Never Say Never Again Page 6

  The gleam darkened to a heated flame. “No. We can’t have that.”

  Had she really said that? After his stinging explanation about why exactly he was there? She stomped down the urge to spend the next half hour washing his glass and instead forced herself to leave it in the sink. “I…um, can’t do anything now. You know, in regards to the Pryka case.” She glanced at her watch. A gift from Thomas. She had no idea why she still wore it. As a reminder of what snakes men could be? Or of what a fool she’d made of herself and never planned to do again? “It’s after nine. No one’s at the office.”

  “I didn’t mean for you to do anything now.”

  “No, no, of course not.” She turned the suddenly very heavy watch around on her wrist. Of course he hadn’t meant for her to do anything this instant. He knew as well as she did what time it was. He also knew the hours of the U.S. attorney’s office as well as she did.

  Connor awkwardly moved first one way, then another. Bronte watched him. Was he nervous? He certainly appeared nervous. But that wasn’t possible. What in the world did Connor McCoy have to be nervous about? By the same rote, what did she, Bronte O’Brien, have to be worried about?

  Then it occurred to her. Connor’s disposition didn’t have anything to do with her personally. It didn’t have anything to do with her, period. Understandably, he was upset with the events currently surrounding him and his career.

  Of course.

  Still, that left the reason why she was nervous around him.

  And that’s exactly where she intended to leave that particular train of thought. Because her nervousness went well beyond the fact that he was an attractive male—a very attractive male—and she was a female. A female who in the past few days awakened in the middle of the night clutching her pillow between her thighs.

  Connor cleared his throat. Bronte cleared her mind. “Um, I think I’d better be getting going.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He looked at her. She looked at him.

  Bronte smiled. “It’s just that you don’t appear ready to leave.”

  He grimaced. Not exactly the response she was looking for. But it was the response that she got. “That’s because there’s a horde of reporters camped out on the doorstep to my apartment.”

  “Oh.” Right. There would have to be given the amount of stories she’d seen in the various papers she subscribed to. And that wasn’t saying anything about the television reporters sure to be hot on Connor’s trail. Pryka’s case was high profile. And this week was slow news-wise. No congressional scandal to sniff after. No war in lands so far away most couldn’t even identify the land being fought over on a map. No extramarital affairs by people displayed in the Who’s Who book. “What about your family’s place in Manchester?” Bronte asked.

  Connor’s grimace turned somewhat comical. Not because what she said was funny, she guessed. He just appeared put out somehow—as if someone had posted signs all over his family’s house banning him from entering or something equally ludicrous. “Let’s just say I can’t go there either.” His enigmatic response ignited her interest all the more. Then his gaze suddenly locked onto hers, making her heart skid clear across her chest. “You know, you haven’t asked me whether or not I did…you know, what I’m accused of.”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “And you’re not going to now.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  He nodded once, as if her brief answer made all the sense in the world. In her line of work, asking a witness whether they were guilty or innocent was a dangerous practice. And one she stopped indulging in very early on in her career. It was better to consider all possibilities then make the appropriate maneuvers to protect the witness’s credibility, keeping emotion well out of the equation. When she knew the person was guilty, she could never quite dislodge that fact from the back of her mind.

  “Do you want to stay the night here?”

  Bronte stared at Connor as though he had asked the question rather than her. But his utterly shocked expression told her what the truth was. And that was that she had just invited him to stay in her house. For an entire night. Stay. Here. Within the confines of her walls. Invade her personal space. A space she had yet to completely erase of Thomas’s presence.

  “Stay…here?”

  She nearly choked. “Not…in that way. You know. You can camp out on my couch. The place is more than big enough for the two of us. Seeing as you’re Kelli’s, um, brother-in-law, I figure that makes you family, in a way. So it’s not like you’re a complete stranger.”

  The shadow of the smile he wore spread into a nerve-skating grin.

  “What?” she asked.

