The Return Of Rafe Mackade tmb-1 Read online

  "You'd never have made it to the door," he said quietly. "You probably knew that."

  "I don't know anything except I'm tired of fighting with you."

  "I'm not fighting. I'm waiting."

  She nodded, sure she understood. If it was all he was willing to give her now, she would accept that. And she would make it enough. She stepped out of her shoes, unbuttoned her blazer.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Answering your ultimatum of last week." She tossed the blazer on the chair and unbuttoned her blouse. "You said take it or leave it. I'm taking it."

  Chapter 11

  It was a curve he hadn't been expecting. By the time he could speak, she was wearing nothing but two scraps of black silk. And all the blood had drained out of his head.

  "Just like that?"

  "It was always just like that, wasn't it, Rafe? Chemistry, pure and simple?"

  He'd want her, she promised herself. By God, when she was done with him, he'd never stop wanting her. Keeping her eyes locked on his, she walked slowly toward him.

  "Take it or leave it, MacKade." She put her hands on his shirt and stunned them both by ripping it open and sending buttons flying. "Because I'm about to take you."

  Her mouth was fire on his, burning, flashing, shooting dozens of wild blazes into him. Rocked to the core, he gripped her hips, fingers digging through silk to flesh.

  "Put your hands on me." She sank her teeth into his shoulder. "I want your hands on me." Hers were dragging at his jeans, closing around him.

  "Wait." But the bombs erupting inside him drowned out everything but pulsing, grappling need. With only his wounded heart as a pitiful weapon, he was defenseless against the spear thrust of desire. Against her.

  He kicked himself free of clothes, lifted her off the floor.

  He was deep inside her before they fell onto the bed.

  It was all sweat and speed and blind sex. The hard slap of flesh against flesh, the raspy gasps of labored breathing. Teeth and nails and tangled tongues drove them both over the sumptuous mattress, rolling and riding.

  It was a battle both had already surrendered to. Hot and hard and hurried, fast and frenzied and frantic, they pounded together. Wanting more, accepting less. The scent of roses choked the air with strong, sad perfume.

  She straddled him, bowed back as his hands streaked over her. She wanted him to take her to that tenuous edge between pleasure and pain. There she would be alive, as she hadn't been since he'd turned from her.

  She had to know that here, at least here, he was as helpless as she, as unable to resist, as pathetically needy. She could feel that need riot through him, taste it each time he dragged her mouth back to his with a ravenous hunger.

  While her heart screamed at him to love her, just a little, her quivering body greedily devoured, fueling itself with whatever scraps he would give.

  No room for pride, no time for tenderness.

  When she sank toward him, limp as water, he rolled her ruthlessly onto her back and drove her on.

  He couldn't breathe, didn't think, just battered himself into her. He had to fill her, to empty her, to claim her in the only way he knew she would accept. With a jerk of his head, he tossed the hair out of his eyes. It was vital that he see her, every flicker of shock and pleasure on her face, every tremble of her lips.

  Love for her swamped him. All but destroyed him.

  "Look at me." He grated the words out. "You look at me."

  Her eyes opened, but remained blind with passion. He felt her body quake under Ms, saw those eyes glaze as her head fell back.

  He was powerless to stop himself from following her recklessly over the edge. But he cursed her, then himself, as he fell.

  It didn't seem possible to have been so completely aroused, and to feel so utterly empty. He'd never understood how vitally entwined the heart and the body were, until now. And now, staring at the ceiling, with Regan silent beside him, he understood it would never be possible to separate his again.

  Not with her.

  And he wanted only her.

  She'd taken something from him that he'd struggled for years to build. His self-respect. How odd that he hadn't realized that, either, until this moment.

  He wasn't sure he could forgive either of them for it.

  She desperately wanted him to reach out to her, to fold her to him as he had in the past. It was miserable to be left like this, so cold, so alone, even as she was still quivering from him.

  Yet how could she reach out for him, when she was the one who had taken the step, made the stand, and agreed to take him on his own terms? His own terms, she thought, closing her eyes against the lovely rosy glow of the lamp. Bad Rafe MacKade had returned, she thought bitterly, and taken it all.

