Backfield in Motion (10 page)

Catching him gawking, Mac quickly crossed
her arms over her chest, which hiked up the bottom of her shirt. A
nice pair of red lace panties peeked out from her jeans. Lace? Mac?
Well, he’d be damned. Bruiser tried not to smirk but failed
miserably, which seemed to piss her off even more. Pissed-off women
possessed a lot of passion when channeled in the right direction,
and a pissed-off Mac turned him on. Way too much.

Coming here had been a bad idea. He should
just leave. A black cat that looked like a refugee from a losing
battle sat on the arm of the couch and sized him up, cocking his
head to see him out of his one good eye. Bruiser was pretty sure
the cat found him lacking. He didn’t much like cats. His mother had
had cats when he was growing up. The little shits made it their job
to torture him every chance they got. He leveled the cat with a
leave-me-the-fuck-alone glare. The cat glared back, as if to say,
My house, buddy. Not yours.

Mac stood nearby, not seeming to care that
she wasn’t exactly dressed for company. She propped her hands on
her hips. Bruiser licked his lips as her chest rose and fell,
mesmerizing him. He loved the challenge of a pissy woman, loved to
cajole them into bed and turn them into putty in his experienced
hands.

“You need to go.”

He shrugged one shoulder and smiled. “How
about a pizza?” The cat crawled across the back of the couch and
sat near his shoulder, switching its tail and swatting him on the
cheek with each stroke. He scowled at the cat. The cat scowled
right back.

“You don’t much like cats, do you?”

“What’s to like about them?”

She almost smiled but not quite. Instead she
turned her belligerence up a notch, which only served to nudge his
interest up a notch higher.

“How about you leave? Now.” Seeming to
realize she might be showing a little too much, she tugged on her
top, which off course pulled the material tight against her
breasts. Bruiser drew in a sharp breath and cursed the powers that
be, while at the same time thanking them for his good luck.

“Ah, come on, Mac. It’s Saturday night. I
left the party early because you ran out on me. The least you could
do is be a charming hostess.” He turned his practiced
hundred-gigawatt smile on Mac, the one guaranteed to make a woman
drop her panties.

Mac didn’t drop anything, least of all her
annoyance. “If you hadn’t noticed, charming is not in my job
description.”

He chuckled. Oh, yeah, he’d noticed.

“Bruise, I have to get up early, okay? So
see ya.”

“Hey, it’s Sunday tomorrow. I never would’ve
pegged you for the church-going type.”

“I’m not, but I have plans.”

A smart guy would take the hint and leave.
Not Bruiser. Actually, he should’ve never come here in the first
place. No good could come from him being in the company of a
half-dressed Mac. Especially considering how much she’d turned him
on earlier.

Remember Brett.
His repressed
conscience demanded to be heard, and he looked away from Mac,
battling with himself. He should walk out this door. Right now.

Mac helped him out and walked to the door,
yanking it open. “Thanks for dropping by.” She gestured toward the
porch.

Bruiser balked, about to argue. With a heavy
sigh, he stood and walked to the door, feeling a bit like a whipped
puppy with his tail between his legs.

He made the dumb-assed mistake of hesitating
just a few feet from her. He should’ve kept going, but his feet
wouldn’t move. His gaze met hers, and his world stood still. It was
just like Bogie and Bacall—Bruiser was a sucker for old classic
movies. He’d never had
his
world stand still. He’d always
thought the romantic crap in those movies he loved was just a
fantasy, especially when it came from a simple glance. But then his
brain went into deep freeze, while his heart slipped out of its
cage and sprouted wings.

The part of his brain that did function
wanted to recite poetry.

Poetry? What the fuck?

He’d never been one to wax poetic unless
said poetry got a woman naked. While his body definitely wanted Mac
naked, surprisingly sex wasn’t his priority. His stomach did these
weird-assed somersaults like it did before running onto the
football field for the first play of each game. Only Mac’s house
wasn’t a football field and Mac didn’t look a damn thing like his
teammates.

