“When did you start answering to Mac?”
He shrugged. “That came from my mother, too. She grew up in San Juan, but she wanted me to have a more mainstream American upbringing. She gave me her father’s name, but she thought it would be easier for me to answer to a more common nickname.”
He was reaching for his dishes as he spoke. Sharon rested a hand on his arm to stop him. “I’ll take ca
re of these later. Why don’t you just go on into the living room and I’ll bring the coffee.”
He glanced at her hand on his arm, then raised his eyes to hers. And once again she understood what it meant to be held captive by someone’s gaze. She wasn’t sure she could look away if she tried. She was relieved when Mac broke the contact.
“I take my coffee black,” he said.
She deliberately stiffened her knees. “I’ll be right in.”
She lingered in the kitchen a few minutes longer than was absolutely necessary, giving herself a chance to recover from that moment of connection between them. She was fine with him as long as they stuck to business, but every time she became aware of him as a sexy, single male, she froze. It wasn’t that she had anything against sexy, single males, but with Mac she had the feeling things could get complicated—and not only because she would be involved with him professionally for the next few months.
CHAPTER SIX
SHARON ASSEMBLED a tray with two cups of coffee and a plate of chocolate cookies, just in case Mac changed his mind about dessert. When she carried the tray carefully into the living room, she noticed Mac sitting on the couch, examining an antique-reproduction lighting catalog she’d left on the coffee table. “These wall lights you’ve marked with adhesive strips—are you considering them for the Garrett house?” he asked.
Setting the tray on the coffee table, she settled on the couch next to him to study the photographs. “No, I’ve ordered those for one of my customers who’s redoing her bedroom. She has a house full of Mission and Shaker antiques, and I thought those fixtures would go well with her decor. But there are several others in the catalog you might want to look at for your project.”
“I like this one,” he said, and pointed to a corner of the page farther from her, so that she had to scoot a little closer to examine the photo he’d indicated.
“That is nice,” she agreed. “I can envision it in the downstairs hallway, can’t you? It would nicely illuminate that dark corner outside the dining room.”
He turned a page. “What about something like this in the parlor?”
She leaned a little closer, studying the ad with a thoughtful frown. “Well, it’s pretty, of course, but do you really want to go with that look? This fixture is more representative of the 1950s than the 1920s era, but we can certainly mix styles, if that’s what you’d like. Some decorators recommend mixing styles and periods for a more complex and eclectic—”
“You’re the designer on this project,” he reminded her. “What I want you to do is decorate the house as if you were going to live in it yourself.”
She glanced at him with a smile. “What makes you think I’d want to live in a restored Victorian? How do you know I wouldn’t prefer stylized chrome and glass from the 1980s? Or the Danish Modern look of the 1960s?”
“Because I saw your face when you got your first look at the Garrett place. I watched you run your hand over the moldings in the master bedroom. I saw the way you practically melted over the beveled-glass fanlight in the dining room. It was lust, Sharon. Pure, heart-pounding, skin-dampening lust.”
It took her a moment to respond coherently to his wholly unexpected side trip into rather erotic fancy. “I, um, love the house, of course—or at least the house I know it can become—but I’m not sure I would describe my feelings as, er—”
“Lust?” He smiled a little. “You don’t think the word is appropriate?”
“Well, no, not really. I’ll admit I have a certain passion for decorating. I’m excited to be a part of your team. And I certainly might fantasize about owning a place like the Garrett house, myself. But lust is perhaps too strong a word to describe my feelings.”
He gave a low chuckle. “You’ve just used the words passion, excited, and fantasize pretty much in one breath—and you accuse me of using too strong a word?”
They were supposed to be talking business, not swapping innuendoes. Somehow this conversation had gotten completely out of hand. She made a weak effort to get it back on track. She looked at the catalog again. “Do you see anything you like?”
“I definitely see something I like,” he murmured, bringing her gaze back up to his. He wasn’t looking at photographs. His intense dark eyes were focused on her face.
“I, um…” What had she meant to say? The words were gone, having slipped from her suddenly overheated mind like wisps of steam.
She didn’t realize he had lifted his hand until she felt his fingertips against the side of her face. What was it about his touch that electrified her, even as it gave her an incredible sense of security? Was it the memory of the way he’d held her the night they’d met? Had that dramatic introduction made her react differently to him—or was it something about the man, himself?
“What did you ask me?” she murmured, trying to clear her thoughts.
“Nothing.” His gaze was on her mouth now.
She cleared her throat. “Do you want…?”
His eyes rose to hers again. “Do I want…?”