License to Thrill Page 5

  Yet the fact that he was reading women’s magazines somehow touched her.

  “I should have left you handcuffed,” Marc grumbled.

  “Let me guess, you like the pictures,” she said, forcing her gaze to the French doors leading to the back yard. He was so outrageously embarrassed, reminding her of a young boy who’d just got caught with a Playboy under his bed. “Actually, I’m surprised you didn’t. Leave me handcuffed, that is.”

  He stuffed the magazines into a garbage can. “I didn’t think it was necessary. The way I figure it, you run, I’m on you before you can get ten feet.” He tugged at the collar of his T-shirt. “So you might as well sit down until I’m finished.” Tin cans clunked together as he tossed a handful into a large brown bag.

  She watched him, not sure what to make of his behavior. He was still so much a little boy wrapped up in a gorgeous man’s body. On the job he was a confident professional, but when it came to matters of the heart, she was afraid Marc could qualify for the role of Dumbest in the sequel to Dumb and Dumber. She swallowed hard. She pushed aside her attraction to those endearing qualities and reminded herself that she needed a responsible adult.

  She absently sat in his recliner, but the action wasn’t as easy as she had hoped. The hem of her dress hiked up to her panties. She tugged at her sister’s idea of a dress, wishing she had gone with something a little more conservative.

  “Do you want a coffee? It’s your favorite,” Marc said.

  She shifted to look into his face. He held out a hefty mug to her. The aroma of French vanilla made her mouth water. She accepted the mug, longing for a sip, though she couldn’t drink it. Caffeine and all that. Still, she decided it best not to argue with him right now. She’d pretend to drink the coffee. Then she would talk him into letting her go. It was as simple as that.

  Marc continued doing whatever it was he was doing, passing through the room several times carrying bags. One bag in particular caught her attention because it wasn’t plain brown paper like the others, but rather a glossy pink with purple handles. She squinted to read the words printed across the outside: Old Towne Bed and Bath Shoppe.

  She sat upright and made an attempt at pulling the ripped seam of her dress together even as she tugged at the hem. “Okay, let me phrase my question in a way even you can understand, Marc. What, exactly, is your objective?”

  “My objective?” He stood and stuffed something into the pink bag.

  She fidgeted. “You didn’t go through all this just so you could serve me a coffee.” She glanced at the untouched coffee in the cup she’d put on the table, then eyed him. “Did you?”

  He rocked on his heels, then folded his arms across his chest. “No, you’re right, I didn’t.”

  Hope shot through her. He was beginning to sound reasonable. Good. That meant she would soon be out of this place and back to her new safe, predictable life in Bedford in no time. “So?”

  “Ah, yes, my objective.” He reached to scoop up Brando, who sat on the floor. The casual move made Melanie remember when she’d brought the scrappy cat home from the shelter after having him neutered and declawed. Marc had picked up the tiny, shivering kitten, drew him close to his chest and said, “I coulda been a contender,” earning the cat his name.

  Marc cleared his throat. “Let’s just say it’s important for you to spend some time with me, that’s all.”

  “Time?” Melanie focused on the conversation, not liking his vague answer. “How much time are we talking about here? An hour? Two hours?”

  He lifted his head to meet her gaze. Melanie’s throat closed at the determination she saw in his eyes. “As much time as it takes.”

  “What?” Melanie rose from the chair. “As much time as it takes for what?” Certainly he wasn’t trying to… “I am going to marry Craig, Marc.”

  He stepped closer to her, then appeared to change his mind and stepped back. Despite the distance that separated them, Melanie felt as if he’d touched her.

  “All this, your getting married…it’s about that night, isn’t it?” he asked.

  She knew he had to be talking about the disastrous discussion they’d had about love just before she was shot. Melanie swallowed her surprise. She had seen Marc McCoy in various hair-raising situations. But never had he been so eager to understand.

