The Passion of Patrick MacNeill (22 page)

She tipped back her head to look at him, amusement and a hint of challenge in her intelligent brown eyes. "Make an effort," she advised, and kissed him full on the mouth.

The flavor of her desire mixed poignantly with the salt of her tears. The taste of her, dark and desirable, went to Patrick's head like a jigger of Irish whiskey. He wanted to comfort her. He wanted to bring her satisfaction and find his own peace in her pleasure. But when he tried to take control, deepening the kiss, she drew away.

He raised an eyebrow in question.

"Come on." She tugged on his hand. "Come to my room." Willingly, he followed her down a short, dingy hallway that needed painting to her bedroom door. Hell, she had him so
hot,
he would have followed her anywhere.

She stopped on the threshold. "I didn't make the bed this morning."

"Good. It'll save us unmaking it."

She smiled and opened the door. In spite of that second of doubt, she kept her bedroom as tidy and well-organized as her office. And about as impersonal, Patrick thought, sticking his hands in his back pockets. Nothing tacky or expensive adorned the shelves or walls. No money was wasted on frivolous decoration. The neat severity was interrupted only by a few photos in
Plexiglass
frames—he recognized her niece and nephew—and a silk-covered box on the dresser and a drawing of Jack's, taped to the mirror.

He grinned, pleased to find evidence of his son in Kate's sanctuary, and strolled closer. He recognized the white farmhouse and the shaggy blond dog. Two nearly identical black-haired, blue-eyed figures were labeled: Daddy. Me. The female standing next to them with the masses of light brown hair must be Kate.

She looked good in the picture, he thought, studying it. She looked right. She didn't need a label to belong.

She stood behind him, and her hands came around his waist to flow over him, disrupting his thoughts, disturbing the rhythm of his heart. He reached up and
prisoned
her distracting hands against his chest. He lifted them, one at a time, and pressed a kiss into the crease of each palm. She shivered against his back. Turning within the tender circle of her arms, he wrapped himself around her and sought her mouth with his.

Lush and moist, subtle and searching, the kiss inundated his senses. Her compact female body nestled close to his. The fragrance of her hair, the strength of her small, quick, clever hands, swamped him. She was everything he dreamed of. More than he deserved. And she was pouring herself out to him in her kiss. He scrabbled for his customary control and felt it slipping from his grasp, washed away by her sweetly generous response.

Cupping her breast, he teased the hard little point between his thumb and forefinger. She made a deep, assenting noise in her throat before she captured his wrist and pulled his hand away.

Patrick knew his confusion showed on his face. "Honey, what—?"

She wriggled her T-shirt over her head. The sight of her contained curves peaking against her bra dried his mouth. And then she undid the back clasp and slid the garment off her arms, and her generous breasts spilled free. He reached for her, impatient to touch her, to suckle her, to bring her pleasure.

She held him off with her hands against his chest. "Let me get your shirt off, too."

Bemused, he let his arms drop to his sides. What kind of game was she playing? Yet her sweet, serious face as she tugged the hem of his shirt free of his waistband convinced Patrick that for Kate, at least, this was no game.

When she glided her palms up his back, taking the shirt with them, her full breasts flattened against his abdomen, slid up his chest. All his blood rushed below his belt, leaving him light-headed. If he closed his eyes, he was afraid he would see spots dancing in the darkness behind his lids.

"Kate."

 
"Later." She tugged. He raised his arms, and she wrestled the shirt from his shoulders. "I'm busy right now."

His breath whooshed out as those busy hands occupied themselves with his buckle, button and zipper. Otherwise he might have laughed.
"Honey.
Kate
."

She paused a moment, uncertainty disturbing the sexy absorption of her face. "Am I doing this wrong?"

Patrick poised on a knife's edge. The image in the dresser mirror, her smooth, strong back bent as she attended to his zipper, her soft, curling hair spilling over her naked shoulders, made him desperate to take her.

He was used to being in charge of himself, of his response.
And of hers.
Now Kate, by her actions, was asking him to release his iron command.
To give up control.

His jaw set. He could stop her delicious, disturbing seduction. He could laugh away her
question,
he could kiss away her doubt. He could pull her down on her unmade bed and love her until she was breathless and mindless and satisfied. But if he did, he realized, the question and the doubt would return.

She wasn't going to make him—she wasn't going to let him—work for their mutual release. She needed to give it to him.

"Wrong?" he repeated.
"Hell, no."

Chapter 14

«
^
»

P
atrick sucked in his breath.
Held it, as Kate pushed his jeans down his thighs.
He'd made love, many times. He couldn't remember ever being made love to before. A combination of expectancy and frustration dried his mouth.

She unlaced his shoes. Responding to her tap, he pulled one foot free, feeling off balance emotionally as well as physically. Her soft hair brushed his thigh. Unexpectedly, she turned her head and kissed the inside of his leg.

He hissed through his teeth. "Maybe we should move this to the bed."

Kneeling before him, she tilted her head to one side, as if considering his suggestion. "We could do that."

He relaxed cautiously. At least she was willing to listen. And then the muscles in his stomach jumped as she pressed warm lips against it.

"In a minute," she added.

