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Which made sense. Sean had always been a lady-killer and Spike evidently was one, too. He had this half-cocked grin he sported whenever he let a good one-liner fly, and like the other women, Mad felt her heart kick up a notch every time that wry smile came out.
As the knot of people around him laughed once again, she shook her head. Boy, she’d read him wrong. He wasn’t an introvert at all.
He was also very secure in himself. He seemed singularly unimpressed by the guests at the party and there were some pretty famous people around. It wasn’t that he was unfriendly, though. He smiled and talked, shook hands and clapped shoulders. He just didn’t kiss up. No matter who was standing in front of him, he never lost the slightly aloof, mocking confidence that drew people to him.
And speaking of magnetic, two women in particular had cozied up to him. Both were blond and aristocratic-looking, and pretty soon, one had her arm around him while the other tried to sit in his lap.
Mad shook her head, telling herself she had no right to be jealous.
Abruptly, Spike roared with laughter, the sound rich and very male. And then his eyes shifted across the room. As he caught her staring, his face tightened and the smile dropped off his lips. When the blonde sitting beside him playfully swatted at his chest, he recovered quickly and grinned down at the woman.
Yup, this was it in a nutshell, Mad thought. The story of my life.
The only time she wasn’t invisible to men was when she was giving them attention they didn’t want.
Spike had been totally surprised to find Mad looking at him and the shock of meeting her eyes had cut off his train of thought. He managed to finish his story about the first fish he’d cleaned as a chef only because he’d told the thing so many times, it was rote.
No doubt Mad thought he was just a rowdy show-off. And as the people around him broke out into laughter, he thought she was probably right.
Mad, on the other hand, wasn’t rowdy or a show-off. She stayed away from the crush of people, lingering near the bank of windows, beautiful and still as a piece of art. In her regal silence, she made him feel awkward and unworthy, as if his stories were pathetic rambles with predictable starts and flat endings.
But then a lot of men at the party seemed to feel the same way about her. Every single male in the place had admired her from afar and obviously lacked the courage to approach her. What they settled for was looking at her from the corner of their eyes, watching her, measuring her. He saw all the glances and noted each one of them with a curse.
He knew exactly what kind of thoughts were going through those minds of theirs. The sexual speculation. The awe. The intimidation.
Because that sticky morass was swimming in his own head.
There was just something so…unreachable about her. It was as if she had seen things and done things on the ocean that none of them had come close to on land. And the gap worked against the men, setting them apart as pasty versions of something she probably didn’t want and definitely didn’t need.
And her beauty was downright threatening. Anchored by the strength of her body and her smart, smart eyes, she turned the other women at the party into f-words.
Frail. Flighty. Forgettable.
Spike felt something hit his chest lightly. Paige Livingstone or Livingworth—or something equally WASPy—seemed disappointed he’d retreated into his head. As did her sister, Whitney, who had somehow wiggled her way onto his lap.
Spike set Whitney aside and smiled in an empty way the sisters didn’t pick up on. An hour later, after the party had wound down, he showed them both the door even though they’d given him their number and plenty of come-hither-you-bad-boy looks. He just wasn’t in the mood to be their savage conquest fantasy. He’d done that before and had never really gotten much out of it even though the women had seemed to enjoy the experience.
Man…it was crazy, but for some reason, the sweater-set, pearl-draped, scarf-wearing types just went nuts for guys who looked like him.
Well, nuts for one night. Or maybe two. Though never longer than that.
Which was fine with him. He wasn’t looking for a relationship.
No, he’d given up on that a long time ago. With his past, he wasn’t ever going to settle down. As soon as a woman knew what he’d done and where he’d gone, she’d bolt and he was sure of this because it had happened to him. Since full disclosure was a guaranteed exit door, and he couldn’t stomach lying by omission, he was never going to be more than a short-term visitor in a woman’s life.
And he really was cool with that. He was a survivor both by nature and experience so his prime directive was clear. If you can’t change something, you adapt and move along.
As Spike shut the door on the two blondes, he took a deep breath. The penthouse was silent now and the lack of noise was a relief.