The urge to taste her overwhelmed him,
robbing him off his little remaining sense. He stepped closer,
expecting her to retreat. But she stood her ground, neither of them
apparently having the wherewithal to abandon ship.

Instead, this ship was gonna sail those
rocky seas.

Bruiser raised his hand and cupped the back
of her head, capturing the silky strands of her ponytail in his
fingers. Angling his head, he lowered his mouth to hers. She looked
up at him and the longing in her eyes drove him forward. He had to
taste those lips, just once, just a sample, had to know if the
effect she had on him extended to kissing. She parted her lips and
a soft sigh escaped. That was the last invitation he needed.

His mouth touched hers, setting off a spark
and igniting a fire that laid waste to his entire body. He forgot
his name, rank, and jersey number.

God, she tasted good. So fucking good.

Bruiser applied more pressure and she met
him halfway. Her lips sealed to his, and he slipped his tongue
inside that sweet, wet cavern of pleasure. He pushed her against
the open door, pressing his hips against her, while his rigid dick
rubbed against her stomach. She groaned into his mouth and dug her
fingers into his shoulders. Her left leg wrapped around his thigh.
Holy crap. He’d be taking her up against this wall any minute for
all her neighbors to see.

Her tongue danced with his, thrusting,
parrying, retreating like a fencer. She made little mewing sounds,
driving him into a mindless fever. He slid his hands under her
shirt and upward to heaven. The swell of those fine breasts tickled
his fingertips, creamy skin beckoned to him, dared him to cup her
in his hands. His dick ached to be buried deep inside her.

Breathing hard, Mac pulled her mouth away
from his and sucked on his neck. He liked that, liked that she
marked him. Liked it way too much. Liked the feel of her warm body.
She was addicting, and the last time he’d allowed himself to become
addicted to one woman, it’d ended in disaster and the second-worst
pain of his life when she left him. That simple thought wedged in
his brain, interrupting his passion with a stab of reality. Pain.
Hurt. Betrayal.

This woman was dangerous.

Then there was Brett. His buddy. His
trusting friend. And Brett didn’t trust many people.

With a superhuman effort born of a
well-concealed conscience, he pushed her away, holding her at arm’s
length. His head reeled from the effects of a drunken stupor, even
though he wasn’t drunk. Or maybe he was, from her kisses.

Shit, this stuff didn’t happen to him. He
was always in control when it came to sex and sex play. Not that he
didn’t enjoy sex. He did, but he liked to be on top, even when he
wasn’t on top.

Mac leaned against the wall and blinked at
him, confusion in her eyes, her lips swollen, her breathing coming
in short gasps. Blonde strands of hair framed her face, her
ponytail in wild disarray.

Bruiser dropped his hands to his sides and
started backing out the door. “I’m sorry, I— I— That was stupid. It
won’t happen again.”

Without waiting for her response, he
sprinted out the door to his car and got the hell out of there. Way
to fuck up a friendship, not just with Mac but with Brett. The
sooner he convinced Brett to ask her out, the sooner this screwball
attraction would be a thing of the past. He never messed with other
men’s women.

Bruiser gunned the car and shot away from
the curb, but he couldn’t run away from his biggest problem.

Himself.

* * * * *

Morning came too early after a sleepless
night. Before Mac knew it, she was staring out the window of her
father’s old pickup as it wound its way along Hood Canal on Highway
101. Her father didn’t seem to be much for talking, thank God. He
cranked the Mariners game and grunted a few times, but that was it.
Good thing, because between tossing and turning all night and
thinking of Bruiser, she couldn’t muster enough brain power to
carry on the most rudimentary of conversations.

He’d kissed her. Mac brought a finger up to
her lips and touched them.

She felt his lips as if they were still
pressing against hers, demanding she return the passion. And she
had—big-time—for a brief moment that lasted both a lifetime and not
nearly long enough. The tingle on her lips spread down to her
thighs and parts in between. She glanced at her father, who was
still gratefully oblivious to her aroused state. Thank God. This
had to stop.
Especially
in the company of her father.

