The Fall of Shane MacKade (5 page)

“Scientists are innately curious.”

He could smell her now, clean, clear soap and a hint of citrus. “How about an experiment?”

She refused to fumble, to stammer, to let him see even
for an instant that she was in way, way over her head. “Of what sort?”

“Well, I do this…”

H
e circled her waist with his hands—a surprisingly small waist—then ran them up her ribs, over to skim up her back. The punch of arousal wasn't particularly surprising. He'd certainly felt it before. But he hadn't expected quite the force of this, not with her.

Still, he enjoyed it, slid comfortably into it. When she didn't object, in fact didn't move a muscle, he aligned his body to hers until he felt her curves—not much in the way of curves—meet the angles of his.

Suddenly he really wanted to kiss her, to have a good, solid taste of that mouth. Not simply because it was female and thus desirable, but because it was Rebecca's and set in firm, almost disapproving lines.

He enjoyed being disapproved of.

But when he started to lower his head, she lifted her chin, just enough to put him off-balance.

“An experiment? What's your hypothesis?”

“Huh?”

“Your hypothesis,” she repeated, relieved to have inter
rupted him. She'd have time enough to brace now, she decided. Time to prepare herself. “Your theory as to the outcome of your experiment.”

“Theory, huh?” He kept his eyes on her mouth. It was a truly fascinating pair of lips, if a man took the time to really look at them. “How about mutual enjoyment? Is that good enough, Doc?”

“Sure.” She was careful not to gulp. It would have been embarrassing, and certainly would have ruined her attempt at cool sophistication. “Why not? You want to kiss me, farm boy. Go ahead.”

“I was going to.” But he bypassed her mouth, just for a moment, and closed his teeth lightly over her jaw. She had the cutest little pointed chin.

Then he touched his lips to hers, just a whisper. He always liked to draw the pleasure out, for himself and the woman involved. He nibbled at them, testing their shape, their softness, and found them delightfully full, delightfully moist and giving.

Perhaps that was why he stopped thinking long enough to lose himself, to sink into that soft, wet mouth. To trace it with his tongue, tease her cool lips apart and explore.

Dark and deep was her taste, yet oddly familiar. He wondered how it could be that he was kissing her for the first time, yet he could be sure, deadly sure, that he had experienced her taste before. And the familiarity was impossibly exciting, desperately arousing.

She was so tiny. Taut little muscles, slim back, small, firm breasts yielding erotically against him. And the flavor of her, a cool, damp meadow, a quiet, shadowy glade, stirred his blood. Stirred it so that several dizzy minutes passed before he realized she hadn't moved. She wasn't touching him, her lips weren't sliding under his. She had made not one single sound.

The absolute absence of response was as effective as
a slap. He stepped back, the first movement jerky before he could get a hold of himself. With his brows drawn together hard, he studied her passive face, the faintly interested eyes, the amused quirk of that luscious mouth.

“That was very nice,” she said, in a tone so mild he nearly snarled. “Was that your best shot?”

He only stared at her, his gorgeous sea-toned eyes molten. He could handle rejection. A woman had every right to reject a man's advances. But he wouldn't tolerate snickering. And, damn it, he knew she was snickering under that placid exterior.

To keep from humiliating himself further, he latched tight to control. Without it, he would have hauled her into his arms again and loosed some of the hot, violent passion she'd managed to incite in him without the least effort.

“Let's just say, as experiments go, that one was a dud. I've got work to do.” With some dignity, he nodded toward the wall phone. “Go ahead and give Cass a call whenever you're done here.”

“Thanks. See you tonight at dinner.”

At the door, he turned, glared at her. She continued to stand there, leaning back against the counter. Her pretty cap of hair wasn't even mussed.

“You're a cool one, Rebecca.”

“So I'm told. Thanks for the drink, farm boy. And the experiment.”

The moment the door slammed behind him, she sagged against the counter. She wanted to sit, but was very much afraid her legs would buckle before she managed to cross the three feet of tile to a chair.

She'd never known that anyone, anywhere, could kiss like that.