  "Well, we managed to have sex in a bed for a change." She sat up, kept her back to him. She could control her voice, but was certain her face would show him that she was shattered. "It's always firsts with us, isn't it, MacKade?"

  "Yeah." He wanted to stroke that back, but it was so stiff and straight. "We'll have to try it with sheets sometime."

  "Why not?" Her hands trembled as she slid off the bed, reached down for her underwear. "We could even throw in a couple of pillows, and a pretense of affection. Just for a change of pace."

  His eyes sharpened, narrowed, as she snapped her bra into place. Hurt and fury bubbled together in a messy stew. Rising, he snatched his jeans, jammed his legs in them.

  "I don't like pretenses much."

  "Oh, that's right." She grabbed her shirt. Silk whipped through the air and onto her back. "Everything's up-front with you. No frills, no spills."

  "What the hell's wrong with you? You got what you wanted."

  "You don't know diddly about what I want." Terrified she might weep, she jerked on her slacks. "Apparently neither do I."

  "You're the one who took off your clothes, darling." His voice was entirely too smooth. "You're the one putting them right back on so you can move right along."

  "And you're the one who rolled off me the minute you were done, as if your twenty bucks was up." Rushing now, she jammed her feet into her shoes.

  She might have had a chance if she'd been looking at him. A slim one. But he moved fast, and she was six inches off the ground, his hands like a vise on her, his eyes drilling holes in hers before she drew a second breath.

  "Don't say that. I've never treated you that way. I've never thought that way."

  "You're right." Oddly enough, it was the lash of his temper that calmed her. Stopped her, she hoped, from being a perfect fool. "I'm sorry, Rafe. That was unfair and untrue."

  Very slowly, he set her back on her feet. He realized his fingers were digging hard enough into her flesh to meet bone, and dropped his hands. "Maybe I moved too fast, but you caught me off guard."

  "No." Yes, she felt very calm, she thought as she turned to pick up her blazer. Very calm, and very, very fragile. If he touched her again, she would crack like flawed glass. "I initiated things, and I agreed to your terms."

  "My terms—"

  "Are clear," she said, finishing for him. "And acceptable. I suppose the problem is that we're both volatile personalities under the right circumstances. Any circumstances, as far as you're concerned. And as for me, the past few days have been difficult. That doesn't mean I should take it out on you."

  "Do you have to be reasonable, Regan?"

  "No, but I'm going to be." Though her lips curved brightly, she couldn't move the smile into her eyes. "I don't know what we're fighting about, when we've found the perfect solution. A simple, physical relationship. It's perfect, because the rest of our common ground is narrow to nonexistent. So, I'll apologize again for picking a fight. I'm just a little tired and out of sorts."

  She made herself rise on her toes and kiss him lightly. "If you'd like to come by tomorrow after work, I'll make it up to you."

  "Yeah, maybe." Why the hell couldn't he read her eyes? He could always read her eyes if he looked hard enough. "I'll
take you home."

  "No, really." She had to will herself not to run to the door and escape. Instead, she picked up her purse. "I've got my car," she added. "And I really am tired. I could use an early night."

  He just wanted to hold her, to fold her into his arms and keep her there. "Whatever you say. I'm supposed to meet my brothers at the tavern in a few hours, anyway."

  "Good, then we'll try for tomorrow." She made it to the door without stumbling. He didn't offer a goodbye, and neither did she. Her coat was a bright red slash over the newel post, or she might have walked outside without it. She put in on, buttoned it carefully.

  Outside, she got into her car, turned the key in the ignition. She concentrated on backing down the lane as if her life depended on it. She took the turn toward town, drove a half mile.

  Then she pulled over to the side of the road, carefully put the car in gear, turned the engine off. And cried like a baby.

  Twenty minutes later, exhausted, she let her head fall back against the seat. It was freezing, but she didn't have the energy to turn the car on again and pump up the heater.

  She was a competent woman, Regan thought. Everyone said so. She was bright, well-organized, moderately successful, and levelheaded.

  So why, if she was indeed all of those fine, admirable things, had she managed to mess up her life so miserably?

