She must have sensed him watching her, because her head came up. "Nothing?" She notched her chin toward his laptop.
He shook his head. "Either they're hunkered down or they had enough cash left from the last transaction in Key West to get them where they want to go next."
"Wherever that may be. And the big question: to what end?"
She massaged her temples, her face pinched in thought. "You think Reno really is just milking her for money? When he gets tired of the flight pattern and the heat, he'll just disappear?"
"Maybe." Mac rose, walked from the desk to the bed, toed off his shoes, and lay down on his back, his arms crossed behind his head. "Got to be a trip for a starving musician to live the good life."
Eve must have been feeling the strain, too, because she stretched her arms over her head, worked the kinks out of her neck, then let her head fall back on the cushioned chair. She had to be as tired as he was. For close to four days they'd been long on action and short on sleep. The few hours they'd caught at Kat's had helped, but not enough. The hour or so they'd spent playing patty-cake in Eve's hotel bed had depleted a little of the energy their limited sleep had recovered.
"It would be nice to think that maybe the way they hooked up—that it started out innocent enough," she speculated aloud. "Maybe Reno was as taken with Tiffany as she was with him. Maybe he still is. Maybe Kat panicked when she found Tiffany in Forbidden and saw what she wanted to see, heard what she wanted to hear. Maybe Tiffany really is OK."
"And maybe there's a tooth fairy and Santa Claus and maybe you need some sleep, because you don't believe any of that for a minute."
She chuckled. It was a nice sound. Companionable. Like she was relaxed with him for the first time. Ever.
"Well, they were nice thoughts."
Speaking of nice thoughts. He tilted his head, looked at her where she sat across the room. She'd taken the clip from her hair, and the silky blond mass fell softly around her face. She'd also ditched her shoes. In her snug faded jeans, lived-in sweater, and stocking feet, she looked homey and sweet and like someone he could be comfortable with. Maybe after dinner at home with a glass of wine. Snuggled on the sofa with soft music playing while fireflies played tag in the dark outside the window.
He looked away. And wondered what the hell he thought he was doing. Now that he'd had some distance from their intense session in bed, he should be thinking with his
big
head. And the honest truth was, there wasn't any room in his life for squishy ideas about home and hearth. Christ. Even if he had the guts to get involved with a woman again, Eve Garrett wasn't the one. And now sure as the world wasn't the time.
Great sex aside, he had a track record with women that spelled failure with a capital fuckup. And she'd made it clear she regarded any extracurricular activity involving him as a mistake.
He should pay attention. His ex had chewed him up and spit him out, and when he'd landed, he was a different person. Diminished. Jaded. One hundred percent cynical about the institution of marriage and the fairy tale of happily ever after.
Of course, that didn't mean he didn't enjoy women. And Eve, well, his resistance was admittedly a little low when he'd met up with her again. She made him think of his youth, when his life was still ahead of him instead of the reality that he was as worn-out and used up as a bald tire.
Now, this prospect of something more than a one-night stand with her, however, had a hell of a lot of appeal. It implied short-term. That worked. Long-term didn't. The only long-term commitment he could handle was Ali. And she would always and forever remain his priority.
"So you were a cop."
Eve's question—if you could call it that—came out of nowhere. Surprised, he glanced her way.
"Just passing time," she said defensively, in response, no doubt, to the astonished scowl he must have sent her. "Forget I mentioned it."
He should. He should forget everything that had happened between them today. Yeah. Like that was going to happen.
She stretched again, one of those unconsciously sexy lift-the-arms-above-the-head, thrust-the-breasts-against-the-sweater stretches, and
blaam!
Just like that, the little head started calling the shots again.
The picture of her rocking above him, gloriously naked, the berry pink tips of her beautiful breasts stiffened to tight little points, her eyes closed in sensual pleasure, was burned in his mind like a brand. The rush of being inside her, of his hands skating across the silk of her skin, the taste of her when she came, would stay with him until he died.
But if he wasn't mistaken, she hadn't just asked him if he wanted to have another round of brain-frying sex. She'd asked him if he'd been a cop. Slight difference.
Get a grip, McClain.
"Chicago," he said finally, responding to her comment about his police work. "Eight years."
"And that was enough?"
He wasn't prepared for the regret that swamped him. "Not nearly."
She was quiet long enough that he knew she was debating the wisdom of following up on that cryptic remark and the bitterness even he had heard in his voice. He decided to save her the trouble.
"Wrecked the knee," he said like those few words were adequate explanation for a career-altering event. Like he'd reduced what happened to three words when every day he relived the series of surgeries, the months of rehab, and finally the news that he'd never recover enough to go back to the job.
"I'm sorry." The softness in her tone relayed not only sincerity but also empathy. And it was telling. If he didn't miss his guess, she also shared a deep understanding of his regret. So deep, he figured she had some regrets of her own she was dealing with. Possibly some major disappointments.
"So, what's your story?"
She withheld for a moment, until her sense of fair play must have gotten the best of her. "You know my story."
"Up until you were let go. Do you miss it? The Secret Service? Seven years was a long time."
"At the risk of sounding like an echo, not long enough."
"And now you do private security."
