Stay the Night (7 page)

Ian MacNiven stood braced, hands on his narrow hips, glaring at her like she was trespassing on his territory, his eyes lit with icy fire. He looked like he wanted to eat her alive.

She wouldn’t mind, actually. Something about him made her want to push him down and wrestle with him—preferably naked.

Rowdy grinned at the newcomer as though he’d walked in all smiles. “I made a new friend, Mac.”

“And you had to bring her here?” the man, who was obviously Ian MacNiven, said.

She had no idea if he was a wanker or not, but none of the photos of him had done him justice. He had piercing green eyes, and his hair wasn’t thinning. In fact, he had the sort of hair you wanted to clutch as his mouth brought you pleasure.

She flushed. Focus, she commanded herself.

Stepping forward, she lifted her head and met his belligerent gaze. She’d dealt with difficult world leaders—she could deal with one sulky sports star. “I’m here to do a photo essay on you.”

“Then you’re wasting your time.” He approached her, trying to be menacing.

Her heart beat faster, not with fear but with excitement. She frowned, not wanting to be turned on by him. She wasn’t the kind of woman who dated or who was interested in being fancied. She had a feeling she could make an exception for MacNiven.

“That’s ridiculous,” she murmured.

“What?” he asked, glaring.

“You’re ridiculous,” she amended, meeting him toe-to-toe. “You haven’t even heard me out.”

“I don’t need to. I won’t have pictures taken.” He leaned into her face and said, very menacingly, “Get. Out.”

“No.”

He stepped closer, so her vision was filled with his amazing green eyes. “I’ll have you hauled away.”

Against her will, she pictured him handcuffing her, looking at her like
that
—like he wanted to take a bite out of her. She took a deep breath, trying to focus on the problem at hand, but she inhaled his scent and became dizzy.

“Well, isn’t this interesting?” Rowdy said.

They both jumped back. MacNiven rubbed his neck, which was suspiciously pink. Then he pointed at her. “Your wiles aren’t going to work on me.”

Wiles? She blinked at him in shock. And then she burst out laughing. Wait until she told Gigi a man had accused
her
of having wiles.

Before she could gather herself, MacNiven took her arm and hauled her to the door. She got distracted by his hand on her—he felt so warm—so she neglected to resist until she was halfway to the door. Then she tried to dig her heels in, but she slid across the slick surface of the flooring.

He opened the door and gestured to her to leave.

She shrugged as she stepped out. At least she’d made contact. “I’ll be back.”

“No, you won’t.”

“You obviously don’t know me.”

“And I’m not going to,” he said as he closed the door in her face.

She stood there, holding her camera, staring at it. Then a smile broke across her face. The chase was on.

Chapter Six

The pain was crippling.

If Rowdy hadn’t been checking on him regularly he’d have given up and gone to find his whiskey. But he wouldn’t give Rowdy the satisfaction of calling him a sissy.

Except—holy hell—his knee hurt. Every step on it was like ice picks jabbing his joint.

His tread felt disjointed and awkward, nothing like his usual gait running down the field. Once early in his career, an announcer had compared him to lightning, he was so fast. Now he was more like a rusted out MG. If he was lucky to get started, he only put-putted down the street.

Gritting his teeth, he increased the pace to a lumbering jog. He kept it at that pace, waiting to see if his leg would buckle despite the brace he had on. When he didn’t collapse, he increased the pace up a couple levels.

His lungs felt on fire. It’d been months since he’d run. How could he get out of shape so quickly?

In the romance novels he read, when the hero proved himself worthy he prevailed. He looked at the novel he had propped open on the treadmill.

Ian hoped he could prove himself worthy.

His mobile rang. “There is a God,” he mumbled breathlessly, lowering the intensity to a slow walk and looking at the screen. It wasn’t God, but it was his father, and the old man would argue that that was close enough. “Hello, Da.”

“Why are you out of breath? Are you dying?”

“Sort of,” he replied with a wince at the concern in the old man’s voice. His father had become a worrier of late, and that was Ian’s fault. “I’m running.”

“Where are you running to?”

