The Pride of Jared MacKade (The MacKade Brothers 2)

He gave his full attention to the tying of his tie. "There's no one? Of all the people you've known, the people who've touched you?"

She started to answer lightly, but then it struck her. He didn't mean people. He meant men. And she remembered what he had said as he made love to her, made her churn and shiver.

The way no one ever has.

And so, she thought, hurt, that was the crux of it. "You mean lovers."

"You said lovers. I said people."

"I know what you said, Jared. No, there's no one who was important enough to look back to."

Bryan's father. He nearly said it, nearly asked, but it stuck in his throat. In his pride. "You're angry," he stated, noting the glint in her eye.

"It just crossed my mind that what happened here was a kind of demonstration. A chest-beating male sort of thing, to illustrate that you're better than anyone I might have had before."

Now his own eyes glinted. "That's a remarkably stupid observation."

"Don't tell me I'm stupid." She snapped it out, then managed to pull herself back under control. Don't let it matter, she reminded herself. Don't let it sting. "You can relax, Jared, you proved your point. You're an extraordinary lover. Right over the top." She sauntered over to brush a hand over his tensed jaw. "I enjoyed every minute of it. But now I don't have time to hang your paintings. I've got some errands to run before I head back home."

He put a hand on her arm. He understood her well enough now to know that careless arrogance was one of her ways of covering anger. "I think we have something to talk about."

"It'll have to wait." Reaching behind him, she flipped open the lock. "We've eaten up your lunch hour, and I imagine Sissy'll be breezing back any minute." She gave him a light, careless kiss before shaking her arm free.

"We have something to talk about," he repeated.

"Fine. You get it all worked out in your head, and we'll talk about it tonight." Knowing she was goading him, she curved her lips in a cocky smile. "Thanks for the demonstration, MacKade. It was memorable."

She wouldn't have gotten two feet if Sissy hadn't rushed in below. "Hey, Savannah," she called up cheerfully. "The way it's coming down out there, you're going to want to trade your car in for an ark."

"Then I'd better get moving," Savannah said, and walked down the stairs without looking back.

Chapter Eleven

He bought flowers. Jared wasn't sure whether he was apologizing or he'd simply gotten into the habit of picking them up once or twice a week because Savannah always looked so surprised and pleased when he walked in with a bouquet.

He didn't like to think the clutch of late-spring blooms was an apology, because he didn't think he'd been completely wrong. Technically, he hadn't asked, he'd only intimated a q

uestion. And why the hell shouldn't he ask?

He wanted to know more about her, the who and what and why of her past. Not just the pieces she let drop from time to time, but the whole picture.

Of course, his timing and delivery had been poor. He could admit that. He could even admit that it had nipped at his temper that she'd seen through him so easily. But the bottom line was, he had a right to know. They were going to have a calm, reasonable talk about just that.

Perhaps because he was so primed, so ready, he found himself simmering when he drove up the lane and saw that her car was gone.

Where the hell was she? It was after six. He stood by his car, frowning, looking over the land. The rain had left the tumbling flowers on the bank vivid and wet. The azaleas she'd planted had lost most of their blossoms, but their leaves were a rich and glossy green.

He remembered the first day he'd seen her, digging in the earth, with pots of flowers surrounding her and the rocky, neglected bank waiting.

She'd done something here, he thought. Those roots she'd talked about were still shallow, but she'd dug them in. He needed to believe that she had made that commitment, and found comfort in the green of the grass she preferred to mow herself, in the mixed colors of the blooms she tended religiously, in the woods beyond that they both seemed to share on such a deep, personal level.

He saw Bryan's bike standing beside the walkway, a bright orange Frisbee that had ended its flight in the middle of the sloping lawn, a wheelbarrow full of mulch parked beside the porch.

Details, he mused, little details that made a home.

And it hit him suddenly and forcefully that he wanted, needed, it to be his home. Not just a place where he left a few of his things so that it was convenient to spend the night. Home.

He didn't want Savannah to be just the woman he loved and made love with. He'd failed at marriage once, and had been sure, so sure, that he would never put himself in the position where he could fail at something so personal and public again. Hadn't he told himself he would be content to drift along in this relationship?