Except then he realized that Madeline had left and he’d never gotten a chance to say goodbye.
Maybe that was just as well. Usually he had a good rapport with women; he could charm the pants right off them if he wanted to. But with Mad, there was no way to fake the social fluff.
And besides, all things considered, he should be grateful. He sensed she was someone he could fall hard and sloppy for. And where would that land him?
Ah, yes. 71st Street. On his butt.
Sean came out of the kitchen, tie hanging loose, shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He had two cups of coffee in his hand and he held one out.
“Thought you might need a pick-me-up, too,” the guy said in a curiously disgruntled tone.
Spike took what he was offered and they made a beeline for the living room.
“So I think Alex and Cass had a fine time,” Spike said. “And they were really nice about my being late.”
Sean grunted. “You certainly looked like you were enjoying yourself. The Livingston sisters were all over you.”
“Yeah.”
They sat down on plush leather sofas that faced the bank of windows. Outside, the city glowed on the opposite side of the dense black square of the park.
“Too bad you spent so much time with them,” Sean muttered.
“Huh?”
“There were other women at the damn party, you know.”
Spike frowned and was about to ask what was doing, when he heard something behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. There was someone coming down the hall from the other end of the penthouse. A straggler?
Madeline came into the room as if he’d conjured her up from his fantasies. Her hair was all over her shoulders, rich and glossy, as if she’d just brushed it. And she’d changed out of that lovely dress and was wearing a pair of men’s boxers and a tank top.
The two didn’t quite meet in the middle so her belly button showed.
Spike shifted in his seat as Sean smiled and said, “Hey, Mad. Coffee’s in the kitchen.”
“Thanks.” She strolled into the other room.
Spike watched her go, his eyes latching on to the sway of her hips. And the muscles of her thighs and calves. And all the smooth, tanned skin of her legs.
Then it hit him.
“Sean? Is she staying here?”
“Yup.”
Spike put his cup down and pegged his hands into his knees. As he stood up, he was aware of a stinging suffocation.
“Where you going, my man?” Sean murmured, Boston accent coming out thickly.
“I better take off.” No way in hell he could be in the same apartment while Sean and Mad were in bed. Together. Doing unspeakable, fabulous things to each others’ bodies.
God, just the thought of them together made him nauseous.
“Sit down, Spike.”
“Nah, you need some privacy. I’ll see you later.”
“Spike, sitcha-ass down. It’s not like that with her, okay? You can relax.”
Spike narrowed his eyes and wondered if he’d given anything away about his attraction to the woman. It wouldn’t have been much if he had, but when it came to his friend, it wouldn’t have to be a lot. The trouble with O’Banyon was the guy was flipping brilliant. Never missed a thing, especially when people were trying to hide their inner goodies.
Usually it was a point in the man’s favor. Not tonight.
Sean’s voice stayed level as he nodded to the sofa. “Sit.”
Spike sank back down. And then another thought shot through his head. He tried to remember how many bedrooms the place had. Not enough.
He eyed the couch. Pushed at it with his hand.
Good to go, he thought, imagining himself stretched out with his head on one of the cushions.
“Don’t even think about it,” Sean said.
“What?”
“Sleeping out here. There are two perfectly good beds in that guest room and you guys are going in them. She’s already said she has no problem with it.”
Him and Madeline Maguire in the same room? Alone? For like, six, seven hours? He’d be lucky if he wasn’t limping by the time it was morning. All the pent-up desire in his blood would probably turn him into a pretzel.
Abruptly, Sean snorted and stared over the brim of his cup. “Why’d you have to spend so much time with Paige and Whitney?”
“They’re easy.” Spike picked up his coffee again. “I mean, they’re simple. You know, just two women. And why do you care?”
“You should have spent more time with Mad.”
Spike narrowed his eyes on his friend once again. “Are you trying to set us up?”
“Yes, I am. So the least you can do is be a gentleman about it and try and kiss her after the lights go out.”
Spike nearly spit out what was in his mouth. “What the hell—”
“It’s obvious you’re into her.”
