THE COMEBACK OF CON MACNEILL Page 13

  She glared at him. Couldn't he see he was playing into her father's hands?

  "Two conditions," Con added. "I want access to your records and cooperation from your staff."

  "I'll see you get access. For the other, well, you can talk to whomever you want. Whether or not they cooperate is up to them. And you."

  "We've got a deal, then," Con said. He turned to Val, one eyebrow lifting. "You ready to go?"

  She was ready to spit. Con had his career to consider. And she had her pride. What if he got sacked? What would he do then? And what would she do without him? She let him take her arm and escort her from the office, her brain whirring like a high-speed mixer.

  She waited until they'd passed the potted plants outside before demanding crossly, "What's the matter with you? Do you want to get fired?"

  His lips tightened. He held open the gate to the lobby. "I told you I'd take care of Cross."

  He had. She just hadn't believed him.

  "My father means what he says, you know. How badly do you want that Ventucom thing?"

  He looked down at her as she passed under his arm on the way out of the building, his blue eyes cool and enigmatic. "The vice president position? I want it."

  "Why?"

  "Aside from the big bucks and the office on Federal Street

  ?"

  She wanted to tell him he was worth more than that. But maybe that perspective was a luxury that came from having every advantage purchased for her by status-conscious parents. Con's background was very different.

  "I suppose the money would be important to you."

  His mouth crooked up. "Let's say it's the most convenient way I've found of keeping score."

  They exited the bank. Heat slammed down on the concrete steps and shimmered up from the parking lot. Val squinted against the haze, fighting guilt. She'd never intended her challenge to provoke Con into jeopardizing his goals and career. She didn't want that responsibility.

  "This isn't a game. It was a stupid risk to take." He raised both eyebrows. "Only if I'm wrong." She snorted. "Oh, and you're never wrong."

  "Very rarely."

  "What if my father's involved?"

  "Your father just agreed to let me investigate." They crossed the asphalt. "Besides, someone would have noticed the bank president pocketing bills from the teller's desk, don't you think?"

  "And if he knows and is covering up for someone else?" Con stopped by the driver's side, waiting for her to pull out her keys so he could open her door. "Is this the conspiracy theory? You think I could be in on it, too?"

  She felt the betraying blood spread in her cheeks. "Don't joke. This isn't funny."

  His gaze was sharp as a blade, his voice cool as steel. "No, it's not. The only remotely amusing part is that I hoped you might have started to trust me."

  She turned to face him and found herself trapped in the triangle formed by his arm and the door of the car, between the heat of the car behind her and the heat of his body in front. He smelled like clean cotton and expensive aftershave and Con. He watched her, his face expressionless. A welt rode one cheekbone, where Rob's fist had connected.

  He'd been hurt, fighting for her.

  Beneath his clipped speech, smooth manner and superior education was a deeply feeling man capable of great pride and loyalty and hurt.

  Had she, unthinkingly, hurt him?

  Standing on tiptoe, she pressed her lips to the swelling under his eye. She felt him shiver.

  "Not that funny," she whispered. "Maybe I do."

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  «^»

  Ann moved silently from drawer to drawer collecting socks and lingerie, her image flitting dimly across the minor of the heavy Chippendale dresser. Like a ghost in her own home, Val thought, and her heart wrenched with pity.

  They were the same age, was all she could think. One choice, one chance, was all that separated Val from drifting through these rooms picking salvage from the wreck of a marriage: this slip, that purse, this pair of stockings. And all the while Ann was packing away the bits and pieces of her life, Val felt Con's waiting presence in the other room. An ending and a beginning, crowded together in a house of secrets.

  Val shivered. Con's steady, quiet presence threatened her more than his corporate raider pose ever could. He hadn't once looked at his watch to suggest he had anything better to do with his time than to sit, an intruder in Rob's home, on Rob's Barca-Lounger, while Rob's wife packed and prepared to leave him. If Val were some poor, dependent female whose life could only be validated by association with a handsome, strapping male, she could do a lot worse than Connaught MacNeill.