Mac blew out a breath and stared at the
sparkling, blue waters of Hood Canal. She needed to concentrate on
yet another day of searching, not fret about Bruiser and his
momentary lapse. The guy flirted at random with any woman still
drawing a breath and most likely kissed every woman with the same
reckless abandon. Not that she’d been breathing. One look in those
stormy eyes, one flashback of him naked in that barn, and she’d
lost the ability to breathe, to think, to function.

How the heck would she survive with that man
crowding her thoughts every day and night? While he, oblivious,
worked out in full view of her hungry eyes wearing little more than
a pair of shorts, sweat dripping off his pecs and drizzling down
that trail of blond hair that ran under his waistband.

Oh, Lord. She bit back a moan and chomped
down on her knuckles.

This was ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. She
had more serious concerns than her juvenile crush on a guy who was
the male equivalent of a slut. Not that she minded man-sluts. They
did have their uses but she hadn’t been with a guy for pure
recreation since her college days. She almost smiled at the
thought. Frat boys and pretty-boy running backs probably had a lot
in common in and out of the sack.

“I feel good about this lead.”

Mac jumped, so deep in her own thoughts that
she hadn’t even noticed her father had flipped off the radio. “Uh,
yeah, Dad. Me, too.”

Liar.

Her father swore every lead would be the
one.
She couldn’t decide if he earned points for being
positive or being in denial. She turned in the seat to face him and
banished Bruiser from her mind. Well, she at least pushed him out
of the way a little.

“We’ll find the clue we need this time. I
can feel it.” Her dad had felt every one of those clues.

Mac wanted to talk about something else,
like the future, her plans, her hopes, her dreams. Her dad used to
listen to her and encourage her. She missed that.

“Dad, I may not have as much time to devote
to the search.” She gathered her resolve and plunged onward. “I’m
going to try for the team scholarship. I want to finish my degree
in horticulture.” She’d dropped out of college when Will
disappeared. “I only have a few years left, and the scholarship
includes an internship with the team.”

Instead of being happy for her, Craig’s
mouth turned down in a scowl. “How are you going to work full time,
go to school, and help me find Will?”

Mac sighed, knowing this had been coming.
“Dad, I really need to do this and do it now. Working for the Jacks
is my dream job. The current horticulturist retires in the next few
years. I need to get my degree, need to prove my worth because I
want that job.”

Her father didn’t look one damn bit
convinced. “So you’re planning to abandon your brother?”

“Dad, it’s not like that. I can’t live the
rest of my life in limbo. We may never find out what happened to
Will. Besides, I’m not abandoning you. I’ll still help out. I’m as
committed to seeing this through as you are.”

Craig ground his jaws together and stared
straight ahead. “I know the answer is right around the corner, just
out of reach if we could only get that least piece of the puzzle.”
With those words, her father was off and running. He forgot about
Mac in his obsessive quest for the truth. Starting with the day
Will disappeared, Craig went through everything they knew, step by
step, detail by detail, even though Mac had heard it all a hundred
times before. Hell, she’d dissected every aspect of Will’s
disappearance herself.

As her father ticked off the facts, he
sucked her into that all-too-familiar vortex. Her mind fixated on
the solving the puzzle. They discussed each tip, turning it every
which way, hoping to find that one clue that’d so far eluded them.
They were like crackheads needing their next fix. As soon as Mac
tried to break free and get a life, some new information would
surface and drag both of them back down.

Two facts they both agreed on:
Will was
dead and his widow knew what happened to him.
Mac knew it. Her
father knew it. And so did the investigators. They had no body, no
evidence, but plenty of motive. At least Mac and her dad thought it
was motive: a business missing large sums of money, a wife who
happened to be the bookkeeper, and an affair with Will’s best
friend. The entire sordid mess had guilty written all over it.

Craig pulled off the pavement onto a
seldom-travelled dirt logging road. The truck bounced along as
Mac’s stomach clenched with apprehension. She knew this road, and
she hated this place. Firs and hemlocks crowded both sides of the
truck, blocking out the sky and what little light there happened to
be on this dreary day. A branch scraped the side of the door,
making an eerie screech.

No one could hear a person scream in a
remote place like this.