License to Thrill Page 12

  More than likely, her hurtful—God, where had he gotten that word?—remark was because she was afraid all her new, well-laid plans would get mussed up by their taking up where they left off.

  He groaned. Only they hadn’t taken up where they left off, had they? He stuffed the useless magazine under others on the phone table and started pacing. He was starting to relate on a personal level to the magazine pieces, which was not part of the plan at all. Why didn’t men have a periodical that could help them understand what was going on with the opposite sex? Oh, yeah, he’d read that book that said men and women were from different planets, not once, but twice. Not that it mattered. He could read it a hundred times and still never really get what the guy was saying. Besides, he couldn’t seem to budge the image of himself as an Invader From Mars alien every time he thought about it.

  He picked up his pacing. Something about his feelings for Mel, his reaction to her, had changed since he’d carted her away the night before. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what, but he knew they were more intense, vivid.

  Then there was the sex.

  God, he got rock hard just thinking about the way she had moved beneath him, over him, how it had felt to have her slick muscles surrounding him again. Things had always been great between them in bed, but last night…

  This was getting him absolutely nowhere. He needed a safe distance between him and Mel. He needed to stay alert, keep his eye on the ball and catch Hooker before Hooker had another chance to squeeze off a round at Mel.

  And he needed to keep away from all those damned magazines.

  MELANIE LEANED against the wall, her breasts unbearably sensitive, her body pulsating with the rhythm of the water. Where was he?

  She knew it was crazy, masochistic even, to want Marc again after the morning’s events, but she was coming to accept that life didn’t make much sense. How could she want a man so badly with her heart and body, and know with her head he was all wrong for her? How could she run away from him, knowing it was the right thing to do, then try to tempt him into making love with her again?

  She knew finding Hooker should be top priority right now. But she also knew that when he was found, there would be no excuses left to be with Marc. And that understanding opened up a whole new ache in her heart and made her want to take as much as she could while she could.

  Peeking through the half-open shower curtain, she saw no sign of Marc. How long was she going to have to stay in here waiting for him?

  She swallowed hard. She had lobbed quite a blow at his ego on the beach when she’d suggested their lovemaking had been nothing but a way to freedom. She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the tiled wall. What had she been thinking? She hadn’t been thinking. At least not all the way through to the end. All she’d known at that moment was that Marc had charged back into her life and turned everything upside down. And she was having a hard time accepting that.

  And that was saying nothing of his new attitude toward her. He acted as if she hadn’t gone through the exact training he had, covered the same assignments, protected the same subjects. Suddenly, to him, she was this helpless little thing who needed taking care of. Needed someone to take the load from her fragile little shoulders. A big, strong man to make all the bad things in the world go away.

  She moved her face into the spray. Marc was going to have to get it through his thick head that she could take care of herself, thank you very much.

  An image of the sniper flashed through her mind, and she groaned.

  Okay, so maybe she had lost her touch since taking that shot three months ago. Maybe the wound and the resulting shake-up of her life had undermined her confidence, clouded her thinking. She slowly ran the bar of soap over her belly, reflecting on all the changes that had resulted from that one moment. Fear itself was healthy, necessary, as long as she had some control over it. It was when she lost that control that things became dangerous.

  It had been fear that had paralyzed her and fear that had shown her the way to the stillness she had lost what seemed like a lifetime ago.

  The spray continued to pound. She peeked through the open bathroom door. At this rate, she was going to turn into a prune before Marc figured out what she was up to. She clutched the melting soap and began lathering herself all over again from the neck down.

  Come on, Marc.

  Last night…

  She swallowed hard. Their time apart may have played a small role in the heightening of emotions, but last night there had been something more, a sensual intensity, an acute liberation in their coming together.

  She tried to remember what it was like at the beginning of their relationship. Before she heaped so many expectations on top of it. But even then, there had been a shadow of hesitation, a list of reasons why they shouldn’t be doing what they were. She supposed it stemmed from the fact that they worked together. Even the first time was supposed to have been their last. An accident, Marc had said. Yes, an unfortunate turn of events, she agreed.

  Then came the second and the third times, and the excuses lost their edge until they stopped making them at all.

  Melanie sank her teeth into the flesh of her lower lip, thinking that would have been about the time she started falling in love with him.

  And what about all her plans? She had believed herself independent, liberated, and now she was mapping out a traditional route as if her life were a road impervious to earthquakes, floods and all forms of natural disasters.

  Then came Hurricane Marc.

  She looked down to find her hands resting over her stomach as if protecting the growing life within.

  An image of a little boy emerged in her mind. A little boy who had her light hair and Marc’s large brown eyes. A child who would have all her practical traits, yet would face life with the same zeal his father did.

  Following closely on the heels of that image was one of her mother. She was probably climbing the walls. But not the walls of her house. She’d likely be camped out at the local sheriff’s office, directing activities. From the minute, making sure fresh coffee kept running, to the elaborate, ordering deputies to comb the countryside for her.