“I’m just running. On a treadmill.” At the long pause, he added, “To train.”

The pause extended longer. Ian would have wondered if the old man had fainted if he couldn’t hear his voice.

Finally, his father asked, “Have you decided to play again then?”

Ian glared at the treadmill. “I have.”

“
Hallelujah!
Marie! The boy’s getting off his duff and working again.”

Ian shook his head as he heard the echo of his mother’s exclamation in the background.

“We’re happy for you, son,” his father said. “We’ve been a mite worried about you.”

“Which is why you sent me a guardian.”

“Rowdy is a good man to have at your back, and don’t you forget it.”

“Rowdy’s not likely to let me.”

“I’ll let you get back to your training. Take care, son.”

He hung up as Rowdy entered the room. “I knew you’d slack when I wasn’t looking. Pick up the pace, dude.”

He shook his head but increased the pace back to a jog. “Happy?”

“Delirious,” his friend drawled with a lazy smile. He went back to the door and said, “Coast is clear, Goldie. Come on in.”

Ian stumbled on the treadmill—not because of his knee but because of the woman who walked in. That photographer with the mesmerizing blue eyes he wanted to dive into was back.

“What is she doing here?” he asked Rowdy.

“
She
is in the room and can hear you.” The woman set her enormous bag down and looked around.

He glared at Rowdy.

The man crossed his arms, looking smug. “She told you. She wants to take your picture.”

“And I said no.”

“That’s my least favorite word in the English language,” the blond pest said as she came alongside him.

“My father was right,” he said to Rowdy. “You’re a pain in the arse.”

Rowdy grinned. “Your old man loves me. Donald sent me off with a bottle of his famous Scotch, and we all know Donald MacNiven doesn’t give his precious fire water to just anyone.”

True, but he wasn’t in the mood to agree. “I don’t want her here.”

“I’d never have guessed that,” the woman chimed in.

What was Rowdy thinking? He shot his friend a death glare. The last thing he needed was media reporting on how his knee was healing. At least he was wearing long workout pants so she couldn’t see the scars and speculate about how he was really doing.

“Come on, Mac.” Rowdy tossed him a towel. “Give her a chance. I have a good feeling about this. We time Goldie’s photo essay to come out around the championship, and you’ll be relevant again. It’s a good plan.”

Having the blonde in his face, poking her nose in his business, was a terrible plan. He shook his head. “No.”

“Well.” Rowdy clapped his hands together and then steepled them in front of his chest. “I’ll let you two kids talk, then. It shouldn’t be a problem for you, Mac, since you’re going as slow as an old lady.”

Cursing under his breath, Ian punched up the level.

Titania hopped on the treadmill next to him.

He took a sidelong glance at her. She frowned at the console as though she’d never seen an exercise machine before. She pushed a couple buttons and then gripped the railings to keep from falling off when the treadmill began to speed up.

Most of the women he knew were religious about exercise and diet. They were also vain.

He couldn’t tell if Titania was vain. She wore no makeup that he could see and had her hair in a messy ponytail. Did she not know how beautiful she was, or did she just not care? Her skin was glowing, and her big eyes were the same color blue as the loch at his parents’ property that always tempted him to dive in. She was slim and tall and looked ridiculously sexy in her faded jeans.

He’d never gone for skinny girls, but she had an intriguing suggestion of curves under her simple clothing. Her short-sleeved T-shirt revealed toned arms. Were her legs that shapely?

He felt a curious impulse to haul her over his shoulder and take her to his room to strip her and find out, and that startled him because he hadn’t had the urge to take anyone to bed since the accident.

“This is painful,” she huffed after a minute of running.

He grunted. She had no idea how painful it really was.

“My lungs are on fire.” She slowed her treadmill down to a walk. “And you do this willingly. You must be either insane or masochistic.”

He glanced at her. Her face was flushed and her hair slipped from her hair tie. She’d look like that during sex.

Not something he needed to think about. He kicked up the level, to punish himself for going there.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll figure it out on my own.”

Frowning, Ian shook his head. “What?”

“Whether you’re insane or masochistic. When I move in with you.”

