THE COMEBACK OF CON MACNEILL Page 8

  He took advantage of his name on her mouth, giving her his breath, stealing hers. His tongue stroked and tangled with hers as he took the kiss deeper. She felt light-headed, drunk. Lack of oxygen, she told herself weakly. The pads of her fingers pressed into his hard shoulders.

  "Con?"

  He bent his head to her throat. From his came that sound again, that masculine rumble that could have been interrogation or assent. It vibrated along the sensitive cords of her neck, making her lips ache for the pressure he withheld from them.

  Oh, the heck with it.

  Rashly, she surrendered to instinct. She initiated their next kiss, straining against the grip of his hands, feeding greedily on his mouth. She wanted him. Her desire for him was boundless, almost mindless. She wanted his possession, the strength of his hands, the power of his body, on her, inside her. Her need for him was unprecedented and shocking and thrilling.

  Was it this, this urgent call to complete and be completed, to claim and be claimed, that made a woman give herself over to her mate?

  She went to Con's head like a shot of Irish whiskey. One hundred proof. He drowned in the flavor of her. The kick. The texture. Damn, she was fine.

  And then she was pulling away, depriving him of her intoxicating fire. He bent to drink again, and she averted her face.

  "Dixie…"

  She shook her head.

  "What? What is it?"

  "It's … complicated."

  Complicated? He was astonished how simple it was. He hadn't felt this mix of sweaty lust and wonder since he'd unhooked Rita Kelly's bra in the front seat of her father's Lincoln.

  Easy, genius. He wasn't fourteen anymore. And the woman kneeling beside the well-stocked cooler was no Rita Kelly.

  A little twist of Val's hair sprang free and blew across her cheek. Con resisted the urge to reach over and smooth it behind her ear.

  "It seems pretty simple to me," he said coolly. "I want you, Val Cutler."

  She flushed again at his plain speaking. "Inconvenient, then."

  "Inconven— Hell." She was right. He couldn't afford to get mixed up in the war for Southern independence she waged against her father. But that didn't seem to make one bit of difference to his hungry body. "Sex is inconvenient, Dixie girl."

  She sat back on her heels. "I haven't agreed to have sex with you."

  Her prim precision amused him, as if she were quoting from some college handbook of rules. As if they hadn't been grappling each other on her old-fashioned quilt a moment before.

  "Yeah, and I haven't asked, but I kind of figured it was an outside possibility."

  "Well, it's not." Shaking her hair back out of her face, she handed him a plastic-wrapped sandwich and a blue cloth napkin. Belle-to-the-bone, he thought, and suppressed a smile. "I hardly know you, for one thing. And there's a conflict of interest, for another."

  There was a blush on her high cheekbones, a hollow under them. He'd have bet anything she was gnawing the inside of her cheek again. A new and troubling tenderness burst inside his chest.

  Stumped, he watched as Val lifted out a Tupperware tray of deviled eggs and a basket wrapped in a matching napkin.

  "Define 'conflict of interest.'" he suggested.

  She looked at him directly. "You work for my father."

  "That doesn't have to be a conflict."

  "Look, I didn't go to business school, but I'm not stupid. If money is missing from my account, then the bank is involved. And if the bank is involved, then my father could be, too."

  "Someone at the bank might be, certainly. Money doesn't disappear. If you aren't paying expenses from cash—"

  "I write checks for everything," Val insisted.

  "Then it could be a teller mis-added the receipts and pocketed the difference. Or someone altered the cash-in ticket and then debited your account. If the problem's significant enough, there'll be a pattern. And I'll find it."

  "If my father wants you to."

  He narrowed his eyes. "Why wouldn't he? He told me he wanted you to succeed."

  "No, I don't think so. What he'd really like is for me to fail in spite of all he can do for me and move back under his roof and take my rightful place as a Cutler."

  It was so ludicrous, Con laughed.

  "It's not funny," Val said ruefully. "Do I look like Junior League material to you?"

  "Maybe not the earrings. But what about all this?" He waved a hand over her picnic spread.

  She surveyed the star-stitched quilt in confusion. "All what?"

