Here Comes Trouble (20 page)

He grabbed on before she could pull too far away, deepened the kiss until he felt her arms go lax, and she sagged against him. “You’re welcome,” he murmured and stroked her cheek. “It’s been a day to remember.”

Sheila closed her eyes and jerked as if his words stabbed her, but the regretful smile that crossed her lips ended up stabbing at him. “You haven’t changed your mind, have you? You’re still going to leave.”

“Yes.” While he could see where the day he’d spent with her family may have given her hope he’d changed his mind, he’d become more convinced he’d made the right decision. Leaving wasn’t a choice any longer. It was a necessity. “But I’m here now.” He kissed her again. “The question you have to ask yourself is if that’s enough.”

***

“You’re missing the fireworks.”

Malcolm nearly choked on his last pill and he knocked his prescription off the kitchen counter. The bottle rolled to a stop at Morgan’s feet. Sputtering, he dove for it, covering his mouth, but she’d already bent to retrieve it. “Thanks,” he managed as his eyes watered. He held out his hand and found his gaze pulled into the gravitational field that was Morgan Tremayne as she scanned the label.

Shit. The ensuing silence felt endless.

She placed the bottle in his palm, her expression unreadable. “Does Sheila know?”

“Morgan—” His mind spun as he tried to conjure the right lie.

“No, not here.” She held up her hand, glanced out the patio door, then out the window before gesturing for him to follow, which he did, wincing as the front porch door slammed behind them. She crossed her arms and sat on the edge of the railing. “So the other day at the hospital. That visit wasn’t about a donation, was it? How long?”

“Before I know anything? About a week.”

“Okay. What about the first time?”

Double shit.

“Morgan, I don’t want to be rude, but this isn’t any of your—”

“You’re sleeping with my sister.” Her voice remained calm, but her eyes sparked brighter than the exploding fireworks going off around them. “And if you aren’t, I’m betting those pills are a good reason why. They make you feel like absolute crap, but those aren’t antibiotics a doctor would prescribe without an underlying health problem or previous illness. What was it? Leukemia? Thyroid cancer?”

“Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.” Lying was useless. Not because of her expertise with cancer treatments, but because she was, first and foremost, Sheila’s sister. “Stage two, three years ago.”

“Fuck.” Morgan scrubbed her hands down her face and stomped her foot. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I hate this fucking disease.”

What the—he blinked, unable to process what he’d just heard and then he burst out laughing. The thought of this adorable woman using such language at just the right time struck every chord of humor inside him and he fell a little in love. Despite wanting to keep his condition a secret, there was relief that someone besides Veronica knew. Not that he should be feeling this good about it.

“I don’t know whether to hug you or smack you.” Morgan’s lips twitched as she moved in and wrapped her arms around him. She squeezed hard and then stepped away. And punched him in the shoulder.

“Ow.”

“Serves you right. Why haven’t you told her?”

“Because I’m not staying. And because there’s nothing to tell.” Why did he feel the need to defend himself? This was his illness, his life. “My doctor in San Francisco got me in to see Dr. Collins on Friday. I should have the results in about ten days.”

“Josh Collins?” she asked, and he nodded. “Well, he’s one of the best in the country, so that’s good. But you think there’s a recurrence.”

“It’s hard to forget those symptoms once you’ve run that race.” He rubbed at what was sure to be a fist-sized bruise on his shoulder. Boy, she packed a lot of power in that little hand. “I’m managing for now.”

“But you’ll tell her when you get the results.” She reached her arms up to tighten her ponytail, glaring at him when he didn’t answer. “Malcolm?”

“I’m not telling her, Morgan,” he said, and hoped she heard the finality in his voice. “There’s no reason to. Once the gala is over, once I settle things with the family business, I’m heading back to the Bay Area. I’ll deal with whatever happens then and there.”

“You’re not going to fight this alone?” The disbelief on her face rocked him harder than he ever expected.

“I won’t be alone. I have friends.” Well, he had one.

“But you won’t have family. People who love you. Malcolm, you can’t—”

“This isn’t up for debate, Morgan. If I’d remembered to take that damned pill when I was supposed to, or if you were ten seconds later walking in that door we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I’m going to enjoy the time I have here, with Sheila, with this crazy crew you all have in Lantano Valley. I’m going to do my damndest to help you get that center up and running so you and your cohorts can find a cure for what you so aptly called this fucking disease. And then I’m going to move on.”

“You’re an idiot.”

He rubbed his fingers into his eyes. “That does seem to be the prevailing female opinion.”

“Malcolm . . .”

“Why am I an idiot, Morgan? Because I don’t want your sister spending her time taking care of me? Of missing out on her life because we’re trying to save mine? Of worrying every minute for the rest of her life if this is the day she walks in the door and finds me dead on the floor from an embolism?”

