Beyond the Misty Shore (18 page)

Oh, how she wished he could. “We can’t risk that”—a wave of regret washed through her—“so I’ll take the fantastic compliment.”

The wind stilled. She returned her gaze to the slick pond. A bug lit on its surface and tiny circles expanded to large ones, rippling out. For some reason, the old saying about casting your bread upon the water came to mind. Silly really. “You shouldn’t even be here talking with me. What if our entity gets ticked?”

“I’ll risk it.”

The wind started up again. Shivering off a chill, she looked over the slope of her shoulder, back at him. The breeze had his shirt and sweater blown snug over his chest, molding his shoulders, and his wind-tossed hair kissing his forehead. Blades of brown grass clung to his shoes.

She envied it all. Everything touching him. And she was angry with herself because she did. Even now, after a solid week of stern lectures and heart-to-heart talks with herself about accepting her feelings for him but limiting expressing them to her mission here, she got one look at him and envied even the wind because it could touch him and she couldn’t.

I’ll risk it.
How easily those brave words had tripped off his tongue. And, oh, what she’d give for just an ounce of his courage.

But he could afford courage. He had far less to lose.
His
self-respect wasn’t in jeopardy. “You don’t know the consequences. Why are you willing to risk it, MacGregor?”

“Because.”

“Well”—she smacked her lips—“that explains that.”

He frowned.

“Wait, I know.” She lifted a pointed finger. “You have faith everything will work out okay.”

“You
are
kidding.” He snorted. “Faith? With my track record?”

Pollyandying, he wasn’t. She forced her expression to become passive. “Why, then?”

“Because I’m feeling... landlocked.” He sighed and looked skyward at the heavy, gray clouds scudding across the sky. “Because if I don’t get away from here and see other people and do something semi-normal, I think I’ll go crazy.” He lowered his gaze to her. “Because I’ve missed—”

“Shattering my fantasies?” she interrupted, unwilling to test her resistance if he should say he’d missed her. “And because you can’t go without me?”
Coward! Coward!

He blinked twice, shuttering the longing from his eyes. “Yes.” His jaw tightened. “Please, Maggie.”

Please, Maggie.
Take the risk. Jump off the bridge. Act like a damn fool, knowing you’re acting like a damn fool to
please Maggie.

Inside, she sighed. She wanted to do this for him, but she wanted to do it for her, too, because despite her family responsibilities and obligations she wanted to be with him. Foolish move or sorry judgment factored into the equation, she still wanted to be with him. But did she want it more than she feared crossing the entity? It
had
played a joke on them with the condoms, yet what if they angered it? Would it still joke? Or would it grow deadly serious?

Lacing her fingers together, she studied them. No, she couldn’t risk defiance. Wanting to help and to protect him, wanting to be with him, even wanting his rendition of what had happened to Carolyn, Maggie just couldn’t risk defiance. But curious—half-obsessed, actually—she did want the truth. And maybe at the moment MacGregor was vulnerable enough to give it to her.

What signs had he ignored, in his own words, that had caused Carolyn’s death? Ninety-nine point nine percent of the time, Maggie felt convinced MacGregor couldn’t have been involved, not even remotely or indirectly. But there remained that shadow of doubt and, if only she’d been honest with him from the start, she could just ask him. But she hadn’t been honest. And if she told him the truth now, he’d hate her. She didn’t want MacGregor to hate her...

“Maggie,” he said, sounding irritated. “Countries have settled wars in less time than it’s taking you to decide on dinner.”

Arrogant man. Asking for a favor and sounding irked. No, that didn’t feel right. Irked, yes, but not at her slow decision. That he’d had to ask her. That she’d forced him to admit his vulnerability, to forfeit his pride. Why had she done that? Tables turned, she’d have hated it. Clearly, he had, too.

Wanting to apologize, she looked into his eyes. Hunger that gnawed soul-deep reflected there. He didn’t just want this, he
needed
it.

Her heartstrings suffered a fierce tug. God, what should she do? She reached deep for the courage to resist him—one of them had to remain responsible and aware of the possible consequences of crossing the entity. She opened her mouth to refuse him, but a phantom wind suddenly tore through the trees. Its keening grew shrill, ear-piercing, and she steeled herself to hear that ominous whisper.

Take him.