  Rafe MacKade was responsible, of course. She hadn't had a full day's easy running since he'd swaggered back into town. He was messy, arrogant, angry. Oh, so angry. And charming, she thought with a sigh, with all those unexpected sweet spots mixed with the rough.

  She should never have fallen for him. She certainly shouldn't have deluded herself that she could have an affair with him and stay objective.

  He hadn't been completely objective, either, she remembered. He'd had feelings tangling him up, too. Before she'd ruined it. If she had been just a little more of what he needed, if she hadn't been so dead set on doing it all her way, he might have stayed tangled. Until he'd fallen in love.

  Oh, that was wrong, she thought, and banged her fist against the steering wheel. That was her mother's kind of thinking. Make everything pretty, everything perfect for the man. Stroke his ego, cater to his whims. Play the game and win the prize.

  Well, she wouldn't. She was appalled she'd even considered it. She would not squash her own needs, her own personality, her own ego, to lure a man into love.

  But hadn't she just done that? She shuddered, but not from the cold. Hadn't she just done that, up in that bedroom?

  At a loss, she braced her elbows on the wheel, her head in her hands. She wasn't sure of anything any longer. Except that she loved him. She loved him, and in her stubborn stance against luring him into love with her, she had blocked, perhaps even rejected his feelings. And humiliated herself in the bargain.

  That, Regan concluded, made her an idiot.

  So what if she had to make some changes in herself? Hadn't he, in his way, done the same?

  He'd been hurt, she remembered. She had hurt him, infuriated him. Yet he had gone off to pound nails, instead of picking a fight. It was she who was the coward, who had been unwilling to trust, refusing to bend. He'd never tried to run her life, or her thoughts, or tried to change her. No, he'd given her room, he'd given her affection, and he'd given her the kind of passion a woman dreamed of.

  But she'd held back anyway, foolishly, in a knee-jerk response rooted in her upbringing.

  Why hadn't she thought of his needs, his pride? Wasn't it time she did so? She could be flexible, couldn't she? Compromise wasn't capitulation. It couldn't be too late to show him she was willing. She wouldn't let it be too late to...

  The thought that came into her mind was so simple, and so ridiculous, she knew it had to be right. Without giving herself a moment to think it through, she revved up the car and hit the gas. In minutes, she was on Cassie's doorstep, banging.

  "Regan." With Emma on her hip, Cassie dragged a hand through her tousled hair. "I was just—you've been crying." Alarm sprinted through her. "Joe—"

  "No, no. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I need help."

  "What is it?" In a flash, Cassie had closed the door and locked it. "What's wrong?"

  "What's nine-ball?"

  "What—?" Baffled, Cassie set Emma down, gave her a little pat on the bottom to send her along. "What's nine-ball?"

  "Yes. And where am I going to find a red leather miniskirt at this hour?"

  Cassie thought for a moment, brushing a hand over the wet spot on her sweater that was courtesy of Emma's bath. "If that's what you want, we'll have to call Ed."

  "Suck it in, sweetie."

  "I am." Valiantly Regan gritted her teeth and held her breath as Ed tugged at the zipper of a skirt the size of a place mat.

  "Trouble is, you've got a figure. I've got bones." Mouth clamped tight in determination, Ed hauled, and tugged. Then, with a wheeze of triumph, sat back on Cassie's bed. "She's on, but I wouldn't make any sudden moves."

  "I don't think I can make any moves." Testing, Regan took a step. The skirt, already dangerously high, snuck up another fraction.

  "You got a little height on me, too," Ed announced, and pulled out a cigarette. Her eyes sparkled with amusement as she let her rhinestone glasses fall to her chest. "If it was much shorter on you, Devin would have to arrest you."

  "I can't see." Though she rose on her toes and turned carefully, Cassie's mirror offered nothing but a view from the waist up.

  "You don't have to, honey. Take my word, he will."

  "I got the kids settled," Cassie said as she walked in. She stopped short, her mouth forming a shocked circle. "Oh, my..."

  "It's a hot little number," Ed agreed. When she'd worn it last time, at the Legion dance, eyes had popped loose. The way Regan was filling it out, Ed Imagined they'd not only pop, but go flying across the room.

