He stepped closer. His body heat pulled and tantalized and tortured her mental sanity. She ached to lean back against his chest and let his arms clasp around her waist. She craved to feel all that muscled strength support her and pretend they were a real life married couple. They’d neck in the kitchen and make love on the heavy oak table amidst the wine and pasta. Then share dinner and talk quietly and watch the Mets game together. Alexa forcibly swallowed the lump in her throat and pushed away the fantasy.
“You’re using a favor in order to watch a lousy baseball game?”
“Yep.”
She threw the garlic and peppers in the skillet and he moved another inch. His belt rasped against her bu**ocks. Even covered in thick denim the threat of a more intimate touch made her hands tremble around the knife. His breath rushed warm against the nape of her neck. He placed both palms flat on the countertop and caged her in. “Favors are rare. Want to waste it on a stupid ball game that doesn’t mean anything?”
“I care about every game the Mets play. You, on the other hand, don’t take it as seriously because you’re complacent. Winning comes too easily. You take it for granted.”
He growled in her ear. “I don’t win all the time.”
She stuck to the topic of baseball. “Even after losing the World Series to the Sox you never lost your arrogance. Still didn’t respect another team.”
“Never knew the poor Yanks caused such a fuss.”
“It’s the fans more than the team. We know what it’s like to lose. And each game we win is a small victory we appreciate and never take for granted. We’re also more loyal.”
“Hmmm. Talking Mets or their fans?”
“See, you think it’s funny. If you experienced loss more, you’d be humbled. The win would feel even sweeter.”
He rested his hands on the curve of her hips. The length of his erection pressed against her rear. “Maybe you’re right,” he murmured.
The knife clattered on the chopping block. She spun around and bumped against his chest. He caught her by the shoulders and tipped her chin up. Sensual tension swirled and crested. Her lips parted in unconscious invitation at his admission. “What?”
A savage glint appeared in the depths of tawny eyes. “Maybe I’m starting to appreciate things I can’t have.” He ran one finger roughly down her cheek. Traced her lower lip. Pressed his thumb over the sensitive center of flesh. “Maybe I’m starting to learn about wanting.”
Her mouth went dry. She ran her tongue over her lips to dampen them, and the sensual tension twisted another notch. She poised on the edge of some discovery that would change their relationship, and she battled her instinct to jump over the cliff and to hell with the consequences.
Instead, she forced herself to continue their odd conversation. “So, you agree? You understand why the Mets are a better team?”
A flash of straight white teeth mocked her statement. “No. The Yankees are a better team. They win for one reason.” He whispered his comment against her lips. “They want it more. If you want something bad enough, Alexa, you eventually take it.”
She shoved at his chest and spun back around, wanting to brandish the knife on more than the vegetables. Typical, arrogant, Yankee fan. “I’ll call when dinner’s ready. Until then, I expect you’ll be upstairs.”
His laughter echoed through the kitchen. The chill settled around her as he walked away. Alexa held her breath as he started up the stairs, but the dogs were still quiet.
She raced into the living room, put on the baseball game, pumped up the volume, and went into the back room to check on the canines.
The afghan was torn to shreds.
She pried it out of the black lab’s teeth and stuck it in the bottom desk drawer. The paper was already dirty, so she cleaned up, spread fresh newsprint down, and laid some down over the couch and chair for extra insurance. She refilled the water bowls and figured they’d all have to go out again in another hour before bedtime.
She shut the door, sped into the kitchen, and finished dinner while shouting loud comments to her players.
Nick came down for his dinner and quickly went back upstairs. Exhausted from her trickery, she vowed from now on to be honest with the shelter. She managed to sneak the dogs out in small groups for the rest of the evening.
When the game ended and the Mets had won 4-3 over the Marlins, she did a quick victory dance, cleaned the kitchen, checked on the animals, and climbed the stairs to bed. Her muscles ached and her head spun, but she had been victorious.
She’d need to wake up before five a.m. to get all the animals walked, fed, and cleaned up before Nick left for work.
She winced but managed to shower quickly, and fall into bed. She didn’t even bother with a nightgown, but crawled immediately under the comforter and fell asleep.
…
Someone was in the house.
Nick sat up in bed and listened. A faint scraping noise echoed through the air. As if someone scratched a key against a lock and tried to jimmy the door open.
With quick, economical motions he padded on bare feet to the door and opened it an inch. Silence greeted him. Then he heard the sound.
A low murmur. Almost like a growl.
A chill ran down his spine and he thought over his options. Who the hell was in his house? The alarm hadn’t gone off, which meant the burglar had disarmed it. He didn’t have a gun or a bottle of mace. What else was used in the Clue game? A revolver, candlestick, knife, rope, or lead pipe.
Better off calling 911.
He eased out of the doorway and tiptoed past Alexa’s closed door. He paused, then decided waking her would be the wrong thing to do—she may panic or give the intruder a target Nick didn’t want to deal with. His main goal right now was to keep her safe. He grabbed a baseball bat from the hall closet, swept up the cordless phone, punched out the three numbers and reported a break-in.
Then he started down the stairs to hurt the son-of-a-bitch.
Nick stopped at the bottom and hid in the shadows. The air remained still except for the steady buzz of the refrigerator. He stood alone for a while and studied the darkened rooms. The front door was solidly locked—chain hooked on—alarm set. Strange, if it had been disarmed the red light would be out. Maybe the back door, but he hadn’t heard the panes of glass break unless—
The door to the spare room rattled. He eased forward, keeping tight against the wall, baseball bat brandished while he counted down the seconds before the cops would arrive. Clint Eastwood he was not, but if he got one good hit with the bat he could call himself a man.