Her head was still reeling. Now that she was alone, she pressed a hand to her jumping heart and took several long, deep breaths that echoed in the room like those of
a diver hitting the surface. That was apt, she supposed. She felt as though she'd been dragged into some deep, dark, airless space and escaped just in the nick of time.

Obviously, the man was a danger to female society. No woman could be safe around him.

She picked up her drink, watched the ice cubes clink musically together as she brought it to her assaulted lips with a shaky hand.

But she'd held together, she reminded herself. Held herself aloof and distant by desperately reciting Henry V's Saint Crispin's Day speech. God knew where that had come from, but it had kept her from whimpering like a starving puppy. True, she'd begun to lose her concentration by the time she reached “We few, we happy few,” but then Shane had ended it.

If he'd kept it up for another ten seconds, she'd never have finished the speech, unless it was in incoherent mewings.

“Oh, boy,” she managed now, and downed every drop in the glass. The chilly tea cooled the heat in her throat, if not in her blood.

This kind of passion was a new experience. She imagined Shane MacKade would hoot in unholy amusement if he knew just how violently he'd affected her. Her. Dr. Rebecca Knight, professional genius, perennial virgin.

She could congratulate herself that she'd maintained her composure, that she'd maintained at least the appearance of composure while the top of her head was spinning around a good six inches above her cranium. If he had even a hint of her stupidity in the ways of men and women, the slightest clue of her dazzled reaction to him personally, he would certainly press his advantage.

Not only would she get nothing done during her stay, she was dead certain she would leave with a bruised heart.

She was sure wiser women than she had fallen hard for the charm of Shane MacKade. That kind of chemistry
could only result in fiery explosions. The safest position was to keep herself aloof, to annoy him if and when it was necessary, and never to let him know she was attracted.

Safe, Rebecca thought with a sigh as she set her empty glass in the sink. She had good reason to know just how tedious safety could be. But she had come to Antietam to prove something to herself. To explore possibilities and to add to her reputation.

Shane wasn't a part of the plan.

His house was, however. She drew another deep breath, tried to settle her jolted nerves. There was something here for her, she was sure of it. She couldn't feel it now, not when her system was sparkling like hot, naked wires.

She would have to come back, she decided. She would have to come back and make sure she had time to explore the possibilities here. The only way to manage that, she decided, was to simultaneously charm Shane and keep him at arm's length.

Dinner at Regan's would be a good start.

 

It seemed to Rebecca that there were children everywhere—babies, toddlers, older kids, all going about the business of cooing, squabbling, racing. Toys were spread all over the living room rug, where Regan's Nate could compete with his cousin Layla for the best and brightest building block.

She knew who belonged to whom now. Layla, who held her own with her slightly older cousin, belonged to Jared and Savannah, as did the slim, dark-haired boy, Bryan. She knew Jared was the oldest of the MacKade brothers, a lawyer who seemed very at home in his loosened tie.

His wife was quite possibly the most stunning woman Rebecca had ever seen. Hugely pregnant, her thick black hair twisted back in a braid, dark eyes sultry and amused,
Savannah looked, to Rebecca's mind, like some well-satisfied fertility goddess.

Connor was about Bryan's age, as fair as his cousin was dark, and with Cassie's slow shy warmth in his eyes. There was Emma, a golden pixie of about seven, who squeezed into the chair beside her stepfather. Rebecca found it both sweet and telling to see the easy way Devin MacKade's arm curled around the little girl while he held his sleeping baby in the crook of the other.

Wild and tough the MacKade brothers might be, but Rebecca had never seen any men so deeply entrenched in family.

“So, what do you think of Antietam so far?” Rafe stepped expertly over dog, toys and children to top off Rebecca's glass of wine.

“I think a lot of it,” she said, and flashed him a quick smile. “It's charming, quiet, bursting with history.”

He cocked a brow. “Haunted?”

“No one seems to doubt it.” She cast an amused look at Shane, who'd settled down next to Savannah to pat her belly. “Almost no one.”

“Some people block their imagination.” Casually Savannah shifted Shane's hand to the left, where the baby was kicking vigorously. “There are some places in this area with very strong memories.”

It was an intriguing way of putting it, Rebecca mused. “Memories.”