  He slightly shook his head. “I was just thinking that you don’t have a couch.”

  Of course he was right. She didn’t have a couch. She’d arranged to have nearly all of her furniture removed the day after she learned of Thomas’s betrayal because they’d chosen it together. The dark leather hadn’t done much for her anyway.

  She found herself returning Connor’s grin, feeling suddenly full of vinegar. “No, but I have lots of floor. And a sleeping bag.”

  “That probably smells of mothballs.”

  “Cedar chips.” She shrugged her shoulders. “But if you’d rather go home and face the pack of wolves standing guard at your door…well, I completely understand.”

  “I think I’ll take the floor and the cedar chips.” The gaze that had held hers like an irresistible magnetic force suddenly dropped to the floor. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  He stood like that for a long moment. As did she. Then he looked at her.

  “Oh! I guess I’d better go get that sleeping bag.”

  He caught her arm as she nearly flew for the door. “It’s only nine, Bronte. Isn’t it a little early for bed?”

  Actually, it depended on what you had planned to do in that bed, she thought, her gaze sliding over his striking features one by one, then snagging on his all too tempting mouth. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Do you have a television?”

  She nodded then flicked a thumb toward the one on the counter.

  “I meant in the other room.”

  “Actually, no, I don’t.” But she did have one in her bedroom. “But you can always set it up there if you’d like.”

  He nodded. “Okay.”

  She glanced down at where his long, strong fingers still encircled her wrist. He released his grasp. “Why don’t you see to that sleeping bag and I’ll see to this?”

  “Okay.”

  CONNOR STOOD IN THE MIDDLE of Bronte’s dark, empty living room feeling at odds with himself. Feeling more like he’d been evicted from his life now more than ever. He stretched out his fingers at his sides then crunched them into fists. A five-minute search of the room and the hall hadn’t turned up a single light switch. Hell, how was he supposed to find a way out of this mess if he couldn’t find a single, solitary light switch?

  He drew his hand down his face, feeling the scratchiness of his stubble, then sighed. How was it that one minute all was right as rain with your life and the next it was hell on earth?

  He’d never once in his thirty some odd years spent the night in a woman’s house. Sure, he’d been inside his share. Saw all the little knickknacks the opposite sex had a habit of collecting. Cringed at the ultrafeminine color schemes and struggled to get up from too-soft couches and too-short chairs. But he’d never stayed more than a couple of hours. And he’d certainly never stayed the night.

  He eyed the little he could make out in the darkened room. There was some sort of striped wallpaper on the walls. The mantle was bare except for a dark picture frame. Beneath him was an area rug of some sort. And a waist-high plant sat in the corner. Other than that, there was nothing in the room to reveal much about Bronte O’Brien.

  He rubbed his chin. He didn’t know what he’d expected. Flowers in every corner? No. Bronte wasn’t a flowery type of person. Maybe some sort of a
nimal print. Cheetah, perhaps. No, no, maybe a tiger. Yes, that description fit much better. And made him feel even more as if he was in the middle of a lair.

  A lair. He grimaced at the stupidity of the comparison. Bronte O’Brien appeared about as open to starting a relationship with him as he was with her. He wasn’t exactly sure why, but aside from the fiery kiss they shared in the park the other night, she treated him with nothing more than distant politeness. He suspected she’d react the same way if she found a stray cat parked on her doorstep.

  What had he expected? Given everything going on, he couldn’t expect her to welcome him with open arms. Which was just as well. He recalled the picture of a baby’s room he’d seen on her kitchen table and his throat threatened to squeeze tight. That being the case, and given his current situation, he was totally the wrong guy for her.