He coughed, trying to clear his windpipe. “How do you figure I like her? I didn’t talk to her all night long.”
“Precisely. She was the only woman you were not comfortable around. And that spells attraction, buddy. At least the way I see it.”
“You are deranged.”
“True. And I’m right, aren’t I? You like her. And like her, like her. Not just like her.”
Spike rolled his eyes. “Holy hell, I feel like I’m in elementary school with this conversation. Where’s my lunch box?”
“Same place your head is at.” Sean’s voice dropped down low. “I have it on good authority she’s into you.”
“And this is because she didn’t talk to me, either? Sean, buddy, stick to finance. You’re a rotten social worker.”
“No, she—”
At that moment, Mad came back into the room, sipping from a mug.
Sean put his coffee aside and clapped his hands on his thighs. “I’m turning into a pumpkin. ’Night, all.”
As the man left, he shot Spike a don’t-you-dare-screw-this-up look.
And then Spike was alone with Mad. She didn’t look at him, just walked over to the windows and stared out at the city. Silence elongated until he wasn’t sure whether they’d been in the room fifteen minutes or ten days.
Well, if this wasn’t awkward.
Spike said quietly, “I don’t want to crowd you tonight. I can crash on the couch.”
She shrugged. “If you want to. But bear in mind, I sleep on a boat with twelve men on a regular basis. No amount of snoring is going to get my attention. I can sleep through anything.”
God, the small of her back was beautiful. He wanted to press his lips to the indentation of her spine. Run his hands around to her flat stomach. Reach down and ever so gently stroke her thighs—
“Spike?”
“What?” He looked up, meeting her calm stare as she glanced over her shoulder.
“You just made a funny noise.”
“Did I?”
“Sounded like a groan.”
Well, at least that was better than a squeak of desperation. Much more manly.
Although when it came down to it, he was surprised she couldn’t hear the roar of his blood as the stuff slammed into all kinds of extremities.
“Can I ask you a question?” she said.
“Go ahead.”
“Your eyes. Are they real? I mean, they’re contacts, right?”
Spike looked away. He knew his irises were a peculiar color, but they’d been that way since birth. And most women liked them…thought the yellow was unusual and attractive. She was the first to suggest they were a cosmo-vanity statement.
Which told him a lot about what she thought of him.
And as he abruptly wished his peepers were normal, like a brown or a green or a blue, he got frustrated with himself.
He punched his weight into his feet, standing up in a quick surge. “I’m going to head for the shower. And then I’m hitting the sack.”
“Spike, I didn’t mean to…” Her voice drifted off.
“You didn’t mean to what?”
“Offend you. I’ve just never seen eyes like yours before.”
He shrugged. “I know they’re weird, but, whatever, nothing I can do about it. ’Night, Madeline.”
He put his coffee cup into the kitchen sink and then went down the hallway to the guest room. When he stepped through the door and glanced around, he expected to find her stuff all over the place. It wasn’t. There were no errant hairbrushes or perfume bottles or clothes or shoes dotting the dresser or the desk or the chaise lounge in the corner. All he saw was a black duffel bag at the foot of the bed on the left.
A sailor’s neatness, he thought, wondering what her life must be like.
He took a quick shower and then hunted around the vanity for one of the spare toothbrushes he knew was in there. As he put a high gloss on his teeth, he wasn’t looking forward to getting back into the clothes he’d worn all day long, but he’d left his stuff in his car.
And like naked was even an option in the hypothetical? Not a chance.
Spike went still. On the other side of the door, he could hear her moving around in the guest room. She was probably getting into bed right at this moment.
And wouldn’t that be a picture. Her lithe body bending down to pull the blankets back. Those long legs sliding between cool sheets. Her hair spilling over the pillowcase in waves of deep brown and dark red.
Cursing, he rinsed his mouth out, stepped into his boxers and then pulled on his shirt. While he buttoned the thing up, he eyed his pants. Throwing those on seemed a little much so he folded them and left them on the edge of the tub.
As he swung open the door, he expected to find Mad propped up in one of the queen-size beds, reading and looking wonderful.