He looked at her incredulously. “You’re the insane one. Move in with me?”

“It’s how I work. I move in with my subjects to get to know them before I start taking pictures.”

“You are never moving in with me.” He felt his private parts boo at him, but he shook his head, refusing to imagine her in his home. Naked. Taking a shower …

He increased the intensity another couple ticks.

She slowed down even more. “I was photographing a Maasai warrior in Kenya for
National Geographic
once, and he told me he could run all day carrying me on his shoulders.”

Because she probably weighed as much as a feather. But he wanted to get rid of her, so he said, “You must have gained weight since.”

She snorted. “Nice try, MacNiven.”

The running was killing him. He wanted to go down to a walk again, but he didn’t want to show weakness in front of the photographer. He gritted his teeth and ran grimly, wishing she’d go.

“How are you doing?” she asked.

He glared at her. “Getting there.”

“It must be difficult, going from your prime to needing rehab.”

It was the worst sort of hell he’d never even imagined.

“I read about the accident,” she continued. “But I guess everyone has.”

He grunted.

“Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“It must be especially hard since the accident wasn’t your fault.”

He stabbed at the button until the treadmill slowed to a brisk walk. “You don’t understand the meaning of ‘no’ do you?”

“I told you it wasn’t in my vocabulary.” She hopped off the treadmill and stretched her legs. “What’s your plan?”

Not to keel over, he thought as he stopped the treadmill completely. He picked up a towel and water bottle, drinking to cover up the fact that he waited to see if his knee would buckle.

“I suppose the easy answer is you want to play again,” she said. “But nothing’s easy.”

He glanced at her. “Is that a warning or a challenge?”

“A fact.” She smirked at him.

He wanted to kiss that smirking mouth so badly it startled him. In his previous life, he’d have sauntered over, hauled her over his shoulder, and taken her to his bed. Now, after limping over, his leg would probably collapse even under her feather weight.

Besides, he didn’t want to encourage her. He didn’t want to give her what she wanted. The best thing he could do was to scare her away.

The way she downplayed her looks, she probably hated getting hit on. So he sneered at her and said, “Why don’t we get to why you’re really here?”

She turned and gave him an imperious look. “Great idea.”

He walked over to her, slowly, trying not to limp. Standing close, he lowered his lids and gave her a look guaranteed to earn him a slap across the face. “You want me.”

She shook her head. “I want your pictures.”

“You want my body, naked, on top of yours.”

“Your recovery is going to be easier than I am, MacNiven.”

He trailed a finger over her collarbone, trying not to get distracted himself. “I bet I could make you easy.”

She pushed his hand away. “You’re not going to intimidate me into leaving.”

“Maybe I don’t want you to leave.”

“Then you’d be lying to both of us.” She patted his chest before turning around to pick up her camera bag.

He blinked. She was leaving? Just like that?

At the doorway, she turned around. “Rowdy gave me your door code.”

“What?”

She nodded. “For expediency.”

He was going to expedite his friend to an early grave.

“Do you walk around naked?” she asked.

He pictured
her
naked again, walking around like a glorious sun goddess in this godforsaken shrine of a condo.

But he reminded himself he wanted her to leave, so he inched closer to her as sleazily as he could. “Do you want me to walk around naked?”

“Not unless you let me take your picture.” She arched her brow. “Tempting now, isn’t it?”

“Not at all,” he lied.

She winked knowingly at him. “See you around, MacNiven.”

Chapter Seven

Instead of going home after closing, Niamh turned up the music and set the loan application on the counter to fill out. She’d just written in her name when her mobile sounded with the “Imperial March”—her brother’s ringtone.

She wanted to ignore it, but it was unusual for him to call this late. Worried something had happened to their parents, she turned down the stereo and answered. “Cormac? Is everything all right?”

“Of course.”

“Mom and Dad?”

“They’re still enjoying themselves in the States.”

She glanced at the clock hanging over the entrance. “Then why are you calling?”

“I figured you’d be on your way home by now, and I wanted to discuss the Dublin Philharmonic. Have you thought about it?”