Even in the darkness, he saw Morgan’s face drain of color. He knew that was out of line, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t the truth. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. But I won’t do that to her, Morgan. I won’t have her feeling sorry for me, or putting her life aside to be a caretaker. She’s meant for more than that.” Even if it meant he’d live his life without her.

“You love her. You must, otherwise you wouldn’t be doing this. But you owe it to her to let her make that choice for herself. You don’t even know what those test results are going to say.” She gripped his arm so tight he figured he’d have marks to match his shoulder in the morning. “And even if it’s not good, Sheila is stronger than you think she is.”

“I know how strong she is, Morgan. She’s stronger than even she realizes. It’s me who isn’t.” It was hard enough watching her grieve someone she’d lost. He wasn’t about to watch her mourn while he was still alive. “I’ll understand if you feel you have to tell her, but I’m asking you, someone who knows what dealing with a recurrence of cancer can mean, don’t.”

Whatever tears Morgan might have considered shedding didn’t have a chance behind the intensity he saw in her eyes. “I promise not to tell her. For now.” She nodded. “But only if you keep me in the loop. I want to know what’s going on every step of the way. If you won’t let Sheila be here for you, at least let me do it.”

“You have enough on your plate, Morgan. This house, the center, the foundation, Gage, your family.”

“You just don’t get it, do you?” She grabbed his face in her hands. “You
are
family. Whether you like it or not.” She released him and banged into the house. Malcolm let out an unsteady breath, leaned over the railing as the door bounced open again and Morgan popped her head back out. She pinned him with that soul-invading glare of hers. “Even if you are an idiot.”

“What did you and Morgan talk about?” Sheila asked Malcolm as he walked her to her door.

“Who said we talked?” His defensive tone caught her off guard and made her regret saying anything.

“I saw you in the kitchen during the fireworks. I just assumed . . . Is something wrong?” From what she’d witnessed, he’d had a great time at the barbecue, from talking computer systems with Gage’s younger brother to what looked like a heart-to-heart with Drew, interrupted by Gina and Liza before Morgan had called a halt to the evening and sent the kids to bed. “Did she say something that upset you?”

“I don’t think your sister’s capable of upsetting anyone.” He pulled her keys from her fingers and moved past her to open her door.

“That’s because you haven’t lived with her. Malcolm—”

“Thank you for today.” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her, one of those slow, ever so tasty, tempting-her-to-demand-more kind of kisses that, had she been a can of gasoline, would have set her on fire.

“Wait.” She drew him back when he stepped away, licked her lips and tasted him, wanted him. “Don’t go.”

He stroked a hand down her hair, curved his hand around the nape of her neck, his lids lowering over his eyes to the point she couldn’t read his expression. “I’m still leaving. There’s no changing that.”

“I know.” She nodded, even as his words pierced her. Maybe she could change his mind. Maybe she could show him, prove to him that she was enough to make him stay. To show they were worth fighting for . . . instead of running away. Again. She brushed her fingers against the inside of his arm. He tensed, moved in, lips hovering over hers as if giving her a chance to change her mind. “I don’t want to think about it. Not now. Not tonight.”

“Sheila—” Her name sounded like a prayer on his lips.

“I want whatever you’ll give me.” She grabbed his head and pulled her to him, capturing his mouth in what she hoped was a promise of what lay beyond. All he needed to do was step over the threshold. She pushed open the door, pulling him with her and flipped on the light.

“Where’s Sherlock?” Malcolm murmured against her mouth.

“God, that’s so sexy,” she moaned and arched her neck as his arm curved around her waist. “There’s nothing a woman loves to hear more before sex than ‘Where’s your cat?’”

“Tell me you aren’t thinking the same thing.”

She kissed him again, pressing every inch of herself she could hard against him. “I’m not thinking about my cat.”

As if on cue, she heard a faint “mew” from the direction of the sofa. Sherlock lifted his head from where he’d curled up, blinked at them as if to say
Where have you been?
and promptly went back to sleep.

“See?” Malcolm’s smile warmed her blood.

She bit at his lip. “Uh-huh. I want to see more.”

His hands kneaded her hips as he took control, his kiss filled with a frenzy that ignited every dormant cell in her body. She couldn’t get enough of him fast enough, fingers clawing, arms tightening, lips and tongues taunting as they tripped and stumbled their way to the staircase.

Halfway up the stairs he stopped, his breathing ragged as he pulled the tie at the top of her blouse loose before grabbing the hem and pulling it over her head. His lips found her throat, his hands sliding down her spine as he trailed his mouth down, down, into the valley between her breasts. She watched her shirt drift down like a flag of surrender and then gasped as his hands slid around her bare midriff and skimmed up to cup her breasts through the satin fabric of her bra, his palms hardening her nipples.