Instead, the lights were off. In the glow from the bathroom, he could see her curled on her side with the covers pulled up to her cheeks. And yes, her hair did spill over the pillowcase beautifully.
As he stared at her, he wondered what the auburn waves felt like. Soft, he thought. They would be soft and they would smell like the herbal shampoo she’d left in the shower.
For the first time since his life had changed twelve years ago, he truly mourned the normalcy he no longer had and would never find again.
He thought about the one time he’d tried to have a relationship with a woman. About two years after he’d rejoined real life, he’d found someone he liked enough to want to get to know better. Things had gone well until he’d sat her down and told her about what had happened. She’d said all the right things at the time and he’d hoped they might go on from there. But then she’d stopped returning his phone calls.
He’d understood and let her go.
Ever since then he’d kept himself apart, although he hadn’t been celibate. He’d just done the one-night stand thing when he’d wanted a little company.
Madeline Maguire was not a one-nighter. She was the real deal. A smart, beautiful woman from a high-class family that had a Brinks truck worth of money in the bank. So even if she’d been attracted to him, and she wasn’t, there was no way someone like her would want to be…well, with an ex-con like him.
Spike went over to the bed on the right and got in it. After arranging the pillows the way he liked them, he tried to convince his skin of two things. One, the fact that he was wearing boxers and a shirt to bed was no big deal even though he usually slept in the nude. And two, Madeline Maguire’s hands would in fact not feel like heaven if they were applied liberally over every inch of his body.
He failed. Particularly at the latter.
And goodnight-in-hell, everything was an irritant. He shifted this way and that on the bed. Couldn’t find any comfortable way to lay.
Ten minutes later, he sat up, unbuttoned the shirt and tossed it on the floor. As he slid back down, he heard a soft chuckle from the other bed.
“Was that the shirt or the boxers? Or both?” she asked.
He froze, wondering just how long he’d stood at the foot of her bed and stared at her. Did she know he’d done that? “I thought you said you could sleep through anything.”
There was a pause. “I guess I was wrong.”
Her sigh as she burrowed back into her pillow burned through him.
Spike closed his eyes, hoping that the “fake it till you make it” theory worked with sleep.
It didn’t. He was wide awake. Just staring at the insides of his eyelids.
Happy place. He needed to go to his happy place. Okay…right. Happy place.
Didn’t have one.
God, how much BS was that? Everyone had one. He just needed to picture somewhere he wanted to be.
So how about the bed next door? the gorilla inside him suggested.
“Spike?”
His lids flipped open. “Yeah?”
“I don’t think your eyes are weird. I think they’re the color of sunshine on the waves in the early morning. They have that same hypnotic, shimmering quality, too.” She cleared her throat. “Anyway, just wanted you to know.”
His breath left him in a silent stream.
Shimmering. Color of sunshine.
He wanted to tell her that he was glad she thought of his eyes like that. And point out that anytime she wanted to get hypnotized, he’d kill to be her swami of choice.
“Thanks,” he said, turning his head so he could see her. “My dad’s were the same. Or so my mom told me.”
Mad rolled over toward him, tucking her hands under her chin. God, she looked adorable like that.
“What nationality was your father?”
“Don’t know. I never met him and I never asked her. Probably some European flavor.”
“Why didn’t you…”
“Know him?”
“I’m sorry if I’m getting too personal.”
“Nah, it’s fine. Mom said he didn’t stay long, but she loved him like no other. And everything worked out eventually. Right after I was born, she met a guy who she ended up marrying. He was good to her, good to me. Plus I got a half sister, Jaynie, out of the deal.”
“Have you ever wanted to find your father?”
“Wouldn’t know where to start and my life’s okay the way it is. So, no. Besides, Mom’s lived in the same town all her life. If the guy wanted to find her or me, he could.”
Spike frowned, wondering how long it had been since he’d spoken about his family to anyone.
He shifted so he was laying on his stomach and couldn’t see her. She didn’t say anything further. Neither did he.
But it was a long, long while before he could fall asleep.