  “It’s about more than that night.” She fought to hold his gaze, though she wanted to look elsewhere, fearing what she might give away. “Marc, I know my getting married must have come as a shock to you.” She tried to feel her way. She didn’t know what to say. Especially when he dragged a hand through his dark hair, tousling it in that way she loved. “For Pete’s sake, we don’t even know each other.”

  She stopped and looked him in the eye. “I mean, we know each other. But not very well.” She was faltering and she knew it. There were some areas where they knew each other only too well. “I’ve never even met your family. You’ve met my mother, but just the once.” She cleared her throat. “I’m not even sure what your favorite color—”

  “Green.”

  She gave a shaky smile. “And mine?”

  He stared at her, seemingly at a loss. She wished he would say purple, as if that in itself would prove he cared about her.

  But he remained painfully silent.

  Finally, he said gruffly, “I’m going to finish up. Why don’t we have this little talk later, okay?”

  “Talk,” Melanie repeated numbly, her point more than hitting home. “Yes, yes, we do need to have a talk.”

  She watched him set Brando down and leave the room, incapable of all but the simplest of movements. Like blinking.

  She desperately needed to convince him that they weren’t meant for each other—before his mere presence swayed her the other way. She needed to remind him that he didn’t love her, no matter how much it hurt to face that inescapable fact.

  Brando brushed against her foot. She absently scooped the tom up and stroked him, then glanced at her watch. She caught herself bouncing the cat as if he were an infant and forced herself to stop. She didn’t understand why she had to explain anything. Hadn’t it been Marc who said he never wanted children? Hadn’t it been Marc who was nowhere to be seen when she was lying in a hospital bed after surgery to remove the bullet she’d taken? When she’d learned she was pregnant?

  She realized she was close to tears. She couldn’t deal with this right now. She really couldn’t.

  Her legs were no longer able to support her. She sank into the beige leather couch, listening to the sound of running water from the kitchen. Marc’s peculiar behavior wasn’t the only cause for concern. There were her curious feelings for the man, reignited the moment she saw him standing outside the inn’s ladies’ room. She blamed his absence from her life, the shock of seeing him again after so long, for most of her reaction. But she knew she couldn’t easily dismiss the other feelings that had stirred to life. Her blood ran thick; her lips were forever dry, as though waiting for him to moisten them with his kiss; her body trembled in a way she had somehow forgotten it could but all too readily remembered.

  But it was more than that. She had missed him. Missed his boyish smile, his adolescent sense of humor—

  “Are you sure you don’t want something to eat before we leave?”

  Marc’s question pulled her from her thoughts. At the mention of food, the cat leaped from her lap and meowed. Melanie swallowed the lump in her throat. Marc acted as if this situation were nothing more than two old flames catching up, but the fact that he’d carried her there, not to mention removing all the telephones, told her she was little more than a prisoner.

  Prisoner.

  “Uh, yes, I am a little hungry,” she said, trying for a smile. His grin told her he wasn’t buying her change in behavior. Still, Melanie tilted her head and desperately kept smiling. Finally he said something under his breath, then returned to the kitchen.

  Her heart racing, Melanie got up from the couch so quickly she was sure she heard another rip o
f fabric somewhere in the back of her dress. She tugged at the hem and hurried toward the French doors—the obvious choice for escape. Too obvious.

  “Think, Mel, think.” She started at her use of her old nickname. Everyone at the division had called her Mel. Initially, she had encouraged the habit. The male name did away with a lot of the pre-meeting sexual discrimination so inherent on the job, especially since out of two thousand secret service agents, only one hundred twenty-five were women. Of course, it hadn’t meant a thing after she met someone face-to-face, but with her knowledge of tactical techniques and natural skill with firearms, she had more than held her own in the male-dominated field.

  The bedroom.

  She bit her lip. Marc would probably expect the bedroom to be the last place she’d go. Given his ego where his libido was concerned, he would think her too weak to confront the memories of their lovemaking.