  And just look at where that line of thinking had led poor Ann.

  She tugged on the closet door. "What about shoes?" she asked practically.

  Ann picked up and put down a folded knit top. "What?"

  Val gestured to the tidy rack where Ann's shoes lined up like matrons at a wedding. She couldn't begin to choose among them. Her own sneakers and sandals were so tumbled together on the floor of her closet, it was a wonder she found a match each morning. "Which shoes?"

  "Oh." Ann drifted over to stare, her arms protecting her stomach. "I don't know. You pick something. I need to pack for Mitchell."

  "Sure." Val turned from the closet, a pair of flats in each hand, and wrapped her friend in an awkward hug. "You go on. I'll close up the suitcase."

  Ann nodded and faded down the hall. Val tucked the shoes into pockets and dragged the suitcase over the rose-and-cream comforter to wrestle with the zipper.

  "Give you a hand?"

  She whirled. Con loomed in the bedroom door, big and dark against the ivory walls, out of place among the carved furniture and eighteenth-century botanical prints that hung in the hall. He didn't belong here. And yet there he stood, framed in Ann's doorway, smack in the middle of issues and memories Val was trying hard to ignore.

  "I've got it, thanks." She yanked and coaxed the zipper closed.

  He strolled forward. "Let me take the suitcase to the car."

  He hefted it easily. She fought a buzz of irritation. Surely she wasn't so petty that she had to insist on carrying the bag herself? But the homey intimacy of the scene chafed her. They could have been lovers or husband and wife packing to go on vacation, instead of two people caught up in the sad end of someone else's domestic drama.

  Outside the bedroom, Con paused, nodding down the passage toward Mitchell's room. "Is she ready?"

  "I'll go check."

  She hurried down the hall, her focus on Ann blurred by Con's distracting presence. Her awareness of him permeated everything, investing mundane actions—locking the house, loading the car, trailing down the walk—with heightened significance. He did the things men do without thinking about it, moving with grace inside his powerful, long-boned body. He jingled his keys. He slammed the trunk.

  When he hooked an arm up over the seat to say something to Annie in the back, Val noticed he'd rolled his sleeves, exposing muscled forearms. She caught herself studying the pattern of dark hair and flushed with annoyance.

  At the shelter, Con got out and opened Ann's door.

  "What about dinner?" he asked her. Asked both of them? "Are you hungry?"

  Ann shook her head. Her smooth brown hair brushed her battered jaw. "No. That is, yes, but … I have to get used to doing things on my own. For myself and Mitchell."

  Val wanted to cheer her friend's difficult bid for independence. But it was pretty early for Ann to be dismissing support. "Are you sure?" she asked quietly.

  Ann attempted a smile. "Sure."

  Con inspected her face and then nodded. "Okay. Let me get your bags, then."

  "If you need anything…" Val said.

  "Call," Con finished for her.

  Val sat in the car as he unloaded Ann's suitcases, trying not to feel as if her helpfulness had been usurped.

  Even with the windows rolled down, the interior of the car was stiffing. She got out for some air. Whe
n Con came back to the car, she was leaning against the driver's side door.

  On edge and uncertain, she smiled, trying to diffuse the heavy atmosphere between them with humor. "Need a lift?"

  He rocked back on his heels, assessing her mood. "How about a tip?"

  "Wash your hands before you eat?" she offered straight-faced.

  "Not exactly what I had in mind." Quietly, he studied her. "How are you?"

  "I'm fine. It's Ann I'm worried about. She's not used to being alone."

  "In her case I'd say it beats the alternative."

  "In most cases, I'd say."

  His eyes narrowed. "What about us?"

  Her breath quickened. "What about us?" she asked lightly. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I like you. I like being with you. But essentially, haven't we both chosen to be alone? Two separate individuals."

  "Maybe that's because we haven't explored all the alternatives yet."

  He stepped close to the car, blocking her escape. Her heart tripped into overtime. His thighs crowded hers. His body pressed hers. His long, clever fingers stroked a frame around her face.