She kissed him again, soft, inexpert, searing kisses, down the line of hair that bisected his abdomen to the place where it grew thick and coarse. Tension filled him to bursting. His hands clenched in her hair.

Kate looked up smiling, satisfied and shy at the prominent evidence of her effect on him. "Now," she said.

She rose and took his hand, linking her slim, smooth fingers with his. The connection seeped through him from their joined hands, along the network of his nerves and sinew, and settled deep into his bones. He was aware of her in every cell and fiber of his body.

She pushed him to sit on her narrow, rumpled bed, her touch lingering on his shoulders. He spanned her waist, pulling her close, as his mouth sought her breasts.
Sweet.
So sweet.
And his.

She stopped him, stooping to brush a kiss across his lips. "Wait.
Just a minute."

Another minute like the last one, and he'd never make it through whatever exquisite torture she had planned.
But, hell, if she wanted to have her way with him…
He dropped his hands.

Stepping back, she wiggled out of her jeans. She looked at him through her lashes and then, with a nearly audible gulp, pushed her sensible panties down as well. The combination of her shy uncertainty, her siren's body and her obvious resolution kept him riveted to the edge of the mattress.

She rattled open the drawer of the plain, pine nightstand and withdrew an unopened box of condoms. Recently purchased, he guessed. This was one more area where he was used to taking responsibility, one more duty she was determined to free him of. She unsealed the box, her face cool and serious, but he noticed with tenderness that her hands trembled. Her control was damn near as fragile as his.

When she had what she wanted, she approached the bed and, in a sudden movement, straddled his lap. His arousal leapt against her. His breath stopped. She leaned forward, her soft belly brushing against him, and his hands fisted on the bedcovers. Suddenly, she pulled away.

He groaned in protest. "Honey, what—"

She waved the foil packet.

So he watched, torn between warmth and amusement and screaming frustration, as she tried awkwardly to sheathe his ready body. Her fumbling caresses shot sensation through his limbs and loins straight up to his brain.

She looked up at last, brown eyes rueful. "I'm better with latex gloves."

He loved her for her embarrassment, for her willingness to try.
For him.
For them.

He held out his hand. "You want me to give it a try?"

"Please."

She hovered, warm and near, while he protected her. Just as he was congratulating himself on getting the job done, her small, firm, competent hands stroked a line to his jaw and she held his head still for her kiss. Her lower body, hot and moist, nestled against his. His heart almost stopped. She raised her head. Their eyes met. He could see her, all of her, Kathryn Susan Sinclair, shining in her eyes, her bright intelligence and her deep compassion, her exacting standards and her naked need.

Answering need flared in him. Hunger roared in his ears. It licked like flame along his veins until he thought he might spontaneously combust.

She lifted slightly, still holding his gaze locked with hers. He felt her, wet and ready. Without his willing it, his arousal strained up, seeking entrance to her slick, tight body. Slowly, so slowly he almost exploded with want, she lowered to take him.

He was inside her, joined to her, eyes, loins and heart. And she was inside him, all the way in, under his skin, burrowing past his defenses to carve a place in his soul.

His arms lifted and came around her. His hands gripped her smooth, lush buttocks. Each stroke was a claim, each thrust a promise. He touched her, deep and deeper. He took her, again and again. And she claimed him, seized him,
held
him. Her muscles worked. She rose and fell, drawing out his response, milking his body. He could no more have withstood her than he could have flown his prop plane to the moon.

In a joining almost too intense for the body to bear, in a communion too deep for words, they moved together on her sagging mattress. And when at last he groaned and released deep within her, he felt her shatter around him and heard her whisper his name.

* * *

Kate's breasts still tingled. Her blood thrummed, and her body throbbed low deep inside. She felt, well, wonderful.
Sexy, powerful.
Loved.
Was it too much to hope that he felt the same?

Patrick held up the bottle of wine, his blue eyes wicked with invitation. "So, are you going to let me pour you more wine?"

They were picnicking on bread and cheese, sitting on her bed. She was sitting, Kate corrected herself. Patrick sprawled, incongruously big and sexy in her neat, narrow room, broad and dark against the white sheets. He was quite naked. The curls covering his wide chest were damp with sweat.

Her gaze was irresistibly drawn down his ridged rib cage and muscled abdomen to his powerful thighs and the dark hair clustered thickly around his quiet sex. Her insides pinched with wanting him. Her heart turned over in her breast. He looked magnificent, animal,
male
. He'd fed her sumptuous bits of creamy cheese with his fingers. He'd dripped a trail of wine over her arching body and licked it from her skin. She was dizzy on more than alcohol, flushed with loving him.

She glanced self-consciously in the dresser mirror, where his flowers reflected their brightness back into the room. Her hair was a
tangle,
her face and chest were pink from Patrick's attentions. It was hard to worry about her appearance when his eyes darkened and heated with masculine appreciation. His bare foot rubbed hers.

"Honey, you'd better answer my question. I'm liable to get … distracted with you looking at me like that."

Wine.
He'd asked her if she wanted more to drink. She put her hand over the mouth of her glass. "I can't. I'm on call," she explained regretfully. "You go ahead, though."