She fussed with the crease in her jeans. "Seems we've both had some choices taken away from us."
Intrigued but even more concerned, he rolled onto his side, propped his head on his palm. "You were hurt?"
The laugh she pushed out held little humor. "Only my pride."
He was about to ask what happened, then thought better of it. God. They were dancing around each other like they were wearing tap shoes. Probably with good cause.
If she wanted him to know the details, she'd tell him. It came as a surprise when she did.
"I'd done my six years in the field office and had finally gotten my assignment in D.C. I was part of the protection detail for Vice President Hargrave's daughter. Hadn't been on assignment for six months when they pulled me off and sent me to Palm Beach to provide protection for Tiffany."
"How does that happen? A civilian—a nondignitary— getting Secret Service protection?"
"Presidential order."
"That I know. But why?"
"We're not paid to ask why. We're paid to do."
"And you did. They didn't get her."
"But we lost a good agent and a civilian in the process."
"For that you lost your job?"
"Clayborne was pissed that I let anyone get that close to anything that was his. I don't even think we're talking about parental love here. We're talking about ownership. He owned the chauffeur. He owns Tiffany. And by his account, I screwed up."
"Shame on you for saving her life."
"Yeah. Shame on me."
He thought about it. Shook his head. "That sucks."
"Pretty much, yeah."
A lengthy silence played host to a gamut of emotions that crossed her face. Anger. Disappointment. Stoic acceptance.
"Hey, Garrett," he said, making up his mind to do something to dispel the sad look in her eyes, even if it was wrong.
She looked at him, frowned. "Yeah,
McClain
?"
"Seems to me that if a person is going to burn for doing things right, she'd just as well indulge in a mistake every once in a while. Sort of balance the scales."
She considered him with a cynical stare. "Is that a backdoor approach to try to get me back in bed with you?"
"It is, yeah," he confessed without an ounce of shame, then watched as her beautiful mouth twitched and finally broke into a smile. "So ... is it working?"
Her eyes held his for the longest moment before dropping to follow the motion of his hand when he patted the mattress in invitation.
"What the hell," she said finally, and, rising, walked to the bed. "Who am I to argue with sound logic?"
Lying on her stomach, naked, her entire body humming with a delicious sexual afterglow while McClain sang in the shower, Eve considered the possibility that she might be a nymphomaniac. Or possibly she was just addicted to sex. At least it seemed that way when it came to falling into bed with him.
She hugged the pillow to her breasts, burrowed deeper into the covers. More likely, she was just stupid—at least where McClain was concerned. She'd never been this much of a wanton. Well, once before. Fourteen years before, to be exact. Any sexual encounters she'd had in between, while pleasant, couldn't hold a candle to the fire McClain had lit and set to a roaring bonfire.
God, he was good.
God, she was easy. One come-hither look from those melted chocolate eyes, one "hey, baby" smile, one vivid memory of the things he was capable of making her feel, one flimsy, fabricated justification for making another a mistake, and she'd folded like an accordion at a hoedown.
"Yee haw." With a satisfied smile she flopped to her back—and threw in a do-si-doe for good measure. McClain had some moves that would take the edges off a square dance all right. And if she didn't stop with these ridiculous down-home country analogies, she was going to break out in freckles and pigtails.
Blame it on the country song he was singing while he showered. And blame her tumble into bed on what it was. Another mistake in judgment, which she had a penchant for making when it came to this particular man.
She forced herself to get up. Tugging the sheet off the bed, she wrapped it around her and walked to the window overlooking the street. Dusk was approaching. Some of the yellow cabs were running with their lights on.
She thought back to what they'd talked about earlier. Specifically, her job. She'd lost her Secret Service position through no fault of her own. She'd proven herself capable— yet four people had died. Now someone wanted her dead. Someone close to her might die. McClain might even be in trouble just by proximity.
Maybe she should tell him what was going on. He deserved to be warned. And yet... something kept stopping her.
She didn't want him hurt. She didn't want anyone hurt. So this had nothing to do with their history. A history that thanks to her stupidity was repeating itself all over again.
Would she forever be drawn to the bad boys, like McClain, who couldn't commit, couldn't be true? She'd never admit it aloud, but secretly, she wanted to meet Mr. Nice, not Mr. Naughty, get married, get a dog, have two-point-three kids, and balance that with a career. What if there were no good guys in her future?
McClain didn't come within a mile of meeting those criteria. Well, he didn't if you didn't count the fact that he was a daddy. A dedicated one. A loving one. Which just mixed her up a little more where he was concerned.
She was watching the flicker of lights and shadows when she heard the door to the bathroom open.
"Hey," he said, walking up behind her. He wrapped his arms around her and tugged her toward him. "You OK?"
She should fight the easy intimacy, but what was the point? She enjoyed his lovemaking. Enjoyed his body. Regretfully, was even starting to enjoy his company.
She leaned back against his chest. "I'm phenomenal."
"Well," he said, touching his lips to the top of her head, "I guess that should make me smug as hell."
She laughed. "I guess it should."
He gave her an affectionate squeeze, stepped back, and walked to the dresser where he'd stowed his things. "Shower's all yours."