  She half resented his effect on her. She didn't like being at his mercy, at the mercy of her hormones. Silly, she chided herself. What could he possibly do to her out here on the street, in full view of the windows of the women's shelter?

  His mouth swooped down on hers, and she had her answer. Plenty.

  The kiss was hot, hard and possessive. He knew exactly what he was doing, and did it so well she couldn't bring herself to object. He thrust one hand into her hair, angling her mouth to receive his kiss. His lips parted hers. His tongue probed and sought. In spite of the warning tick in her brain, she welcomed it, welcomed him, felt the surge of need roll inside her and crash the careful structure of her casual pose.

  When he finally lifted his head, her hands had fisted in the fabric of his shirt.

  "Well." Satisfaction gleamed in those blue, blue eyes. "What next?"

  If he hadn't said anything, she might have dragged him into the car and home. But he asked deliberately, forcing the choice upon her.

  And she wasn't ready for it.

  She drew a deep breath, instinctively pushing for distance, reaching for control. "I haven't made up my mind."

  Some of the light went out of his eyes. He released her, jamming his hands into his pockets. "That's honest, anyway."

  "You asked," she said defensively.

  "Yeah, I asked for it, all right." He took three short, impatient strides down the crumbling walk and back again. With an uncomfortable combination of relief and regret, she saw he once again had himself under perfect control. "Okay. You want to drop me back at the bank? My car is there."

  His backing off surprised her. Another man would have pressed his advantage—either her undeniable physical response or her uncomfortable sense of obligation.

  "You could come back to my place. I could make us something to eat…" It was easier to offer food than sex.

  "No." He caught himself. "No, thanks. It's been a long day. I'll follow you back, though. See you get in safely."

  "Ann's not staying with me. I don't need—"

  His mouth compressed. "You may not need me, Dixie, but you've got me. Deal with it."

  Indignation burned up her brief regret. She closed her mouth and set her jaw and got into the car.

  * * *

  Shutting off the shower, Val reached for a towel. The pounding spray hadn't soothed her headache or cleared her brain. Without the sound of running water, the apartment was quiet. She told herself she liked it that way.

  Maybe that's because we haven't explored all the alternatives yet.

  Nonsense, she thought bracingly, in Aunt Naomi's best style. Living alone suited her. An only child, she'd been relieved to escape her parents' home, ruled by her father's strictures and decorated to her mother's exacting tastes. As a teenager, she'd hated her own bedroom, which Sylvia Cutler insisted she keep in a state of glossy perfection, as if the photographers from Southern Living might walk in at any moment.

  New York had been a breath of freedom, a blast of fresh air. Okay, smelly, noisy, exciting air. But at seventeen, Val had been thrilled at the chance to make her own way, to create her own space, to define her own style. Oh, a succession of friends had camped on the floor of her tiny studio. One lover had even spent a night in her bed. But overall Val discovered she preferred the freedom of solitude. Outside of Wild Thymes, she protected her privacy.

  So why did this apartment suddenly feel so empty?

  The curtain hooks clattered as she shoved back the shower curtain. Maybe she missed Ann. Maybe she was worried about Mitchell. Patting water from her breasts and thighs, Val stepped from the shower. Maybe she should look into getting a cat?

  She swiped at the mirror and pulled a face at the misty glass. It wasn't a cat she was missing, or Ann or Mitchell. If she was honest with herself, it was Con.

  Deal with it.

  She squeezed her hair over the drain. She'd always resisted her father's manipulation. She wasn't in the market now for some take-charge kind of guy to run her restaurant and her life.

  She knew he wanted her. Other men had wanted her without tempting her from her safe isolation. But Con's apparent willingness to treat her as an equal drew her. Swayed her. He might disagree with her, but he never ignored her opinions or belittled her ideas.

  This isn't an arm-wrestling contest, he'd told her. I think you can hold your own.

  She tugged absently on her empty earlobe. Could she believe him? Did she really believe she was a match for Con MacNeill?