She shut her mouth without uttering a sound. Had it been the man’s whisper? Her own wishful thinking?

She didn’t know.

She didn’t
want
to know.

Shunning thought, she stood up and clasped MacGregor’s outstretched hand.

He closed his thick fingers around her slender ones, gave them a gentle squeeze, and smiled. “Thank you, Maggie.”

Her heart lighter than it had been for a week, she saw the cut on the underside of his chin and conjured a little audacity-laced lip. “What happened to you, MacGregor? Looks as if you nearly slit your throat.”

He cocked a brow at her. “I expected a sassy redhead had been using my razor.” He fingered the cut with his free hand. “She hadn’t.”

“Let me get this straight. You wrongly assume I’ve been on a revenge binge—while I’ve truly been a virtuous paradigm—and nearly slit your throat.”

“A virtuous paradigm? You?”

She ignored him and went on. “And this inaccurate assumption on your part is somehow
my
fault?”

“That’s about how I see it.”

He would. She stepped closer, until her breasts rose a hair’s width from his chest. “Now, why doesn’t this bit of twisted male logic surprise me?”

He dipped his chin, his eyes twinkling those beautiful gray flecks that stole her sense. “Guilty conscience?”

That suggestion she hadn’t expected. “I should feel guilty because I
didn’t
use your razor?”

“No.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. Her hips bumped against his warm thighs. “Because you know how much I’ve missed you and you haven’t admitted that you’ve missed me.”

She nuzzled him, resisting the urge to purr at the soft feel of his sweater against her face, deeply inhaled his scent, and loved it. Pine, sea, and warm man. Could it get any better than this? “You’re definitely suffering from Inflated Ego Syndrome, MacGregor. That, or possibly Acute Arrogant Jerkism.”

“Tacky, honey. Surprising coming from you. You called me a gentleman.”

“I was suffering delusions.” She sniffed.

“You weren’t.”

“So if not either of those, what is your affliction?”

“I’m not sure yet, but it’s specifically attributable to you.”

“I’m one busy lady.”

“Just admit you missed me, Maggie. I won’t gloat, I promise.”

What were his promises worth? “Now, why would I do that?”

“Because it’s true.” He hooked a determined thumb under her chin and lifted it. “Don’t bother denying it. You’ve missed me, Maggie.” His lips hovering over hers, he dropped his voice to a seductive whisper. “Every bit as much as I’ve missed you. Maybe more.”

“Arrogant. And the attitude.”

“Yeah.” He pecked a kiss to her forehead, lingering a second too long to qualify as chaste. “But not acute.” She cocked her head and he added the unasked answer. “Honest, and no snarl.”

A smile curved the corner of her lip. “Still racking up redemption points?”

“All I can get. I figure I’ve got a way to go.”

He didn’t. But she didn’t tell him so. Mainly because the battle between loyalty and desire raging inside her demanded all her attention. His heated breath fanning her face had her senses snapping to, on alert. She shut her eyes, trying to soothe them, angry, resentful. Yearning. Just once. Just once couldn’t her needs come first? Just once?

Yes.
The whisper—definitely the whisper.
Now, Maggie. You have the chance now. Seize it with both hands and hold tight. Dream. Feel the magic.

Miss Hattie’s remark reverberated in Maggie’s mind.
I’ve seen lots of miracles inside these walls. I’m hoping for another one, one for you and Tyler.

A miracle? No, Maggie didn’t dare to hope for a miracle. In their situation, a forever after kind of miracle was impossible.

“I haven’t thanked you,” MacGregor said.

She blinked. “For what?”

“Hot water.”

“No, you haven’t.” She smiled and looked up at him. “But that wasn’t a gift. We made a deal, remember?”

“I remember. But you didn’t welsh on it.”

“I don’t do that.” She grunted. “And you don’t thank someone for not cheating you, MacGregor.”

“You do if you’re trying your damnedest to get yourself kissed.”

Her breath swooshed out on a sexy little puff. “Is that what you’re doing here?”

He nodded.

“Oh.”

“Just oh?” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Does that mean I get my kiss?”

“Yes.” She swallowed. “I guess it does.”

His eyes filled with tenderness, and he slid his hands up her back to her shoulders. “Thank you, anyway, Maggie, for not welshing. You’re restoring my faith in womankind.” He pressed his lips to hers, urged her mouth open, then slipped his tongue inside.