Chapter Three
When Mad woke up around six-thirty, the first thing she did was turn her head and look at the man in the bed next to hers.
Her breath caught.
Spike was on his stomach, facing away from her, and he’d kicked the blankets off of himself. All that covered him was a thin sheet that was threaded through his legs.
So she finally got to see his tattoos.
He had two of them on his strong back—well, one really, with two halves. It looked like medieval scrollwork; the design running up his spine until it split to go over his shoulder blades and around to the front of him. The tail ends of it must be what showed on his neck, she thought.
The artwork was beautiful. The effect…erotic. The dark lines flowing over his smooth skin made her want to touch him. With her hands. Her mouth.
And not just on his back. She wanted to know his whole body.
It was obvious he lifted weights regularly. Those broad shoulders were thick with muscle and so was the heavy arm he had curled up next to his head. His biceps were so well-defined she could see the vein that ran down the front of them.
Unexpectedly, he let out a groan and shifted on the bed. She tensed, ready to turn over and pretend she was asleep, but then he took a deep breath and seemed to settle. His rib cage contracted as he exhaled and he moved his head up and down a little on the pillow.
There was nothing she wanted to do more than cross the short aisle between their beds and lie down against him. She could wake him up slowly by nuzzling his neck, maybe. Or kissing the top of his shoulder.
Yeah, and then what?
She was a virgin, not a vamp. And a man like Spike was going to want someone who knew what they were doing.
He made the sound again, deep in his throat.
That wasn’t a groan, she thought. More like a purr.
His legs moved, the sheet pulling at them, constraining him. He rolled over onto his back. As his arm flopped out across the bed, she looked at his wide chest and his washboard stomach. Not a spare ounce of fat on him. Just a whole lot of muscle on a big male body.
Boy, she wished she had more experience. But in her life, there had been only two men who she might have become totally intimate with. One she met as a sophomore in college and the other she got to know during the summer after she left school to race. In both cases, she’d thought she was in love and assumed she was loved in return.
Instead, the men had preferred her half sister. And proved it beyond a shadow of a doubt.
Shortly after the second time someone she cared about ended up in Amelia’s bed, Mad had put her dating life on hiatus. For one thing, if she wanted to be respected in her sport, she couldn’t be with any of the men on the sailing crews she worked on or any of her competitors, either. But more to the point, there had been no way in hell she was getting vulnerable again.
Her life had gone on. A couple of years had passed. And now she was on the verge of being twenty-five years old and she’d never made love all the way.
It hadn’t seemed like a character defect. Until now.
Spike let out another low rumble and his hand fisted against the sheets. In a flowing arch, his body bowed off the bed as if he were rising up to receive something. Then his hips moved in a tight circle, grinding, surging. Her eyes drifted downward.
Good Lord. He had an…
Well, it was clear what he was dreaming about, at any rate. And wow, she really needed to leave the room.
Spike’s hips stopped moving, but his legs scissored restlessly and his calves turned into knots. He threw his head back and bared his teeth, inhaling with a hiss. As his chest and thighs went through a wave of contractions, the muscles tightened and relaxed under his smooth skin.
He murmured something that sounded like, “More.”
Oh, man, he was beautiful. All male. Sexually aroused. In the throes of passion.
For a moment, she imagined she had the guts it would take to wake him up with the kind of sensuous caresses he was clearly getting in his dream. Would he turn to her? Probably. At least until he realized she wasn’t the woman he was fantasizing about.
She wondered who was in his mind right now, who he imagined was pleasuring him so acutely.
Without any warning, his eyes flipped open and he looked right at her. The yellow of his irises was so bright against his long, black lashes, it was as if his stare glowed. And the heat in it was like being hit with a blowtorch.
Mad jerked back. Then blurted, “I’m sorry.”
Because watching him seemed voyeuristic.
The sound of her voice seemed to confuse him. His black brows dipped low and his head went back and forth a couple of times. He mumbled something, closed his eyes and rolled away.
Mad left in a hurry. She used the bath down the hall and then went to the kitchen, relieved to find that Sean wasn’t up yet; she was not feeling particularly coherent.