  Wrapping her hair in a towel, she padded naked into her bedroom. It didn't help that the man had a mind like a computer and a body like a decathlete. But she could have admired him without loving him. It was the deep heart and decency beneath that cool, logical facade that seduced her: the loyalty he showed his family, the gentleness he revealed with Ann, the risk he took for what he believed was right.

  I'll take care of Cross, he'd told her.

  And this afternoon in her father's office, he'd put his career on the line for Ann's sake.

  For Val's sake. Because she'd taunted him with not facing the consequences of his involvement.

  The thought made her squirm. She thrust her arms into the green silk robe. She owed him now, and she didn't like it. In her experience, emotional debts were always collected.

  What would Con expect in payment? And what did she want to give?

  The doorbell chimed. Fear jammed her lungs. Had Rob come back looking for Ann? Or seeking another victim?

  Val clenched her hands on the belt of her robe, infuriated by her own vulnerability. Like Rob would walk up and ring the doorbell. With Ann taken from him, he was more likely to try to kick down the door.

  She forced a deep breath, tied the robe tight and went to answer the bell.

  "Who is it?"

  She was learning, Con thought. She hadn't just opened the door. "Con MacNeill."

  The chain rattled, and she let him in. Con sucked in his breath. Holy saints, she was beautiful. Her hair streamed dark and damp behind her shoulders, and her narrow feet were bare. She was wrapped in something shiny that made his palms feel empty.

  "You should've looked," he said.

  She stepped back to admit him. "I recognized your voice. What do you want?"

  He wanted her, but he figured now was not the time to mention it. His brothers hadn't nicknamed him Genius for nothing. Her sleepless night was in her face for any moron to read, along with a vulnerability he thought damn few people had seen.

  "You look done in," he said roughly. "You eat yet?"

  Her eyebrows rose. The Belle was back, he thought admiringly. "Thank you for the charming compliment, and no."

  "It wasn't a compliment." He held up a white paper bag. "I brought dinner."

  She blinked. "Dinner?"

  "Yeah."

  "I…" She took a step forward. The green thing she was wearing shimmered and cl
ung. He remembered seeing Ann Cross in the same robe last night, but it hadn't had this effect on him. "Not many people bring food to a chef."

  No, they probably all expected her to feed them. He felt a spurt of irritation at her distant family, her user friends. He'd taken note of the number of free meals she served to hangers on and genuine charity cases.

  He shrugged. "I figured you shouldn't have to cook on your day off."

  The warmth in those wide gray eyes embarrassed him. He barely stopped himself from shuffling his feet.

  "That was so—"

  "You call me nice again, so help me, I won't answer for

  She laughed. "Thoughtful. It was very thoughtful. What did you get?"

  He hefted the sack for her inspection. "Arlene's barbecue. I could have gone for Chinese, but I didn't trust Szechwan shrimp cooked by somebody named Debra Sue."

  "Snob."

  He grinned, not denying it. "I didn't know if you'd eat the fried chicken, so I got macaroni and slaw and stuff."

  Her hands played with the tie of her robe. "It sounds wonderful. Let me just get dressed. There's beer in the refrigerator if you want one."

  She'd bought beer? That was progress. He found he liked thinking of his beer in her fridge, his shaving things above her sink. His body in her bed. He almost groaned. It was the robe, he decided. He'd be okay once she took it off. And found that train of thought didn't help at all.

  "I'll only be a minute," she added.

  A minute. Sixty seconds. He could probably control himself that long. As long as he didn't think about the slide of silk on skin…

  She didn't go. She stood there, her gray eyes steady on him and her hands still twisting the ends of her belt.

  "Thank you for the food." She made the simple thanks sound like a challenge.

  "You're welcome."

  She still didn't move. His control was wearing dangerously thin. Con cleared his throat. "Hurry up, or it will get cold."

  She regarded him a moment longer, and then one corner of her mouth dented in and her smile slowly spread. "I guess it's up to me to warm things up, then," she said, and closed the distance between them.

  She smelled of soap and woman. The placket of her robe brushed his jeans. He could glance down the V in front and see where her smooth, golden chest rose to plump, pale breasts. His jaw tightened, his whole body tightened, in a downward spiral of need.