  He glanced at his watch again, wondering what Mitch and Pops were doing in Manchester right now. And wondered what they’d thought of the news about his being suspected in the Robbins death. He paced across the room restlessly, then stopped at the front window, staring out at the quiet street. Of course, his father and Jake, Mitch and Marc had called him several times, leaving messages on his home answering machine, and ringing his cell phone, but he’d refused to respond. He thought about what had been covered in the newspapers and on TV and cringed. He only hoped reporters wouldn’t track them down, looking for an angle for tomorrow’s headline.

  He’d thought about calling them back and explaining everything himself. But every time he’d picked up a pay phone, or pressed the call button on his cell phone, he’d purposely disconnected. Not because he didn’t want to put their minds at ease. Or that he was ashamed of what was happening. He was innocent, after all.

  No, his reluctance to return their calls had to do with the fact that he had no answers. He didn’t know where he went from here. Didn’t know what he could do to reverse the tide that was rushing at him.

  He firmly told himself he’d call them when he had something to tell them.

  But in order to get that something, he first needed some major shut-eye. His head felt like it was stuffed full of straw. His eyes were gritty as if a speeding truck had just blown by, throwing road grit into them. His muscles felt rubbery. Even now, standing still, he had to convince himself that his equilibrium was off kilter and that the floor was not moving.

  He recognized the signs of fatigue from having covered more than one difficult protection case for WitSec. When he had gone days without more than a half hour of sleep.

  Of course, then he’d still managed to keep alert.

  Now….

  Well, now, what was happening to him was personal. And personal always had a way of mucking up a man’s mind.

  Speaking of personal, he wondered for the fifth time whether or not it was a good idea to take Bronte up on her invitation. You couldn’t get more personal than spending the night in someone’s house.

  He grimaced. Oh, yes, you could. You could spend the night in someone’s bed.

  His blood instantly heated to a simmer.

  He reminded himself that it wasn’t too late to change his mind. All he had to do was backtrack to the hall and let himself out the front door. Check into one of the countless hotels choking the city. His feet itched to do just that when the bare lightbulb above him flicked to life.

  “It’s not much,” Bronte said, thrusting him a purple—purple—sleeping bag, then some sort of blue mat, “but it’s all I have. I do have a guest bedroom, but right now it’s packed full of boxes. You know, stuff I never quite got around to unpacking when I moved in last year.” She motioned to the mat. “I thought that might soften the floor a bit. It’s my exercise mat.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She motioned toward the blue thingy. “The mat. It’s what I use to exercise on.” She shrugged. “Not that I exercise that religiously, but I do try to get in a couple of hours a week.”

  Connor stared stupidly at the mat, a vision of Bronte stretched out on the bit of plastic-covered foam popping into his mind. Given her taste in designer clothing and purple sleeping bags, she’d probably have a wardrobe chosen especially for working out. Items that had high-cut legs, low-plunging necklines, and were made of curve-hugging material. He cleared his throat. “It’ll do. Thanks.”

  “You didn’t move the television.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She looped a thumb toward the kitchen. “The television? You didn’t move it.”

  “Oh, yes. No, I didn’t.” He moved the bag and mat to one arm and absently scratched his head. “I changed my mind. I haven’t exactly gotten much sleep in the past few days and I think I’ll just lie down, you know, if you don’t mind?”

  “Mind? Of course, I don’t mind. That’s why I invited you.” She crossed her arms. “You wouldn’t happen to want anything to help you sleep, would you?”

  He stared at her, his throat going suddenly dry. “How do you mean?”

  “Valium. A glass of cognac. You know.”

  He nearly groaned, only then realizing he had thought she was suggesting something of a more…physical variety.

  Only he suspected that anything physical with Bronte O’Brien would be far from something to help him sleep. To the contrary, he was coming to believe that if he and Bronte ever had sex, he’d likely never want to sleep again. Who would want to sleep when there were all those enticing inches of flesh to explore? Her soft, sexy body to plunge into? That red hair to touch, her mouth to kiss?

  “Connor McCoy, are you staring at my breasts again?”

  He jerked his gaze up. Yes, indeed, he had been staring at her breasts again. He offered up a grin. Her answering smile notched up his naughty thoughts.

