Mac drew a deep breath, his shoulders seeming to relax a little. “I need some time to think.”
“Of course.” Caleb cleared his throat, then glanced at Sharon before looking back at Mac. “It would take a very special man to win this fine young woman’s heart. And a very foolish man to reject that gift. Since I have no right to offer you fatherly advice, I’ll leave it at that.”
Mac only scowled, reminding Sharon very much at that moment of her notoriously stubborn younger brother.
“I’ll see you both around,” Caleb said after a momentary pause, moving backward toward the door, his eyes still locked on Mac’s face as if he was reluctant to look away. “I have some long-overdue things to take care of at home.”
“Caleb—good luck.” Sharon didn’t know what else to say.
“Thank you, dear. Good luck to you, too.”
Sharon suspected she was going to need it.
THE OLD HOUSE was almost eerily silent after Caleb left it. Filled with soundless echoes of raw, painful emotions. Sharon stood as still and quiet as one of the ghosts that probably haunted the place, watching Mac as though afraid he would disappear if she took her eyes off him.
He was filled with a sudden, bone-tired weariness. “I need a drink,” he said. “I have some sodas in a cooler in the kitchen. Do you want one?”
She seemed only momentarily taken aback by the offer. “Yes, I’d like that.”
He motioned for her to proceed him. He noted that she glanced over her shoulder a time or two on the way. Was she concerned that he would take the opportunity to escape while her back was turned? As tempting as that was in some ways, he had no intention of doing something like that. Not just yet.
The cooler was a small, electric unit he’d set in the kitchen to hold cold drinks for himself and the work crews. He didn’t allow beer on his sites, but cold drinks, juices and water were always available. He noted automatically as he opened the door of the unit that the supply had been almost depleted. He would have to restock before the crew returned Monday morning.
“What do you want?” he asked Sharon.
She reached past him and took out a diet soda. He selected a beverage for himself, then closed the door. He popped the top on the can, then just stared at it, h
is thirst gone. Suddenly, he wasn’t sure he could swallow.
“Mac?” Sharon set her own can on the plywood-covered countertop. “Are you okay?”
He avoided looking at her, uncertain what his expression might reveal. “I’m fine.”
Very gently, she removed the untouched can from his lax fingers and set it beside her own. And then she went up on tiptoe and wrapped her arms tightly around him. He stiffened for a moment in surprise, but then gathered her closer and buried his face in her soft hair.
He was tired of fighting, tired of trying to resist her.
Without a word, she pressed a kiss to his throat. How could she know what he needed most right then? Could she actually read his mind, or had she learned him so well in such a short time?
She lifted her head to look at him, and pressed a cool hand against his warm cheek. Her smile was tremulous. Completely understanding. As if she knew what he was feeling even better than he did.
He lowered his mouth to hers, hesitating just before he made contact. She slid her hand to the back of his neck and brought their lips together. And he almost groaned with sheer pleasure. It had been days since he’d last kissed her. It felt like weeks.
Tenderness flared almost instantly into passion. Mac was almost consumed with the need to make love to her, to lose himself in her. To make the rest of the world disappear, leaving only the two of them in it.
Had he really thought he could walk away from her so easily? He knew now that he’d only been fooling himself.
He reached beneath the short hem of her dress, sliding his hands up her bare legs to her hips. His fingers curled in the fabric of her sheer panties, kneading her tight bottom. She really was perfect, he thought. Even her pale little appendectomy scar was perfect to him.
She moved in response to his touch, pressing against him, inflaming him further. The setting couldn’t be more wrong for this. They were in a half-gutted old house, surrounded by the scent of sawdust. For Sharon, there should be flowers, candles, silk and lace. Someone better than a battered ex-cop with so much emotional baggage he practically needed a bellhop.
She didn’t seem to care about any of that. Her mouth was as avid as his, her hands as greedy. And when he ripped off his shirt, draped it over the counter and lifted her onto it, she spread her knees eagerly so that he could step between them.
He took her there, on the counter, using protection he carried in his pocket more from habit than anticipation. They didn’t even undress, removing no more than necessary. It was rough and fast and awkward—and Mac had never needed anything more in his entire life.
His knees were weak when they finished. He had to brace himself against the counter on either side of her, his forehead resting against hers. His breathing was loud in his own ears, seeming to echo in the cavernous, empty kitchen.
When he was sure he could speak coherently, he said, “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”