Her, a liar, restoring his faith? She wanted to stop him, to tell him she didn’t deserve his faith, but his tongue rubbing gently with hers, his hands kneading her sides, his lips so eagerly mating with hers, she couldn’t stop him. She couldn’t think. But, oh, could she feel. And the things this man made her feel... .

It’s like quicksilver. Don’t let it slip through your fingers.

No, that was love. This wasn’t love. This was... wonderful, but it wasn’t love.

I’d hoped you’d have the courage...

Courage? Yes, enough courage for today. If only just for today. Maggie stretched higher, onto her tiptoes, wrapped her arms around MacGregor’s shoulders, then broke their kiss long enough to rub their noses. “I’ve missed you, too, MacGregor. I really have.”

His pleasure at her honesty shone in his eyes, and she did what she’d ached to do, what she’d dreamed of doing every night for the past week. She kissed T.J. MacGregor unstintingly, greedily. For the first time, taking all he cared to give.

Chapter 10

“Finally.” T.J. clasped hands with Maggie at the boundary line. “I was beginning to think we’d never get out here.”

“Oh, chill out, MacGregor. So my timing was off a little. It’s not as if being punctual is critical, and I’m supposed to be on a resting vacation, remember?”

“Forty-five minutes—over and above the additional fifty minutes I’d allotted because I happen to know you—is a little more than not being punctual. It’s being late.”

She gave him a level look. “Too bad you didn’t use the time to work on improving your disposition.”

He returned the look with one of his own. “Sorry, too busy cooling my heels. I’ll just add this to the list.”

Cocking her head, she looked up at him. “What list?”

“The one of your debts.”

“What debts?” The collar on her royal blue blouse was stuck half-in, half-out of her jacket. She tugged at it. “I don’t have any debts.”

“Using my razor.” He ticked off items on his fingers. “Clipping coupons and ads out of my travel magazines. Promising to save me a little hot water then using it all anyway.” He swatted at an insect buzzing his neck. “Those are just a few.”

“I didn’t steal all the hot water.”

“You did. Three times, so far.”

Flustered and giving up on getting her shirt collar straightened, she jammed it down inside her jacket. “Is it my fault that the inn needs a bigger hot water tank?”

“It is when I’m still working at racking up redemption points.”

“Oh, I see what this is all about.” She let out a grunt. “You’re stacking the deck so you can use it against me, aren’t you?”

Quick on the uptake, as usual. He smiled to himself and feigned an innocence he didn’t dream for a second would fool her. “Would a gentleman do that?”

“You would.” She sidled up against him and drifted an errant fingertip down the slope of his nose, her tone turning whiskey-husky. “So tell me, MacGregor, what exactly do you plan to do with these redemption points, once you acquire them.”

“I’m shooting for a rendezvous with you in the bathroom’s garden tub.” A pang of longing slithered through him. “After that, well, it depends.”

Her cheeks flushed. “I... see.”

She lowered her lids, but too late. He glimpsed a flash of longing in her eyes, a flicker of curiosity. “Looks like you might be beginning to.” She wanted an explanation of that
it depends
but she’d cut out her tongue before asking for it. “Question is, what’s your opinion about that rendezvous?”

Silence.

“Opposed to baths?”

Still, no answer.

“Cleanliness is a noble aspiration, isn’t it?” Her pulse throbbed in her neck. She’d cut loose on him any second. Anticipation burned deeply, exciting him. When Maggie got fired up, few could match her spirit. That’s when he most wanted to paint her, rosy-skinned, eyes shining, nostrils flaring ever so softly. Breathtaking. Fantasy-making...

Still no answer.

He wouldn’t let her get away with it. Not this time. “Running, Maggie? Does the prospect of sharing a bathtub with me terrify you that much?”

“No. Nothing about you terrifies me, MacGregor. I’m just not sure it’d be in my best interest to do it, that’s all.”

“Your best interest?”

She looked down at the ground, then back up at him. “Look, I don’t know what I think about it, and don’t nag at me, because that’s the truth.”

If her words got any stiffer they’d crack. “I asked what you think about it, not what you intend to do about it.” She should at least be able to commit to thoughts—if she would.

“Quit pushing, will you?” She gave him a frown that made her stiff voice seem smooth and easy. “I just told you not to nag. Didn’t I tell you not to nag? You know I hate it.”