  She tried the door to the bedroom, then caught sight of the bathroom. She hurried across the hall and turned on both faucets, then pushed the auto lock in and closed the door before stepping into the bedroom.

  Twilight filtered through the miniblinds on the windows, slanting intimate shadows across the unmade king-size bed. Melanie swallowed. If Marc had judged her too weak to come in here, she had a sinking feeling he might have been right. They hadn’t spent a great deal of time in the town house, but what little time they had was spent primarily in this room.

  She edged along the wall and the closed closet doors, irrationally afraid that if she got too close to the familiarly rumpled bed, she might be tempted to climb in. Her pulse racing, she made her way to the closest window. The other one would require her to step around that bed. Her palms grew damp, and she hoped she wouldn’t have to do that.

  “Mel?”

  Every molecule of air froze in her lungs as Marc’s voice filtered through the closed door. There was a quick knock against the bathroom door across the hall. She hurried to the window. Hoisting the miniblinds, she stared outside, then tried to unlatch the window. It wouldn’t budge. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure the door was still closed and blindly tried to open the window. Nothing. She stared at the previously easy-to-turn latch and found that a tiny lock had been secured to it. She considered using the brass clock on the night table to break the glass. Then her gaze caught on something else.

  Slowly, she lifted the turned-down picture frame next to the clock. Her breath caught when she looked at a picture of herself.

  Where? How? Neither of them had ever owned a camera. Heat swept across her cheeks. At least not while they were together. Now she owned a top-of-the-line camera with all the extras in preparation for the birth of her—their—baby.

  But this picture…

  She scanned the background of the photo and realized she hadn’t posed for the shot. It had been taken on the job. Marc must have had a copy made and had her image cropped and enlarged. Her heart gave a tender squeeze.

  “Nice try.”

  Melanie jumped, nearly dropping the picture as she turned toward the door. There was a time not so long ago when no one could have entered a room without her knowing it. Obviously that was no longer the case. She turned to find Marc filling every inch of the doorway, his hands on his lean hips, his sexy grin peeling back the layers of her resistance.

  “I…” She what? Melanie swallowed and put the picture frame on the nightstand. She had tried to escape. It was as simple as that. “You can’t keep me here, you know. By now a lot of people will be looking for me.” She stared at him. “You’re well versed on the legalities, so I won’t bother with those.” She squared her shoulders. “But I don’t know if you understand how morally incorrect this is. If you have one ounce of feeling left for me, Marc, you’ll let me walk out the front door. Please.”

  “I have more than an ounce of feeling left for you, Mel. That’s why I can’t let you go.” His expression shifted briefly. “Take it off.”

  “What?” Melanie’s gaze slid to his face. She must have misheard him. Certainly, he wasn’t suggesting—

  “Take off the dress, Mel.”

  Her heart started beating double time. Her gaze slid to the rumpled sheets on the bed next to her. Her hands absently stroked her slightly rounded stomach. “Did you hear one word of what I just said?” she asked.

  “There’s nothing wrong with my hearing.”

  She fought not to fidget. “No, there probably isn’t. Now, your thought processes are a different matter.” Melanie pushed away from the window and strode toward the hall, pretending a bravado she didn’t feel. She stopped when she reached the door—and him—but refused to meet his gaze. She focused on his chest instead, then decided that wasn’t much safer. “Excuse me, but I think I’d, um, feel better if we moved to the other room.”

  His eyebrows rose. “You’re the one who led me in here.”

  “Led you?” She looked into his eyes, something she swore she wouldn’t do but did anyway. This close, the black of his pupils seemed ready to take over the brown of his eyes. She’d always loved his eyes. “I didn’t lead you anywhere.” Her thrumming body disagreed. “I was trying to escape. Big difference.”

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  Melanie wasn’t sure what she wanted to do more as hot tears blurred her vision—slug him or cry.

  He looked as though she had gone ahead and slugged him, apparently as shocked by her tears as she was.