  The thought might have made her grimace before, but Melanie found herself smiling. There were a lot of unresolved issues between her and her mother. But ever since she learned she was pregnant, her perception of her mom had shifted. Wilhemenia had spent more than half her life obsessing over her two daughters, fighting to keep their house, working to keep Melanie and Joanie in tennis shoes. She had sacrificed her life for the sake of her children after the death of her husband. No, she had never re-married. No, Melanie couldn’t recall her mother ever going out on a date. Not even after she and Joanie had left the nest.

  She understood her mother better now. She felt the same fierce need to do everything it took to protect and provide a loving environment for the baby growing within her. Even if it meant sacrificing her needs to do so.

  “Mel?”

  Startled, she instinctively reached for the shower curtain to cover herself. Which went against her decadent plans.

  She opened the curtain. Marc stood in the bathroom doorway, looking at everything in the elegant little space besides her.

  He cleared his throat. “You planning on using all the water in the hotel?”

  She wanted to shake him. Instead she pushed the curtain open even farther.

  “Jesus, Mel, you’re getting the floor all wet.”

  Without looking at her, he yanked the curtain almost all the way closed.

  She grabbed his hand with her wet one. Finally his gaze moved to her face.

  “You know, McCoy, sometimes you can be as thick as shag carpeting.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Thick, huh? No, I think thick would be me climbing into that shower with you.” He craned his neck, obviously struggling not to look at anything but her face. “Look, you want to go, the door’s right there. You don’t have to sleep with me to escape.”

  Melanie opened the c
urtain and slipped her wet fingers along his jaw and into his dark hair. “I don’t want to go anywhere, Marc. Not right now.”

  “Come on. You’re getting me all wet.”

  Melanie smiled. “That’s the whole point.”

  Finally, a reaction. A flick of a gaze to where the water sloshed over her breasts. Melanie swallowed hard. Yes.

  “No.” Marc grasped her wrists and tugged her hands from his face. “Room service will be here any minute.”

  Forget room service. Melanie fought to hold on to her smile.

  His gaze dipped a little lower. A languid shudder ran through her. He hesitantly lifted his fingers, and she stopped her movements, realizing he was looking at her scar.

  Last night it had been too dark for any visual exploration. And while the physical reminder of what she had gone through had been a constant presence for her, Marc had never seen it.

  She swallowed hard as he gently ran the tip of his index finger across the pink, puckered skin. Then his eyes met hers.

  Before she knew it, she was in his arms, her slick, soapy body against his clothed one.

  8

  MARC LANGUIDLY TRAILED a finger across Mel’s belly, lightly touching the damp tangle of hair between her thighs. He grinned at her quick intake of breath.

  “Again?” she rasped.

  His chuckle shook the bed. “I don’t think so.” He gently tugged on her hair, earning him a laughing shriek. “I need at least a week to recover after today.”

  Her sudden stillness tipped him off to the change in her demeanor. He dragged his head from where it lay against her breasts and glanced at her face.

  Sure enough, the light had drained from her green eyes, and when she sighed, it was as if she bore the weight of the world on her stomach instead of just him.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, running a fingertip over the scar that represented so much in their relationship.

  “Nothing.”

  Nothing? “Hey, that’s my line.”

  She finally looked at him rather than through him. Then he realized what had precipitated the change in her mood. He’d mentioned time. I need at least a week to recover….

  She reached for a towel that lay nearby, and Marc let her up so she could wrap it around herself. He wanted to protest the covering of her delectable flesh, but bit the impulse back. He might not know what was going on in her head, but he knew the meaning behind her physical movements. He wouldn’t have a week to recover for another bout.

  He rolled onto his back and draped his arm across his forehead. He couldn’t imagine his life without Mel in it. While he was sure he and Mel had gotten physically closer, he also felt an emotional rift no amount of advice could help him bridge.

  And it hurt like hell.

  He rubbed his hands over his face. “I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but I almost hope you get pregnant.”

  She jumped off the bed so quickly, the movement of the mattress nearly catapulted him off the other side.

  “What?” Her voice was a hoarse rasp.

  Despite the tightness in his chest, he was amused by the way she clutched the towel—as if he already hadn’t tasted everything that lay beneath it.

  He shrugged. “Have you noticed we didn’t use any protection?”

  She remained mute, staring at him unblinkingly.

  He cleared his throat, not entirely sure he liked her reaction. Was she so averse to the thought of having his child? “You know, we didn’t use a raincoat, a rubber, a cond—”

  “I know what protection means, Marc.” He grimaced, watching her hands shake as she tucked in the towel.

  He sat on the bed and reached for his briefs. “You don’t have to act like I just suggested you become a live organ donor, for God’s sake.”

  She started shaking her head in an odd way. “No, no, it’s not that. I…” Her hand went to her throat as if trying to work the words out. “I want to know what you meant when you said you wished that I was pregnant.”

  It was his turn for the words to get caught. And boy, did they. To make matters worse, they seemed to have claws, and clutched at his throat for dear life. “I said I almost wish. Big difference.”

