“You do believe me, don’t you? You have to admit, I know my brother better than you do.”
“Of course.” He finished his sandwich and eyed the peach pies while she seethed in frustration on the other side of the table. “Everyone was right,” he commented after a moment. “This really is good food. Want a fried pie?”
“You aren’t going to talk about this with me, are you?”
“I’m perfectly willing to discuss this good food with you.”
“That isn’t what I meant and you know it. I’m trying to talk to you about Brad.”
“I see no purpose in discussing your brother just now. I have no proof that he damaged my truck, and you’re convinced he didn’t. That’s really all there is to say about it at the moment.”
“It bothers me that you still seem to believe Brad is capable of doing something like this.”
“You pointed out, yourself, that I don’t know the boy as well as you do. It will probably take a little more time for me to form my own opinions about what he is or is not capable of doing. All I know for certain at this point is that he dislikes me, for reasons of his own. That doesn’t bother me, particularly, unless it comes between you and me. And then I suppose I would have to do something about it.”
He’d spoken so dispassionately. Did it really not bother him that Brad disliked him so intensely? It would trouble her if a member of Mac’s family took an immediate and unwarranted objection to her. Maybe that only further illustrated how different she and Mac were. Or maybe her family and friends didn’t matter all that much to him because he didn’t expect to be a part of her life for very long.
“Here,” he said, pushing a paper-wrapped pastry toward her. “Have some pie. Guaranteed to put you in a better mood.”
She sighed and accepted the dessert. “You are an infuriating man, Mac Cordero.”
He chuckled softly. “Now there’s something I’ve never heard before,” he murmured, obviously lying.
Shaking her head, she unwrapped the pie and bit into it. It was good—packed with sweetened dried peaches in a cinnamony filling, the flaky, half moon–shaped pastry crust deep-fried to just the right crispness. He was right; it was hard to be in a bad mood while eating a fried peach pie, but her worry about the conflict between Brad and Mac had only been suppressed, not eradicated.
“WOULD YOU LIKE me to make some coffee or anything?” Mac asked when they’d washed down the last of the pie with their iced tea.
“No, thank you.”
He stood and gathered up the leftover garbage, tossing it into a wastebasket. “When do you have to be back at work?”
“No specific time. Tressie’s quite capable of running the store while I’m out. If she needs me, she knows I always have my cell phone nearby.”
He reached out with the swiftness of the jungle cat she’d often mentally compared him to and pulled her toward him. “Well?” he challenged. “Are you going to let your kid brother’s tantrums come between us?”
It sounded so foolish the way he said it. Letting a teenager set the rules for her. It was long past time for her to make her own rules. Her own choices. Her own decisions.
It seemed easier to show Mac her answer than to tell him. Pushing all her worries to the back of her mind, she focused solely on the moment. What she wanted now.
She wanted Mac.
Resting her hands on his shoulders, she rose on tiptoe to offer her mouth to him. She didn’t have to offer twice.
He didn’t even try to lull her into a sense of security this time. He went straight for the explosions and the fireworks, stunning her senses, shattering her defenses, clearing her mind of anything but him. All she could do was to hold on—and try to set off a few fireworks of her own. Apparently, she succeeded. She heard Mac’s breath catch in the back of his throat, and felt his whole body grow taut.
He locked his arms around her and deepened the kiss, invading and staking every inch of her mouth. She thought it only fair that she should have the same privilege. He seemed to agree, since he put up no resistance when she claimed her right to explore.
His skillful hands were as bold as his clever mouth. He traced her curves with his fingers, as meticulously as a blind art lover studying a famous statue, seemingly intent on exploring and memorizing by feel alone. Yet Sharon wasn’t made of marble. Every nerve ending reacted to his touch, leaving her feeling as though tiny electric charges were sparking all over her body. She had the fanciful sensation that she would almost glow if someone turned out the lights.
She hadn’t been fanciful before she’d met Mac.
Dragging his mouth across her cheek, he nibbled his way to the soft hollow behind her ear, where her pulse pounded wildly against his lips. Even if she had wanted to, she couldn’t have hidden her reaction to him. She had been vulnerable to Mac from the beginning, and she suspected he knew it. She had to trust that he would not use that knowledge against her.
It wasn’t easy for her to put that much faith in a man who was still very much a stranger. There was so much about Mac she still didn’t know—deeply hidden aspects of him she sensed but didn’t quite understand. She could only hope that her trust in him would prove justified.
He lifted his right hand to the back of her head, buried his fingers in her hair, and tightened them until she was held gently, but securely, in place, gazing up at him. The move was an almost aggressive one on his part, but she had no fear as she stood in his grasp. Oddly enough, she felt safe there—the way she always felt when Mac held her.
His voice was rough when he said, “This is between you and me, Sharon. No one else.”