“More.” She ripped his shirt and returned the favor. She didn’t wait to touch, but pressed herself against him, hitched her leg around his hip as his hands cupped her butt and pulled her up and against him. “More. Faster.” They made it as far as the bedroom wall before he pressed the hard length of himself against her. She squirmed, wanting to rid herself of her shorts, of his jeans, gasping in air as his mouth continued to find every bit of bare skin possible, nibbling, scraping, biting until she cried out.

“Malcolm.” She moaned his name as her legs lost strength and released the hold she had around his hips, but he wasn’t letting up. Her surrender had his hand skimming down between them, unbuttoning her shorts. He tugged the zipper down as he rocked against her, each movement making her head spin in a different direction.

She grabbed onto him, fingers digging into his shoulder as his hand skimmed lower, lower until it curved beneath and found her, hot, slick. Ready.

“Mmmmm.” She gasped as his fingers dipped in, probing, stretching her, driving her up as the heel of his hand jerked in tiny motions against that sensitive nub that had her panting his name. She locked her mouth to his as he pressed harder, deeper, drawing his tongue in, unable to release him as he drove her up, faster, faster until she exploded, her entire body wracked by the orgasm he’d triggered.

She let out a shuddering breath as her body floated into that lazy haze and began that gentle hum that settled until . . .

He pressed his forehead against hers, his face bathed in sweat as she dipped her fingers into his mouth, replaced them with her lips as she lowered her legs and tugged him hard toward her again. “Your turn,” she murmured and smiled at his dazed nod. She walked him to the bed, pushing him down, and rid herself of her clothes before she joined him. She left his jeans on as she straddled him, hooked their hands together and rubbed herself against him.

“God,” he gasped, trying to dislodge her hold on him, but she wasn’t letting go, not yet. Her body began to sing again, zing again and only when she brought his hands up to her now bare breasts, pressed his palms against her nipples, did she reach down and unsnap his jeans. The sight of him panting beneath her, eyes glazed as if she were an intoxication was as arousing as his hands had been moments before. She glided away from him, tugging his pants and briefs off, her fingernails scraping bare skin as she freed him, cupping the strong hard length of him in her hands.

“Condom,” he groaned as he kicked his pants free and shoved off his shoes. “Pocket . . .”

“Nightstand.” She grinned and leaned down long enough to kiss him again. She reached over and pulled open the drawer, withdrawing one of the foil-wrapped packets she’d had the forethought to buy a couple of days ago. After he’d kissed her for the second time. She tore open the wrapper with her teeth. “Want me to do it?”

“God, no. I’ll explode.” So he did, with far more efficiency and speed than she would have, which made her laugh. He gripped her hips, and she knew he was going to take over.

“No.” She pressed her hands against his shoulders, pinning him to the bed as she slowly, keeping her eyes pinned to his, lowered herself.

She groaned as he filled her, stretched her as she pressed herself down only to slowly raise back up, almost to the point of freeing him from her hot grasp. She could feel his body tense, as if he were fighting to control the rhythm, but she didn’t want him in control. Not now. He was all hers. And so she sank onto him, again, rocking her hips back and forth, his hands gripping her hips to gain control, lifting her until she threw her head back, letting go long enough for him to flip her onto her back. Whatever regret she had in surrendering vanished as he plunged deeper, harder than she thought possible.

She wrapped herself around him as the pressure built again, her breasts heaving as he moved against her, inside of her, and when he came, she held on and joined him, knowing that this was where she wanted to be. This was where she belonged. With the man she loved.

***

She started awake, the midnight darkness encompassing her, the weight of Malcolm’s arm snug beneath her breasts as he breathed warm and even against her ear. Sheila curled against him, needing, wanting the pulse of him as close as possible as sleep abandoned her. Her mind spun, her fingers itched. The forgotten sensation built within her, overtaking her desire to lose herself in this moment with him.

She lifted her head to glance at the clock. Two a.m. She dropped back on the pillow, her hair tangling over her eyes. Once more creativity proved it had no consideration when it came to inspiration.

She could close her eyes, let herself drift, maybe nudge Malcolm awake in a little while just to make sure their go-round hadn’t been a fluke. She let out a breath. Please, God, don’t let it have been a fluke.

“Nope.” Color explosions went off behind her closed lids. “Not going to happen.” She slid herself free, smiling as Malcolm shifted into her space on the bed, settling into deep sleep. The way the sheet had shifted to barely cover his chiseled hips and butt. She balled up her fists to resist temptation. “Don’t go there.” Not yet anyway.

