him toward the table, toward Mia where she sat, propped up on pillows. She was spending so much energy pretending she didn’t feel him or see him or even notice him, she could have powered the ranch for a month.
He remembered her eyes on him in the shower the other night, the way she’d tracked the touch of his hand on his body. He’d known, watching her, turning the screws with his words, that she’d wished that had been her hand almost as much as he had.
She wasn’t immune to him. But she was building that damn tower around herself higher and stronger every day. Keeping herself safe. Keeping him out.
And having Lucy here only helped her cause. Reminded her of all the ways he’d hurt her over the years. And it wasn’t as if she needed a whole lot of help in that department.
But maybe having Sandra here helped him.
A few weeks ago he’d felt inert, lost in his own life and directionless. But now, this moment, he felt himself begin to roll toward a destination. Something he wanted.
A home.
Someone to love.
He leaned over the back of her chair and kissed the top of her head. She jerked so hard she nearly broke his nose.
“How are you feeling?” he whispered, his hands on the tender skin of her neck. He could feel her heart beating, the cadence of her breath.
You don’t love her,
he told himself. Because love wasn’t safe. Look at what loving him had brought her. It proved his theory that love brought nothing but pain.
But he wanted her, and right now that was enough. Maybe they could find that happy middle ground. Affection and respect and lust were powerful emotions, strong ones. You could build something with those tools. Something real, like she wanted.
Love was too capricious to be trusted.
He just needed Mia to see that.
“Fine,” she said, her voice too loud.
He was making her nervous and he stroked his thumb over her neck, just to be the devil, before dropping into the chair beside her.
Lucy stared at him like a guard dog straining at her chains, but Sandra smiled as she turned back to the tamales.
“You know what you’re doing, boy?” Walter whispered from his other side.
“Yes,” he whispered back. “Yes, I do.”
She’d expected him to be warned off by her family’s arrival—good Lord, Lucy was doing her best stern sister act, but Jack seemed impervious. Worse than impervious; he seemed motivated by it. The sterner Lucy got, the cozier Jack got. His leg brushed hers more times than Mia could count. His arm draped across the back of her chair, his thumb brushing her hairline, for half the damn dinner.
And that was bad. It was really bad, but what was killing her was how he seemed to hold court in her home. He told stories, funny ones, scary ones. Some about Oliver that she knew were hard for him, though he didn’t once show it. He poured drinks and helped clear dishes.
Even Lucy seemed to have trouble holding on to her grudge.
Lord knows, Mia’s grudge had bitten the dust before the second pitcher of margaritas had been made.
“I’ve always wanted to go to Poland,” Lucy said, stretching out her long legs that looked even longer in the leggings she wore under her breezy green tunic. If Mia wore that she’d look like one of Robin Hood’s Merry Men. “I’ve heard there’s a beach where amber rolls onto the sand because there’s a forest under the Baltic sea.”
“A myth,” Jack answered.
“No,” Lucy moaned. “Don’t break my heart.”
Mia tried to kick her sister under the table but was too far away and her ankle still hurt.
“The most beautiful amber I’ve ever seen was in Prague,” he said and Lucy leaned forward, entranced because he was speaking to her heart. Her passion.
“The stones were practically red.” He shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“What was your favorite place?” Walter asked, and the whole room turned to look at him. The temperature dropped from Jack’s side of the table.
“It’s a normal question,” Walter said, and Mia nodded quickly in agreement.
She felt her heart growing, filling with affection and hope for Walter. Hope that Jack would see the question was sincere. That he would at least consider accepting the olive branch, lame as it may be, that Walter was holding out.
“Prague is lovely,” Jack finally said, and Mia took a breath. “Parts of Africa, the Rift Valley, Johannesburg—they’re the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. The Taj Mahal takes your breath away.”
“I’ll bet,” Sandra said.
“But my favorite place?” Jack asked, slowly turning to face Mia, who was suddenly very uncomfortable, “is Santa Barbara.”
Mia felt the world fall away. The room was quiet and heavy with speculation and she didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything but Jack’s chocolate-brown eyes and the peace offering he was holding out to her.
Lucy broke the silence, yammering on about how much she loved the beach town. Mia stared hopelessly at Jack.
Why was he doing this? she wondered. Jack had been so predictable before and now suddenly she didn’t know this man in front of her. This man who seduced blatantly and discreetly all at the same time.