  Uh-oh. The homicidal look on her face explained why he’d had difficulty saying the words. Unconsciously he knew they would get him into a heap of trouble. And he knew Mel wasn’t reaching for that pillow because she was tired. Although Lord knew she should—

  She hurled it at him.

  He caught it easily, and she made a sound of frustration. Dropping the pillow, he raced across the mattress and grabbed her, pulling her onto the sheets even as she clutched the bedside lamp in both hands.

  “Give me that.”

  She struggled against him. “Let me go!”

  He was glad her towel had come loose and circled her legs, pinning them—it kept her from causing any major damage.

  “Give me the lamp, Mel.” She sank her teeth into his shoulder. “Ow! Would you stop that!”

  He pried the lamp from her fingers and dropped it to the floor. It shattered, despite the plush carpeting. He cringed, wondering how much that little knickknack was going to cost.

  “What is it with you?” he asked, catching her chin, preventing her from taking a hunk of flesh from his shoulder. He searched her face. He’d never seen her this worked up. “Is it because I said I almost wished you were pregnant?”

  Her answer came by way of a kick to the shin.

  “Geez, Mel, would you tell me what in the hell is going on?”

  The towel was coming loose.

  “Come on, we talked about this a long time ago. Even before we started sleep—er, dating. I told you I didn’t want kids.”

  She went suddenly still. He didn’t dare move his hand, though. Not until he was sure this wasn’t a diversionary tactic.

  “Besides, aren’t you the one who’s marrying somebody else tomorrow?”

  Aw, shit. Were those tears in her eyes?

  He finally let her go and quickly moved to the other side of the bed. “What is it with you, anyway?” He ran his hands through his hair, his blood surging through his veins. He could handle almost anything from her. Silence. Her penchant for whacking him in the arm. Her sexy seductions. But her tears—he couldn’t handle those.

  The first time he’d seen them had cut him to the bone. The night Hooker shot her. She had gritted her teeth and paid close attention until she was sure Hooker was in custody, but the instant she looked down, her voice had cracked.

  “So much blood.”

  Marc had stared at her, unsure who had said the words, her or him. It had been all over, the blood. So much, he wasn’t sure exactly where she’d been shot or how many times. Then Mel had started crying. Crying. That more than anything had scared the hell out of him. Mel wasn’t a crier. She was one of the guys. She was supposed to be telling crude jokes, keeping a stiff upper lip and all that.

  He leaned his forehead against his hands. That night had driven home how very different they were.

  “I don’t get you, Mel.” He pressed his thumbs against his eyelids to block the images. “Three months ago you just break things off. No explanation, no goodbye, no I hope it was good for you, too. Then the next thing I hear you’re marrying somebody else.”

  She rounded the bed and stood in front of him. “Do you really want to get me, Marc? Do you want to know the real reason I quit the division?”

  He narrowed his eyes, trying to ignore that she was still naked. Trying harder still to ignore his instant arousal. “Yes.”

  She picked up the pillow he’d dropped. She whacked him a good one. “I am pregnant.”

  Marc sat ramrod straight on the side of the bed, dumbfounded, the pain from her hit not stinging nearly as much as her words. “What?” His voice was a croak.

  She lifted the pillow again, then dropped it and sank onto the mattress beside him. She whispered, “I said I am pregnant, you twit.”

  Since she was no longer directly in
front of him, he stared at the window. A strange tingling began at the base of his skull, then inched over his head, chasing out every chaotic thought, every coherent word. “When? How?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her press the pillow to her belly. “You really don’t want me to answer that, do you?”

  He imagined he could hear the creak of his neck as he turned to look at her. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and she clutched the pillow so tightly he expected it to split open and cover them both with feathers. “Either Craig is a very fast worker—”

  She sprang from the bed, but before she could whack him upside the head with the pillow again, he grabbed her wrists, holding her still.

  “Would you just hold on for a minute? You didn’t let me finish.” He strengthened his grip. Not because she still needed to be restrained, but because he needed the connection to ground himself. “What I was going to say is—and don’t you dare hit me again or I swear to God I’ll tie you to the bed—either Craig is a very fast worker, or I’m…” The thought of tying her to the bed was preferable to the words he couldn’t seem to push from his throat. “Or I’m—”

  “Going to be a father,” Mel finished softly for him.

  Marc felt as though he’d been caught on the wrong end of Mike Tyson’s left hook. He worked his mouth around some kind of agreement, but no words came out. He could only stare at her. His gaze lingered on her face, dropped to her still bare, still wonderfully, deceptively flat stomach, then to her face again.

  Then odd details combined to make a supportive whole. The urgency of her wedding plans. The fact that she drank milk rather than coffee. Her quitting the division to become a security consultant.

  She nodded slowly.

  “Well.” He thought the word had come from his mouth, but he wasn’t entirely sure. It sounded too high-pitched, too contrite to have possibly been his voice. But since he was watching her mouth, and nothing had come out of there, then—