Savannah shrugged. “Violent death, and violent unhappiness, leave marks, deep ones. Of course, that's not very scientific.”

“That would depend on what theory you subscribe to,” Rebecca answered.

“I guess we've all had some experience with the ghosts, or leftover energy, or whatever you choose to call it,” Jared began.

“Speak for yourself.” Shane tipped back his beer. “I don't go around talking to people who aren't there.”

Jared only grinned. “He's still ticked off about when I scared the hell out of him when we were kids, spending the night in the old Barlow place.”

Recognizing the look in Shane's eye, Devin decided to step in as peacemaker. “Scared the hell out of all of us,” he said. “Rattling chains, creaking boards. I imagine you're looking for something a little more subtle, Rebecca.”

“Well, I'm certainly looking.” It surprised and pleased her when Nate toddled over and crawled into her lap. She hadn't been around children enough to know whether she appealed to them, or they to her. “I'm anxious to get started,” she added as Nate toyed with the tourmaline pendant she wore.

“Dinner in five,” Regan announced, her face prettily flushed, as she hurried in from the kitchen. “Let's round up these kids. Rafe?”

“Jason's asleep. I already put him down.”

“I'll get Layla.” Shane shot Savannah a wicked grin. “It's going to take Jared at least five minutes to haul you up from the couch.”

“Jared, make sure you punch him after we eat.”

“Done,” Jared assured his wife, and rose to help her up.

As exits went, it was a noisy one, as was the meal that followed. The big dining room, with its tall windows, held them all comfortably, the long cherrywood table generous enough to make room for the necessary high chairs.

The choice of spaghetti with marinara sauce, platters of antipasto and crusty bread was, Rebecca thought, inspired. There was enough for an army, and the troops dug in.

She wasn't used to family meals, to spilled milk, scattershot conversations, arguments, or the general, friendly mess of it all. It made her feel like an observer again, but
not unhappily so. A new experience, she thought, one to be enjoyed, as well as assessed.

She found it oddly stimulating that, while not everyone talked about the same things, they usually talked at the same time. Both toddlers smeared sauce lavishly on themselves and over their trays. More than once during the meal, she felt the warm brush of fur against her legs as the dog searched hopefully for dropped noodles or handouts.

She couldn't quite keep up as conversations veered from baseball to the late-summer harvest, from teething to town gossip, with a variety of unconnected subjects in between.

It dazzled her.

Her memories of family dinners were of quiet, structured affairs. One topic of conversation was introduced and discussed calmly and in depth for the course of the meal, and the meal would last precisely one hour. Like a class, Rebecca mused now. A well-organized, well-constructed and well-ordered class—at the end of which she would be firmly dismissed to attend to her other studies.

As the careless confusion swirled around her, she found herself miserably unhappy with the memory.

“Eat.”

“What?” Distracted, she turned her head and found a forkful of pasta at her lips. Automatically she opened her mouth and accepted it.

“That was easy.” Shane rolled another forkful, held it out. “Try again.”

“I can feed myself, thanks.” Struggling with embarrassment, she scooped up spaghetti.

“You weren't,” he pointed out. “You were too busy looking around like you'd just landed on an alien planet.” He reached for the wine bottle and topped off her glass before she could stop him. She never drank more than two
glasses in an evening. “Is that what the MacKades look like, from a scientific viewpoint?”

“They look interesting,” she said coolly. “From any viewpoint. How does it feel to be a member of such a dynamic family?”

“Never thought about it.”

“Everyone thinks of family, where they come from, how they fit in, or don't.”

“It's just the way it is.” Shane helped himself to another generous serving from the communal pot.

“But, as the youngest, you'd—”

“Are you analyzing me, Doc? Don't we need a couch and a fifty-minute clock?”

“I'm just making conversation.” Somehow, she realized, she'd gotten out of rhythm. And she'd been doing so well. She made an effort to settle herself, took a slow sip of wine. “Why don't you tell me about this hay you're going to mow?”

He angled his head. He knew when a woman was yanking his chain, and he knew how to tug back. “I'll have the mower out tomorrow. You can come on by and see for yourself. Maybe lend a hand. I can always use an extra pair of arms—even skinny ones.”