She grabbed panties and a T-shirt, heading downstairs in the darkness, stopping long enough to grab a bottle of water before pushing open the studio door. She turned on the light.

“Yeah.” She nodded, plucking up brushes and colors, moving the half-finished canvas off her easel, dug out a new one. The routine kicked in, prepping, arranging, music wafting through the space, her mind settling around the ideas shifting in her thoughts. She sat, hooked a bare foot over one of the stool rungs, as she knotted up her hair.

She glanced at the shelf across the room, saw her mother’s smiling face looking at her, encouraging. Approving.

“Okay.” Sheila took a deep breath. “Here we go.”

***

Malcolm blinked against the morning sun streaming in from all angles of Sheila’s glass-encased bedroom. As romantic a notion as making love under the stars had been, the counterpoint was the sun the next morning at—he rolled over and grabbed his phone—six friggin’ o’clock. He reached for her and found the empty sheets ice cold.

He shoved the sheet aside and climbed out of bed, scrubbing a hand over his face as he leaned over the metal railings to peer downstairs. For once he didn’t have a headache first thing in the morning. Either a night with Sheila was a miracle cure or he was suffering the blessings of being done with those damned pills.

Today wasn’t the day to dwell. What was going to be was going to be. There wasn’t anything he could do except live each moment, no matter how exhausting, contemplative, or disconcerting. Beginning, he decided, with breakfast. Or Morgan. Whichever he found first.

At least he’d thought to stock her fridge and pantry the other day when he’d ordered dinner, otherwise he’d be gnawing on the wood trim. He availed himself of the bathroom, showered, and pulled on his jeans before he padded downstairs. The last thing he expected to find was the door to her studio standing ajar and the bass-licking undertones of
Rod Stewart Unplugged
echoing from within.

Relief and admiration clambered into his chest. Wearing a white cotton T-shirt, her hair knotted on the top of her head and topped off with a well-worn paintbrush, her hand swept over the canvas with the elegance of the masters, casting colors and lines into the depths of the huge canvas.

“Mew.” Sherlock popped his head up from where he’d been napping, curled up in an empty Kleenex box on the corner of her workbench, surrounded by paw-tempting brushes and chase-inducing rods and dowels.

Malcolm walked over and scratched the kitten’s head, wanting to say something, but not wanting to disturb her. Glorious. He’d never seen her paint before, only the end result. Five years ago her studio had been foreign to him—he hadn’t ventured inside because he’d assumed, like him, she kept that part of herself private. Had it been him, anyone venturing inside his own workshop would have been considered an intruder.

But Sheila’s space was welcoming. He’d seen her work before when it came to sketches or doodles in a notebook or napkin, but now he saw the true artist who had created that mural in Brandon’s room as she applied technique and skill to eking out her special brand of justice.

The music faded. She pulled the bristles free of the slick of oil paint beneath and stuck the end of the brush in her mouth, angling her head as she examined her work.

“This could be the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.” Malcolm moved in and slid his arms around her, resting his chin on the top of her head as she leaned into him, gripped his arm with her free hand. What he wouldn’t give to do this every morning for the rest of his life. He squeezed his eyes shut, pushed away thoughts of the future. “It’s beautiful.” He pressed a kiss on the top of her head.

“It’s for the center’s lobby. I think it needs more blue. Right there.” She jabbed the handle of the brush in the bottom corner.

The waterscape reminded him of the center, the intermingling of natural elements like wood and stone with a sloping waterfall gently cascading along the winding path. He drew her hand away.

“It’s perfect. Morgan will love it.”

“Provided it dries in time. I always could drive a deadline up to its breaking point.” She smiled at him over her shoulder, making his heart skip a beat. Or a hundred. “Good morning.”

“You’ve been busy.”

“I got inspired.” She hopped down and dropped the brush into a jar of thinner and leapt at him, locking her arms around his neck as she kissed him, nearly knocking them both off their feet. “You inspired me,” she breathed against his lips, nibbled at him as he grabbed hold of her butt and hiked her up against him. The sensation of her legs hooking around him again sent his brain into lockdown.

His head spun and not, he knew this time, because of any medication. She was life altering, life affirming, and it was obvious she’d reconnected to the exuberant young woman he’d longed for, except . . . better.

She nuzzled his neck, nibbled just under his ear as the heat of her pressed against him, tempting him. “I can take a break if you want.”

“I want.” He banged against the table and heard an irritable “mew” echo from Sherlock’s vicinity. “I woke up wanting, but”—he kissed her again, unable to get enough of her—“you are on a roll. And the sooner you get these paintings off your plate, the more time you’ll have to . . . play.”

She trailed a finger down his nose as her hair came loose and tumbled around her shoulders. “There won’t be much playing as long as I have all these balls to juggle.”