He shook his head, his quick smile gleaming.
"Can't.
I've got to drive back tonight. Shelby and Ray are only keeping Jack till nine."

And as simply as that, the world intruded on their retreat, and the reasons she'd feared getting involved with him in the first place jumped up and hollered for attention. They were two busy people, with other commitments and no time for an affair. Perfect for each other, he'd argued.
Neither one of us wants a complicated relationship in our lives.

Only she'd screwed that up by going and falling in love with him.

She wouldn't regret it, Kate decided, folding her legs under her. She couldn't regret the way he made her feel, the precious closeness,
the
unprecedented intimacy. This time when they'd made love she'd felt him penetrate her very soul. She clung to the hope shaped in that moment of communion.

What they had was good. Better than anything she'd ever known. Better than most people found in a lifetime. She wouldn't press for more. She would give Patrick her love, and maybe in time he would see… What? That he couldn't live without her?

Get real, Katie Sue
. She'd allowed Wade Preston to deceive her once. She wouldn't delude herself now.

"I guess you should hop in the shower, then."

"I guess I should." He smiled at her with slow heat in his eyes, and once again her heart did its absurd little flip-flop. "Join me?"

Don't press
, Kate reminded herself. "I better not. You don't want to be late."

"Roger that." He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and then leaned back to press a quick, hard kiss on her mouth. "You okay?"

She loved him for his expression of concern.
"Very okay."

"Well, then." His blue eyes searched hers a moment longer.
"Fine.
What time do you get off tomorrow?"

Her heart started a slow thud in her chest. "Four."

"Dinner?
My house, around six?
Bring a bag for overnight."

He was inviting her into his house, into his life with his son. She fought to keep her joy contained, her voice matter-of-fact. "What about Jack?"

Patrick's vital grin flashed. "It was his idea. He likes having you around. Besides, I don't like you driving back and forth at night."

Even as she responded to his potent smile and the nearness of his warm, naked chest, his proprietary tone made her bristle. "I can take care of myself," she said.

"I know that," he said, surprising her. "But I figure you'll let me do it every once in a while because it makes me feel so manly."

She had to laugh. "Manly?"

"Yeah."
He dipped his head to nuzzle her throat, and she nearly lost her balance on the bed. Her hands came up to catch his shoulders. "Manly.
Macho.
Virile."

"Virile is good," she managed breathlessly as he pressed her back against the sheets.

Heavy and hot, he covered her. "Glad you think so."

This time, he took charge. It was quick and rough and deeply satisfying. Kate surrendered to sensation, muscles lax and then tightening, tightening in a downward spiral that made him gasp into her hair. Afterwards they held each other, warm and close. She felt the thump of his heart under her palm, and felt her own constrict in her breast.

So he was late after all.

"Drive safely," she advised him at her door, when at last he was leaving, hastily showered and dressed.

His teeth showed in a brief smile. "I always do."

Kate could believe it. He wouldn't let another accident deprive Jack of his sole remaining parent. She wondered if providing his son with a second guardian was an argument for Patrick to consider marriage again, and then scolded herself for her pathetic attempt to rationalize a larger role in Patrick's life. They had that whole, wonderful, supportive clan of MacNeill men. Jack didn't need a proxy mother. Patrick wasn't looking for a replacement wife. They didn't need her.

She kissed Patrick goodbye and caught Blackwell before the cat dashed out the door after him. Alone in her apartment with its sterile white walls and her mountains of paperwork and her feline female companion, she reminded herself that this was it. This was her reality.
Her chosen, hard-earned reality.

But in the aftermath of shared revelations, with her body still aching sweetly from Patrick's full
possession,
she couldn't help wishing for more. She'd always prided herself on her ability to reason, to deal in facts. But wasn't it reasonable to assume that things had changed after last night's closeness? Wasn't the intimate bond she'd felt a fact?

And so, even though Patrick's invitation was only for an overnight, she dreamed of a future in the farmhouse on the hill.

* * *

The visions clung, fragile and adhesive as
spiderweb
, when she went to the hospital the next morning.
Surgeries weren't normally scheduled for a Thursday morning. But the child she'd admitted last night required her care. The dead skin remaining on his body had to be scraped away and the wounds covered with
homografts
before bacterial infection set in.

Standing at the stainless steel sink, Kate tore open the opaque foil packet to get at the sponge. It foamed in her hands, releasing the sharp, antiseptic smell of
betadine
. She concentrated on scrubbing between her fingers and under her nails, using the familiar routine to prepare her mentally for the task ahead. It was all very well for Patrick to urge her to treat her patients with her heart. This little boy needed her hands, besides, and every ounce of concentration she possessed.

The presence of Gerald Swaim, washing up at the sink beside her, tweaked at her attention. Had Owen Roberts said anything to him about her continued involvement with the MacNeills, father and son?

But when the director spoke, he too was focused on the case waiting for them in the OR. "I hear from Owen you did a good job yesterday."

Acknowledgement from Swaim was rare. Genuine pleasure filtered through her absorption and unease. "Thank you." Since a return courtesy was undoubtedly expected, she added, "I appreciate your standing in with me this morning."