“You feeling okay?” he asked, stroking her hand.
She snatched it away.
“Mia,” Sandra asked, “do you still have that notebook?”
Her heart sank.
“Mom—” Lucy said, shaking her head. But Mom was choosing to ignore Lucy’s not-so-subtle warning and Mia pushed back in her chair, ready to end this night before it fell apart around her.
“Do you still have it?” Sandra asked. “I bet Jack—”
“I’m going to bed,” Mia said, getting to her feet. Her back ached from sitting upright so long, and her head pounded with the effort of avoiding embarrassment.
“What notebook?” Jack asked, catching her hand. The calluses on his palm, at the base of his fingers, caught at her skin and she felt the abrasion deep in her core. Her heart.
“She kept a notebook of all the places you went,” Sandra explained. “All through college and your internships and research trips. She had—”
“I threw it away,” she lied, pulling her hand back. Jack didn’t need any more proof of her childhood crush, her hero worship gone awry.
She’d told him how she felt, as honestly as she could. She’d laid out her heart and he’d offered an experiment in return.
“Good night,” she said. She couldn’t leave the room fast enough, unable to take a breath until she hit the dark shadows and quiet of the hallway. Damn it. Damn. It.
But she should have known this new version of Jack wouldn’t let it go. Wouldn’t read the neon signs she was hanging up that she just wanted to be left the hell alone.
No, the new Jack McKibbon would follow. And he did. He caught up with her just past the foyer by the bedrooms, around the corner from the kitchen.
“Mia?”
“Let me go, Jack,” she said, crossing the hallway as fast as her wrenched ankle and pounding head would allow.
“I don’t think you really want me to,” he said, right behind her, so close she could smell the tamale and tequila on his breath.
She paused, something dark and angry beating at her lips, screaming to get out. But she refrained and kept walking.
Jack’s hand touched her elbow and she spun around, smacking at his arm. But still he crowded close, pushing her back until she was up against the wall and every breath she took rubbed her chest against him. Her nipples were hard and painful at the contact.
“Tell me about the notebook, Mia,” he almost begged, his eyes searching her face.
“It was nothing. Childish.”
“Tell me anyway.” He stepped even closer, placing one hand against the wall by her ear. She braced both hands against his chest and shoved.
“Stop crowding me,” she ordered.
“Stop running,” he said and put his hand right back on the wall. Oh, the contact was killing her. Her body roared to life, a wild rush pulsing through her blood, over her skin. She wanted him. She wanted his taste. His touch.
“Mia.” He breathed her name as if he knew. As if he could smell her lust. Her weak-willed desire. He’d primed her for this all through dinner with those long looks, the little touches. He’d been setting down kindling and now he was lighting the fire. “Tell me about the notebook.”
She took a deep breath, licked her lips, and a moan rumbled out of his chest, his eyes locked on her mouth. “Tell me about the notebook,” he whispered, “or I’m going to screw you against this wall.”
Every bone in her body evaporated and she leaned back, her head too heavy to hold. He tilted his pelvis until her hips cushioned his and she gasped at the long, thick press of his erection. Her body burned against his and she arched her hips slightly, pushing into him.
His forehead dropped to hers and she could feel him sweating. Took great pleasure that she could make him sweat.
“You want me to do this to you, don’t you?” he whispered, his hips starting a delectable, torturous dance against hers. Back and forth, up and down. He pushed and retreated until she joined him, her hands going to his waist, her fingers twining through his belt loops to keep him close. She angled her hips, and when he next pushed against her, she saw stars.
“Mia,” he groaned, licking her neck, her lips, and she opened her mouth, kissing him with a sudden, wild hunger. She bit his lower lip; he sucked her tongue into his mouth. It was agony, her blood burned, her skin was too tight and Jack wasn’t close enough. Not nearly close enough.
He lifted her from the wall, wrapping his arms around her lower back, keeping her feet off the ground. The contact was so delicious she moaned into his mouth.
Her arms slid around his neck, her fingers sinking into his thick hair.
He took three steps into her room, and shut the door behind him, holding her weight with one hand and again, just like on that roof, she melted at his strength, at how small and womanly she felt against him.
She felt the floor under her feet, but he didn’t let go of her.