  “I didn’t…I mean, that’s not…. Oh, hell.” Finally, he moved. Just enough to let her into the hall. Except that would mean brushing against him. Not a good idea. Especially since she couldn’t seem to control the faucet to her waterworks. It has to be the hormones.

  Melanie rapidly blinked back the dampness. She had not walked away from Marc McCoy because she had stopped wanting him. She doubted the chemistry that existed between them would ever be completely gone. Neither would their history, considering the child that was even now growing inside her.

  She cleared her throat then swept past him, her breasts and hips brushing against him for the briefest moment. Tingles ignited at the points where they touched, then swept throughout her limbs, making her momentarily dizzy. Her ability to go on with her life had depended a great deal on Marc’s absence. Now that he had reentered the picture—despite the Neanderthal way in which he had—she had a problem on her hands. Especially if he intended to see through this plan of his to hold her hostage. Melanie held her head straight as she led the way into the living room. Brando was in the middle of the couch, giving himself a thorough bath. Melanie sat fidgeting next to him, rationalizing that if Marc decided to sit next to her, he would have to—

  He moved the cat.

  Melanie got up from the couch quicker than she thought possible. “I can’t believe you’re doing this. I don’t know what you’re trying to prove.”

  “Take off the dress, Mel,” he said in the same exasperated tone he’d used in the bedroom.

  “Why?”

  He sank to the couch and rested his arms on his knees. “For one, if you keep pulling on that hem you won’t have anything left to take off.”

  Melanie caught herself trying to elongate the length of the dress by sheer will alone. She switched to pulling the tear in the side together. “I always said you were about as romantic as a rock.”

  “Yeah, well, even a rock knows that dress and the other you plan on wearing on Saturday make you an easy target.”

  Melanie’s throat tightened. Target? Her gaze honed in on his face.

  He said something under his breath. “As long as you’re wearing that thing, there’s a chance you’ll try to escape again.”

  “What did you mean by an easy target?” she asked tightly. “Target for what?”

  “You’re trying to change the subject, Mel.”

  She hesitated. Something about the way he said that further unnerved her, and he wasn’t meeting her eyes. Whenever he refused to look at her, it meant he was lying. “Marc—”

  “Take it of
f, Mel,” he said.

  Anger won out over paranoia. “I see. You figure if I’m nearly naked I won’t make a run for it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She swallowed, hating that he looked relieved.

  He shrugged, his half-boy, half-rogue grin melting her insides. “If you’d like you can also consider this a form of punishment for trying to escape.”

  She attacked her hem with renewed vigor. “So now it’s a punishment.”

  He pushed to his feet and rounded the coffee table. “Can you just be quiet for a minute, Mel, and take off the damn dress?”

  3

  SO MUCH for all the advice he’d picked up. So far he was batting zero for two. Revisit the past, they said. He mentioned Seattle, and she clammed up. Let her know with small gestures how you feel. Mel looked about ready to jump out of her skin.

  Marc eased Mel around, the feel of silk and her firm, warm flesh confounding him. In all the thought that had gone into this plan, nowhere had he left room for the riot of emotion that charged him every time he came within smelling distance of Melanie Weber. And now that he was touching her—well, it was better he didn’t think about that.

  He eyed the back of the dress. “Where’s the zipper?”

  Mel was so tense he swore her hair trembled. “There is no zipper,” she whispered.

  She tried to pull away, but he held her. “Yeah, well, if there’s a way into this thing, there has to be a way out, right?” He spotted the buttons that stretched from the neck all the way down to her softly rounded rear end. He cleared his throat, his patience dwindling fast.

  “I suppose this is a woman’s idea of romance,” he murmured. He’d read his fill on how to fix a soothing bubble bath and knew what type and color every piece of lingerie meant. Pushing a tiny pink button through a silky loop, he winced at the sight of his callused thumb against the delicate material. He didn’t think the editor had him in mind when writing about stuff like this.