  "Where I come from, Dixie, a picnic is beer and brats and paper plates. Not little sandwiches with the crusts cut off and cloth napkins and matching salt and pepper shakers."

  She raised her chin. "Cloth napkins are better for the environment."

  He raised his eyebrows.

  Her eyes danced suddenly. "Well, all right, maybe a little Junior League. But just because I pack a lunch basket like my mother doesn't mean I want her life."

  "So, what do you want?"

  Val closed her eyes a moment. Out on the river, a mallard squawked, breaking the silence with a splash of water and a flurry of wings.

  Opening her eyes, she looked at Con, relaxed and confident, as if all he had to do was stretch back on that blanket and smile that slow, collected smile and women would crawl all over themselves to get to him.

  She sighed. Probably most women would.

  "I want my independence. I want my restaurant to succeed. And even if I'm not the status symbol they want me to be, I'm trying very hard to reconcile with my parents right now." She shook her head, making her earrings jangle. "Though it's tough building a mature relationship with a man who calls you 'punkin.'"

  "I can imagine," Con said dryly.

  His blue eyes were bright with humor and dark with understanding. She felt his regard deep in her midsection, sweet as raspberry trifle and comforting as bread. A woman could learn to depend on the sustenance of that warm regard. Briefly, Val hungered for … what? His support? Approval? Love?

  No.

  "What I don't need," she continued, "is a … a boyfriend looking over my shoulder and telling me what to do."

  "Or a lover?"

  His deep, rough voice plucked at her nerves, making her insides quiver.

  "I tried that. I'm not some little innocent, you know. It didn't work. It wouldn't work."

  "Why not?"

  "Expectations. You let somebody into your bed, and all of a sudden he wants the keys to your apartment and a chance to run your life."

  "Your life? Or your business?"

  "Either one." Bravely, she met his eyes. "I won't give up control, MacNeill."

  His thumb rubbed his jaw. "You know, it's possible you're letting your prejudices blind you to a good thing. You're stuck with me, anyway. Why not use me? I've got expertise and I've got experience. Hell, I can get you references if you want."

  Her cheeks scorched. "Are we still talking about the restaurant here?"

  He went very still. His stillness was an active quality, as unmistakable and expressive as another man's shout. And then his slow grin sizzled clear down to her toes. "I was. But feel free to take advantage of any services you want I won't be in town forever."

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  «^»

  After the cool and shaded riverbank, the interior of the car steamed like an oven. Val unrolled the windows, fussed with her seat belt, snapped on the radio—anything to avoid looking at the man beside her.

  Feel free to take advantage of any services you want.

  Oh, my.

  She started the car. The men she'd known saw sex in terms of conquest and surrender. In Naomi's words, once a woman admitted a man into her bed, he expected to be allowed into her decisions as well.

  But there was something so seductive about Con's invitation. Take advantage of him? As if she could have all that intelligence and intensity and confidence at her command. The prospect made her heart beat faster.

  Reversing, sh
e caught a glimpse of her flushed cheeks and bright eyes in the rearview mirror and pulled a face. Valerian Darcy Cutler, Rebel Without a Brain.

  She'd always been afraid of being taken over. Not just physically, though she had to accept that Con could overpower her if he wanted to. She was afraid of losing control. Even worse, of giving it away, of letting the potent combination of liking and desire compromise who she was and what she wanted. Look at her mother, frozen into the model of a perfect wife by status and affection. Or Ann, locked into an abusive marriage by her need to give her son the advantages she'd lacked.

  The old car bumped up the graveled drive through the avenue of trees. Val snuck a glance at the man beside her. She couldn't see Con MacNeill using sex as a club to force a woman's compliance. Heck, with his glacial good looks and volcanic sexuality, he probably used a stick to beat women off.

  Suppose she took him up on his offer. He wasn't going to be around long enough to try to change her. Would sex complicate their working relationship?

  You betcha it would.

  The car turned onto the main road. Air flowed through the open windows, flattening her shirt to her body and rushing in her ears. A husky female voice, balanced between pain and melody, streamed from the car's tinny speakers promising an unseen lover that tonight would be enough.