  "Try those shoes with it now," she ordered. "I stuffed some tissue in the toes to bring 'em down to size."

  Regan braced a hand on Cassie's dresser, stepped gingerly into the four-inch spikes. "I'll get a nosebleed in these."

  "Honey, you'll cause nosebleeds." Ed gave a raspy laugh. "Now let's try some war paint." Happily she upended her enormous purse onto the bed.

  "I'm not sure I can go through with this. It's a crazy idea."

  "Don't go chicken on me now." Ed riffled her hand through a department-store array of cosmetics. "You want that man, don't you?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "Then sit down here on the bed and let me buff you up. This here red's a killer," she murmured fondly as she unscrewed a lipstick.

  "I can't sit," Regan stated after a single attempt. "I'd damage an internal organ."

  "Then stand." After making her choices, Ed rose and went to work. "Now, you said nine-ball, right?"

  "Yeah."

  In her forty-two years—forty-five, if God was listening—she'd never seen a woman less likely to chalk a stick than Regan Bishop. "Ever play pool, honey?"

  "Billiards." Regan uttered a silent prayer as Ed advanced with eyeliner. "With my father. Several times."

  "Hell, honey, billiards ain't nothing. Why, nine-ball's the second-best thing you can do on a pool table." She cackled when Cassie flushed scarlet. "Now listen up while I explain how it works."

  Balls smacked and clattered when Rafe shot his cue. The five ball thumped satisfactorily into the corner pocket.

  "Luck," Jared said, and lazily chalked his cue.

  Rafe only snorted. "Six off the nine and in the side." He made his shot, lined up the next.

  "Never could beat Rafe at nine-ball." More interested in the little redhead at the bar than the game, Shane leaned on the juke. She was all alone, and looked as cuddly as a new down pillow. "Seen her around before, Dev?"

  Devin glanced up, over. "Holloway's niece, from up on Mountain View. She's got a boyfriend the size of a semi who'll break you in half if you breathe on her."

  It was all the challenge Shane needed. He sauntered o
ver, leaned on the bar and turned on the charm.

  Devin gave a resigned smile. If the boyfriend came in, Devin would have to use his badge. And that would blow bis night.

  "My game." Rafe held out his hand for the ten dollars Jared owed him. "You're up, Dev."

  "I need a beer."

  " Jared's buying." Rafe grinned at his older brother. "Right, bro?"

  "I bought last round."

  "You lost the last game."

  "So be a gracious winner. His tab," Jared told the bartender, and held up three fingers.

  "Hey, what about me?"

  Jared flicked a glance at Shane. The redhead was clutching his arm like a fast-growing vine. "You're driving, kid."

  "Flip for it."

  Obligingly, Jared took a coin from bis pocket. "Call it."

  "Heads."

  He flipped the coin, caught it neatly. "Tails. You're driving."

  With a philosophical shrug, Shane turned back to the redhead.

  "Does he have to bit on everything in a skirt?" Rafe muttered while Devin racked the balls.

  "Yep. Somebody had to take up where you left off." Devin stepped back, chose his cue. "And since you're spoken for..."

  "Nobody said I was spoken for." Rafe gave the curvy redhead a long look, felt nothing more than a low-level tug of basic appreciation. And thought of Regan, just thought of her and his heart shattered. "We've got an understanding." He bit the words off, but still tasted bitterness. "Nothing serious."

  "He's hooked." Jared grinned and lifted his beer. "And his heart looks so pretty, right there on his sleeve."

  No way he was going to take the bait, Rafe thought. It was bad enough having your heart broken without having your family watch you fumble with the pieces. "You want to eat this cue?" Rafe executed his break, smugly pleased when two balls rolled into pockets.

  "She came into the house today," Devin said conversationally, "and that hook in his mouth dragged him right down the stairs like a trout on a fly. I think there were stars in his eyes, too." Devin met Rafe's steely look equably. "Yep, I'm sure of it."

  "Pretty soon he's going to start shaving regular and wearing clean shirts." Jared shook his head, as if in mourning. "Then we'll know we've lost him."