But she didn’t hate him. “I’m not nagging. You’re running.”

“I’m not.” She glared at him.

Cranky, but cute. “You are.” She was, which proved the woman a lot wiser than he, because if he had half an ounce of sense he’d be running like Hell pushed hard at his heels.

“Okay, okay. I want you.” She jerked her hand free of his. “There. The big secret’s out. I said it. Satisfied?”

It was one of the hardest things he’d had to do. He wanted to shout the news from Seascape’s widow’s walk, wanted to scoop her into his arms and kiss her until her knees gave out. Instead, he masked his expression and, forcing a blasé tone shrugged. “I knew it.” He had, of course. She thought he’d meant to taunt her into confessing a weakness. But, pure and simple, he’d just needed for her to give him the words. He stood on shaky ground in this non-relationship relationship and he’d needed a little reassurance. He also needed his head examined for allowing there to be a relationship.

“I knew it?” she mimicked him. “Has, anyone ever told you that you are a Class-A, arrogant jerk, MacGregor?”

He dragged a fingertip down his jaw. “I believe you’ve mentioned it several times now.”

“Well, consider it mentioned again.”

God, but she fired his blood. The hint of a grin tugged at his lip and, to keep her from seeing it, he pressed a kiss to her temple, reaching for the proverbial laurel leaf, then breathed against her temper-warmed skin. “Maggie, honey.”

“What?” She nearly spat the word out.

“Would you tell me again—without yelling?”

“Ah, geez, MacGregor.”

She stiffened, clearly to resist him. To heighten temptation, he lifted his arms and circled her shoulders. “Please.”

With a resigned groan, she pulled away and looked him straight in the eye. “I want you, MacGregor. In fact, I’m sick with wanting you.” Agitated, she swiped her hair back from her face. “Hell, maybe I’m just plain sick.”

No danger of getting an overinflated ego around her. That was for sure. “Charming, honey.”

“Glad you approve. I’ve been studying with a master.”

Absorbing her angry words without comment, T.J. looked up at the sky. Swirling, gray clouds took on a yellowish cast and slanted strange hues into rain-laden ones, and even stranger shadows spilled onto the ground. She didn’t mean it. It was fear talking. She wanted him, and she feared wanting him or anyone else because she’d seen what wanting her father had done to her mother. Maggie feared control, not T.J. MacGregor. She’d proven that often enough. And, if they survived all this, maybe he’d have the chance to prove he was nothing like her father. Maybe.

“So are we going to do this crossing, or what?”

He gave her a frown because it was expected, though he had to work at not hugging and kissing her and giving her soothing, reassuring words that would help ease her fears and hopefully his own. Would he endanger her simply by caring for her? “Ready when you are.”

She reached out and grabbed his hand. She was shaking. “Let’s do it, then.”

T.J. nodded, his stomach flip-flopping as ferociously as the ends of her wind-whipped hair. Detecting a glint of light, he visually followed it. “Wait.”

“What is it now?”

He sighed. “Batty Beaulah’s at four o’clock—near the crooked oak—with her binoculars.”

“Ah, I see her. Is that George and Aaron Butler with her?”

“Yeah.” Hearing chirping, T.J. looked over to a branch about five yards south. A squirrel and a raccoon were engaged in a territorial Mexican standoff.

“What’s Aaron holding?”

“His dad’s antique spy glass.” T.J. grimaced, hoping the animals didn’t start battling. From the looks of them, neither was willing to compromise an inch. Was the little squirrel nuts? The raccoon would kill it. “Aaron hangs on to Beaulah’s every word. Thinking some of her ‘wild tales’ about Seascape might be true fascinates him.”

“Mmm. He breaks that glass and Bill’s apt to fascinate him with a truth or two.”

“More likely, Leslie. She’s the disciplinarian in the family. Bill’s too tender. His poet’s soul, Leslie says.” The squirrel, showing a spurt of sense, leaped to another tree then scurried down its trunk to the ground.

“They look happy, don’t they?”

Maggie sounded wistful, as if remembering her own childhood and finding her memories less pleasant than the ones Aaron and George were currently making. T.J. hated that. “Yeah, they do.”

“That’s how it should be for kids. Happy. No worries. No response—” She stopped suddenly and cut herself off. “Sorry.” She slid her glance past him to the pond, clearly embarrassed by the longing in her tone. “You ready?”