  In the passenger seat beside her, Con grimaced and stretched. His feet pressed the floorboard. His shoulders flexed. Her own muscles squeezed in sympathy, as if they inhabited the same body. Shared the same bed.

  She cleared her throat. "Crowded?"

  He shook his head once, not denying it, just dismissing his discomfort as of no importance. His new position planted his shoulders against the door, so that he angled toward her. His left knee brushed her thigh. Her hands grew clammy on the steering wheel.

  "I'm not a big country fan. Mind if I change the station?" he asked.

  She shrugged. "Be my guest."

  He paused with one hand on the radio dial. "I won't if you don't want me to. MacNeill Road

  Rules."

  She couldn't have heard him correctly. "What?"

  His blue eyes gleamed. "Driver chooses the music. MacNeill Road

  Rules. You sure you don't mind?"

  She smiled, stupidly reassured. "Not as long as you ask. Go ahead."

  He fiddled with the dial. Bruce Springsteen leapt from the dashboard with gritty vocals and a crash of his guitar.

  "Yankee music," she drawled.

  He laughed.

  She did fifty-five returning on Highway 40, but it felt like speeding with her hair streaming in the wind and the music blaring from the radio. For the first time since her return home, it felt like she was going somewhere new, someplace exciting.

  They hit the first stoplight on the three-block stretch that was Cutler's downtown. Val slowed past the bank and the old hardware. An elderly man escorted his wife from Arlene's Café. A trio of bored teens hung on the bicycle rack in front of the new video store.

  Con nodded toward them as they passed. "Takes you back, doesn't it?"

  She smiled in quick understanding. "Nothing to do, no place to go?"

  "I couldn't wait to grow up and get out," he confessed. "Or at least get my driver's license, so I wasn't always begging the back seat in Patrick's car."

  She looked down her nose at him sideways, difficult to do without driving up on the curb, but his comment seemed to call for it. "You spend a lot of time in back seats, MacNeill?"

  "As much as I could get away with," he admitted coolly. "What about you? You ever take a walk on the wild side back in high school?"

  Her smile flattened as she remembered. "There was no wild side in Cutler."

  He looked amused. "Dixie, there's always a wild side. Sometimes the nice girls just need a tour guide to find it."

  I won't be in town forever.

  On impulse, she turned the wheel and coasted to the curb in front of Wild Thymes.

  In the passenger seat, Con sat solid and still as the bronze statue of the Confederate soldier on the courthouse lawn. "My motel's at the other end of town."

  She turned the key in the ignition. The street was quiet. The silence pounded in her ears.

  "I know."

  He gave her a level look. "Your restaurant's closed on Sundays."

  "Yes. I live upstairs." Thump. Her heart jumped and lodged in her throat. She cleared it. "Would you like to come up?"

  His voice roughened, silk pulled over stone. "Dixie, do you know what you're doing?"

  She shook her wind-tossed hair away from her face, impelled by bravado and curiosity and instinct. "Well, now, I'm not sure. Maybe if I get it wrong, you could show me?"

  Those cool blue eyes kindled at her teasing. She felt a rush of heat to her midsection. "I'll do my best," he promised.

  She gave him an uncertain smile and swung out of the car, leaving the doors unlocked.

  A small-town gesture, Con thought. A small-town girl, for all her easy warmth and open ways. He sat where he was for a second, feeling lucky. Feeling stunned. What had he said or done to change her mind?

  He rolled up his window, and hers. Slowly, he got out of the car. Why question his good fortune? Sean would hoot with laughter at Con's hesitation in going upstairs with a woman he both liked and desired. What was his problem? His mind engaged, clicking along familiar tracks like a train pulling out of the station.

  He did like Val Cutler, he realized, Gypsy hair and mismatched earrings and all.

  Maybe he liked her too much?

  He respected her loyalty to her friend and her painful attachment to her family. He was impressed by her determination, drawn to her openhearted hopes. That friendly free spirit she presented to the world was deceptive, like the warm shallows of a sandy beach that invited you to play. Beyond and below the sparkling surface, she was deep and private as the sea. The thought of exploring those quiet depths was enough to tempt a man to drowning.