  Oh, man, but it had been a while since he’d been with a woman. To be in the mess he was currently in, and to be thinking about leading Bronte up those stairs he’d seen in the hall and up to her bedroom where he could have at her…well, it had been a while indeed.

  She glanced first one way, then the next. “There’s a full bath down here. In the hall. Well, I guess I’ll let you get some sleep then. I’m…I’m a little tired myself, so I think I’ll just go up to my room, as well. Make a few notes on a case I brought home with me. Finish that book I’ve been meaning to read.”

  He nodded, wondering why she was telling him this. And wondering why all he could think about was her lying on a bed, any bed, in prime lovemaking mode.

  Generally speaking, he’d always been drawn to women with lots of hair. Long strands that he could tug. That would fall over the pillow. Trail down over his face when their positions were reversed. But he found himself strangely turned on by Bronte’s short haircut. It suited her. It was sassy. Provocative. Downright sexy. And she’d look as appealing after they had sex as before.

  He forced his attention away from that same hair. “Well, good night then.”

  “Yeah. Good night.”

  She turned to walk away. His gaze immediately homed in on her backside.

  “If you need anything, just, um, give me a yell.”

  He looked up to find her glancing over her shoulder, perfectly aware of where his gaze had been planted.

  He coughed. “I will.”

  AN HOUR LATER, BRONTE LEANED back and stared at the case notes she had made at the small desk positioned in the corner of her bedroom. She drew her fingertips along the cool surface of the pad, wondering at the sensitivity of her skin. She hadn’t been able to concentrate for more than a couple of seconds at a time. Sprinkled in along with her notes on the case were remarks like, “Make a list of who had access to Robbins” “Check out just how secure the facility was” “Why did Connor kiss me?”

  Picking up her pen, she idly scribbled across the top of that remark until she could see nothing but a shallow, blue puddle of ink, then closed the file.

  Face it, she wasn’t going to be able to concentrate on much of anything right now, not with Connor McCoy literally camping out downstairs. A prime,
hot male who had already proven himself capable of making her forget who she was with one simple kiss that had quickly burned out of control. Skilled at making her overlook the small fact that she didn’t intend to become involved with anyone right now, much less a man with so much hanging over his head.

  She slowly leaned back in her chair, her movements curiously languid, her blood seeming to meander through her veins as she gazed through the open door into the dark and quiet hall beyond. Nothing. Not even a sound to indicate someone else was in the house with her.

  She glanced at her watch, then got up and silently closed the door. She opened her top dresser drawer, automatically reaching for the ratty old T-shirt and boxers she’d taken to wearing to bed at night. The side of her hand brushed against soft silk. She pushed the worn cotton aside, taking in the array of lingerie she had once collected with a passion. Something different for every night of the week. Her gaze catching on a rich blue chemise with the naughtiest of short-shorts, she glanced at the closed door, then slowly pulled out the silky set. A short while later, she emerged from the connecting bath, freshly scrubbed and scented, wearing that sexy lingerie, and feeling decidedly more wicked than was wise.

  She quietly opened the door again, intently listening for any sounds. Absently picking up a perfume atomizer from her dresser, she applied the scent behind her ears and between her breasts, then sprayed the tops of her thighs for good measure.

  Midspray, she realized just how ridiculous she was being. Connor was all the way downstairs. He had no reason to come upstairs. Not unless he was coming for her, but she got the impression that right now she was the last thing on his mind. Understandably so.

  She started to put the perfume down, then changed her mind and shot a couple of spritzes into the hall, as though the scent would somehow waft its way down the stairs and tempt Connor to follow the path all the way back up to her room and…

  And what?

  Bronte’s gaze trailed to her mission-style bed. It was the only piece of furniture she’d invested in so far. One couldn’t sleep without a bed. Well, not for a prolonged period of time anyway.