The Return Of Rafe Mackade (The MacKade Brothers 1)

He tugged his jacket off her shoulders, tossed it aside. "Get out of those clothes."

Something in her sank. With her lashes lowered, she reached around for the zipper of the skirt.

"No, I didn't mean— God." If she peeled herself out of that leather in front of him, he was lost. It was the confusion in her eyes that had him leveling his voice. "I meant I'd appreciate it if you changed into something else. Please."

"I thought you—"

"I know what you thought." He was dying here. "Just change, so I can talk to you."

"All right."

He knew it was a mistake to watch her walk toward the bedroom. But he was only human.

Inside, Regan stepped out of the ankle-breaking shoes, stripped off the red leather. It was good to breathe again. She wanted to be amused, at both of them, but she felt so incredibly stupid. She'd made a spectacle of herself, thrown aside every scrap of dignity. For nothing.

No, she thought as she fastened on pleated trousers. For him. She'd done it for him, and he didn't even have the sense to appreciate it.

When she came back in, face washed, her hair brushed back into place, an ivory sweater tucked neatly into the waistband of black slacks, he was pacing.

"I want to know what you were thinking of," he said without preamble. "Just what you were thinking of, walking into a bar dressed like that?"

"It was your idea," she tossed back, but he was too busy clenching his jaw and muttering to himself to listen.

"Five more minutes in there, and we'd have had a riot. I'd have started it myself. I've seen you naked, and I'm not sure I knew you were built like that. Now everybody in town's going to know."

"You said you wanted—"

"I don't give a damn what they say about me, but nobody's going to talk behind their hands about you. Where the hell did you get that skirt?" he exploded. "Tarts R Us?"

"Well, really..."

"Yeah, really. And leaning over the pool table that way, so everyone was looking at your—"

Her eyes narrowed to slits. "Watch it, MacKade."

"Now I'm going to have to go bash all of my brothers' brains in for what they were thinking."

"You like bashing their brains in,'' she retorted.

"That's beside the point."

"I'll give you a point."

She picked up her favorite Milton vase and tossed it to the floor. Rather than smashing satisfactorily, it bounced and rolled on the dainty floral rug. But the gesture shut him up.

"I humiliated myself for you. It nearly took a crowbar to get me into that ridiculous skirt, and I think I bruised my intestines. I'll probably never get all this makeup out of my pores, my arches are screaming, and I have not an ounce of dignity left. I hope you're satisfied."

"Shut up. This time you just shut up. You wanted me to be that way, so I tried. I was willing to be what you wanted, and now all you can do is stand there and criticize and worry about gossip. Well, go to hell!"

She plopped down in a chair, because her feet were cramping painfully.

He waited until he was sure she'd run down, watched her sniffle and rub her bare feet. "You did that for me?"

"No, I did it because I like teetering on four-inch heels and going around half-naked in the middle of winter. I live for it," she said nastily.

"You did it to get to me."

The bout of temper had drained her. She sat back, closed her eyes. "I did it because I'm crazy about you. Just like you said I'd be. Now go away and leave me alone. You'll have to wait till tomorrow to beat your chest and drag me off by the hair. I'm too tired."