  "I thought you didn't want complicated," he said.

  She lifted her chin, regarding him over the hood of the car. The swaying silver hoops glittered in the sunlight. "It seems pretty simple to me."

  His own words on her pretty lips… He was no saint. He was a man. And he wanted her.

  "Fine. I'd like to see where you live. You can offer me a cup of coffee or something."

  Her wide gray eyes were serious, but a smile flirted with the corners of her mouth. "I don't drink coffee."

  He ached with wanting her. And, as he'd warned her—God, was it only three days ago?—he was used to going after what he wanted. "Then I guess it'll have to be the something."

  He followed her under the restaurant's awning and waited while she fumbled with her keys. Under the turquoise tank top, her breasts rose and fell. Her hair, waving close to his chin, smelled of cinnamon and sunlight. He discovered his hands curled into fists and consciously relaxed them.

  She led him through the dark green door to another door set in a corner of the tiny white-tiled entry. Unlocked, Con noted with the portion of his brain not fixed on her. They were going to have to have another talk about security soon.

  Dingy linoleum covered the steps. Their footsteps tapped against the metal strips tacked to each edge. Their breathing echoed up the narrow staircase. Ahead of him, Val moved with familiarity and unconscious grace. He felt too big, too loud, following her.

  And then he heard a barely perceptible sound ahead of them, around the corner. An indrawn breath. A scrape.

  Dammit. Living alone, she should lock her doors. All her doors.

  He put his hand on her arm. "Wait."

  She half-turned on the step. "What?"

  A voice quavered from the top of the stairs. "Val? Is that you?"

  A woman's voice. Con barely began to relax when Mitchell appeared around the corner, his thin face twisted with concern and red with crying.

  "Aunt Val? It's Mom. She's hurt bad."

  Val moved. Fast. "Oh, my God. Oh, Annie. Oh, honey." Ann huddled on Val'
s doorstep, her arms cradled across her stomach, a broken figurine in an ironed T-shirt and denim jumper. She pressed a tea towel to her face, the sunflower pattern almost obscured by blood.

  A mugging? In Cutler?

  Val dropped to her knees beside her friend, one arm already reaching protectively over her shoulders. "Annie? Are you all right?"

  Con noticed she didn't ask what had happened. Comprehension sliced through him, and cold fury coiled in his gut. Had Ann's husband done this? Had that slick Southern son of a bitch used his fists on this thin, quiet woman?

  "I'm sorry," she said thickly. "I didn't know where else to go."

  Val touched her, feather-light touches on her back, her hair, her arm, like a mother reassuring herself her child was all right. Like a wise-woman, bestowing healing with her hands. "No, this was right. This was good. What can I do?"

  "I'm calling the police," Con said.

  "No! No," both women said.

  "Give her a minute," Val added.

  "Was it Cross?" Con demanded.

  "It was an accident," Ann said.

  He swore.

  Val raised her head from Ann's shoulder. A smear of blood disfigured her pale cheek. "Please."

  Despite her firm tone, her eyes appealed for his patience. Con balanced on the balls of his feet while everything inside him screamed for action.

  "I'm sorry," Ann said again, tears welling.

  The two women were looking at him as if he were the one they had to be afraid of. Hell.

  "Don't be," he snapped. "You haven't done anything to apologize for."

  "He's right," Val soothed. "It's all right. Can we get you inside?"

  Silent in a corner of the hall, Mitchell watched the three adults with guarded eyes.

  "Would you help me get her inside?" Val asked Con directly.

  A muscle worked in his jaw. Val held her breath. Would he listen to her?

  Stiff-necked, he nodded.

  Ann's face contorted as she dragged her legs under her. "I don't think I can…"

  "I've got you," Con said. His expression could have been carved in granite, but his deep voice was gentle. His big hand cupped Ann's elbow. His muscled arm supported her. "Easy, now. Easy. There we go."

  His tenderness made tears burn at the back of Val's eyes. She unlocked the door to her apartment and then stood back as Con escorted Ann inside and helped her to a chair.