“Tell me about the notebook,” he whispered against her lips, trailing hot wet kisses across her cheek to her ear. “Mia.” He bit the tender lobe. “Tell me.”
“I kept a notebook of all the places you went, filled with articles and pictures I found,” she said. “So—” She gasped when he slipped his knee between her legs. The friction so good it nearly hurt.
“So?”
“So I knew what you were seeing. And eating. And smelling. So, I could talk to you about it, be there in a way, even when I wasn’t.”
His kisses stopped, but his thigh was still pressed hard against the screaming junction of her legs. She rocked back and forth.
“What place did you like the best?” he asked, brushing the hair away from her face with both hands.
“Jack,” she moaned, beyond pride. She was humping his leg, for crying out loud. “Come on.”
“Tell me what place was the most exciting to you.”
He held her head, compelling her to look at him. He was so serious. His eyes so hot. She forced her hips to stop moving.
“It doesn’t matter,” she breathed, feeling somehow threatened. Endangered.
“Stop hiding from me, Mia,” he demanded, his voice hard, and he slipped his hand between her legs. She shook at the contact, even through her jeans.
Her brain was short-circuiting; she didn’t understand what he was saying, why he wanted her to tell him, or why it seemed like such a bad idea to do it. None of it mattered when his hands pushed inside the waistband of her jeans. His fingers slid across the trembling skin of her belly, the thin elastic at the top of her underwear.
“Tell me,” he said. “Where did you want to go?”
“Jack—”
“Tell me and I’ll make you come.”
Oh, oh, she was dying. She was falling apart. The wild animal of her hunger and her love was taking over.
“Scotland,” she said, pressing her head to his shoulder. “Edinburgh.”
“My first water summit?”
She nodded. “I liked the castle.”
He didn’t do anything, his hands were flat against her stomach, not moving. Not keeping his promise.
“Jack,” she pleaded, unable to look at him when she was so in need. “Please—”
In a sudden move, he turned and laid her out on the bed. He rolled to her side, keeping one leg hooked over hers, so she was spread out, helpless to his touch.
She closed her eyes, praying for release.
“You have to watch,” he whispered, his voice gruff and deep and her eyes popped open. She lifted her head and watched his hand slide into the open vee of her pants.
“You’re so wet.” He sighed against her ear, using his teeth against her neck. “So hot.”
Was she supposed to say something? She hoped not because she was speechless. He shifted down the bed, rearranged his hand so that his thumb found the hard ridge of her clitoris and her body began to hum and shake. She clutched his shoulders, searching for grounding in a world gone white-hot. One finger and then another slid deep inside her and fireworks exploded. She bowed off the bed, her heels digging into the mattress.
His mouth covered hers, swallowing her cries. The screams the whole county would have heard if they’d found their way past his tongue.
He stroked her, softly now, easing her back down. And when the fireworks stopped and her body twitched with random shocks, he smiled, the devil, and whispered, “Once more, Mia. Because you’re so damn beautiful.”
And it started all over again. But from a different place, somewhere treacherous and slightly scary, and when she looked into his eyes she couldn’t stand it, she had to shut her own.
“Mia,” he breathed, chastising her. “Come on.”
She shook her head, too far gone to stop, but with just enough awareness to know that if she wanted to survive this, she had to keep something of herself.
She gripped his wrist, grinding herself against his hand, holding him still for her own selfish pleasure and he laughed, dark and hot in her ear.
“That’s a girl,” he whispered and she exploded again.
Jack removed his hand, his glistening fingers embarrassing her and turning her on at the same time. She lay still, waiting for what was next. What depraved thing Jack had planned for her?
But he rolled away, staring up at the ceiling, his body taut as wire.
“Jack—” She reached out to touch him. The long, hard length of him in his jeans. But he stood up, looking at her on the bed.
“Do you want to go to Edinburgh?” he asked, and she blinked, not sure she’d heard him correctly.
“What…” Her voice croaked and she tried again.
“What are you talking about?”
“You want to go to Edinburgh and I want to take you.”
“Now?” she cried. Why weren’t they having sex? She didn’t have a whole lot of experience, but it seemed like this conversation was a bit of a distraction.
“Summer would be best,” he said. “You’d love it. The whole country is like your high pasture.”
“Why…” She sat up, but her body wasn’t totally on her side and she swayed a little.
“Think about it,” he said.
And he left.