Ready to hold her? Yes. Ready to make love with her? Most definitely. Ready to love her? No, it was far too risky. Ready to cross the line? “Not really.”

“Why not?”

He forked his fingers at his temple and dragged them over his skull. “I don’t want to kiss the dust in front of an audience.”

Maggie clicked her tongue to the roof of her mouth. A weak shadow streaked over her chin. “Geez, have a little faith, MacGregor. If you expect failure, that’s certainly what you’re going to get.”

“Easy for you to say, Hoggett. You haven’t flunked at this for nine months.”

“No, I haven’t.” She laced their fingers and pressed their palms. “But we have succeeded a—”

“We succeeded together,” he interjected. “And that worked once. Who’s to say it’ll work again?” His doubt crept into his voice, and he hated it. Hated it for being there, and for knowing Maggie would hear it, too.

“Me.” She hiked her chin and genuine anger burned in her eyes. “I say it.”

“Well.” He waved offhandedly. “Now that we’ve established you’re on the job, hey, that sets any questions about this to rest, doesn’t it?”

“Yep. That’s about how I see it.”

Tossing his own words back at him. Figured. He frowned. “I was being sarcastic.”

“Really? And here I thought you were expressing unconditional faith in me.” She shook her head. “From where I stand, that bath is looking very doubtful.”

Beautiful liar. That bath was all but
fait accompli
. “Knock it off, Maggie. This is serious.”

“Ah, geez.” She sighed and slapped at her hip. “Here we go with the snarl and the attitude again. You know, MacGregor, you require an awful lot of work.”

Where in the world was she going with this? Wherever it was, he hoped it lasted long enough for Beaulah and Bill’s kids to take off. “Oh?”

“Yeah, but I don’t mind. Seriously.”

She wanted him to ask why. Just to be contrary, he didn’t.

“Don’t you want to know why?”

Disappointed. He heard it in her tone. So she who hates it, nags. What the hell. In for a penny, in for a pound—though he knew he’d regret it. “Okay, why?”

“Because you’ve got good hands and cute buns,” she slid him a wicked smile, “for a former popsicle.”

“That’s
paragon,
not popsicle.”

“The spit it is.” She snorted. “You’re trying to weasel your way into my good graces because you’re maxed out on subtle revenge.”

Subtle revenge had zip to do with it. Lust, now, was a different matter. “You have good graces?”

“You’re not going to do it, MacGregor. I’m not going to get ticked.” She crooked a slender finger at him. “I’ve got your number.”

She did. But it’d been worth a shot. “So you expect me to have a little faith, huh?” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.” She snapped her fingers back at him, then turned to look him in the eye. “What have you got to lose?”

“A lot.” Though the truth wouldn’t take a laundry list, he clamped his jaw shut to refrain from being more specific.

“A lot.” She pressed a fingertip to her lip. “Well, that narrows things down.”

God, but he hated it when she pushed. More so because she pushed without actually outright insisting. Just guilted him into telling her what she wanted to know. Why’d he let her do that? “When you only have a little left and you lose anything at all, it’s a lot, Maggie.”

The smirk curling her lip faded and her gaze grew solemn. “Yes, I know.” She stepped up to the line and lifted their clasped hands to her cheek, as if somehow shielding him. “Now, you’ve delayed with this nonsensical conversation long enough, MacGregor. I’ll be deducting two redemption points for this infraction, by the way. Trying to slip me a mickey.” She sniffed. “Batty Beaulah and the Butler boys have gone, so you can quit stalling and we can get this show on the road.”

She had his number, all right. And here he thought he’d been so clever. Heat surging up his neck, he dragged the tip of his shoe down the line in the sand, then glanced at her.

Why had she closed her eyes? Was she praying? “Maggie?”

She looked at him, but didn’t smile. Her eyes were glistening—not with tears, but with some secret known only to her. “Believe, Tyler,” she whispered. “Just... believe.”

The woman could have asked for the moon and stars and he’d have considered her wanting less than her asking him to risk the little he had left to lose. He wanted to be honest, to refuse her outright, but that secret shining in her eyes bore confidence and, because he sorely lacked it himself, he wanted—he needed—to trust it in her. “All right. Just this once, I’ll dare to believe.”