grave in a drunken brawl when Ty had been a year old. His mother had run a tavern with rooms above it she’d used as an inn when they’d needed the money. Which had been all the time. Ty had been nothing more than a mistake she didn’t like to be reminded of.
That had often worked in his favor, as he’d had the freedom to do as he pleased. And since his mother rarely remembered to feed him, much less clothe him, and only begrudgingly gave him a mat to sleep on, the freedom pleased him plenty. He “borrowed” clothes, stole food and ran with a crowd that made the L.A. gang-bangers look friendly.
When he’d turned ten he’d witnessed his first murder. Over a pair of boots. When he’d turned eleven, his mother had sold the inn and moved on.
Without him.
By the time he’d turned sixteen, he’d been beyond redemption. Or so he’d thought. That’s when he’d made the mistake of trying to pick the pocket of a vacationing Australian. The man, Seely McGraw, had been a cop, of all things, and instead of dragging Ty off to jail, he’d dragged him home with him. To Australia. Ireland had been happy to see him go.
In Australia, Seely had seen him through the rest of his school years. Civilized. Humanized. And yet the vagabond within him had survived.
When Seely had died, Ty had given in to his wanderlust, going wherever he wanted, when he wanted. Europe, Asia, Africa. Even South America. Then he’d come here, to the States, and had landed in California.
For the first time in his life, he’d fallen in love with a place. Created a home for himself.
He wondered how long that would last before the wanderlust yearning overcame him again. Given his past, he didn’t figure it would be long. But for now he enjoyed himself, occasionally marveling over how far he’d come.
Life was good right here, right now. He had a job he loved, and money with which to do as he pleased when he pleased.
But now someone wanted him to think about his past, where he’d been a son-of-a-bitch Irish runaway.
Rare temper stirring, he hit Reply and typed:
Who wants to know?
No, that would only encourage this, when he wanted nothing more than to forget all about it. But before he could delete it, he heard a knock at the front door, which he’d left open for the pizza he’d ordered. He needed that pizza. “Back here!”
Hopefully they hadn’t forgotten the beer this time, he seemed to be in a mood for it. Standing up, he stared down at the computer one more time, stared at his response, finger still poised to delete…
“Ty?”
Not pizza, but Nicole. Her wide gray eyes stared into his, and in a flash, pure lust sped through his blood.
And between his thighs.
Whether it was the monster headache he had, or the unwanted hunger for this woman, it was a weakness, and he hated weaknesses. He wanted the taste of her mouth, the feel of her body beneath his hands, and given her expression, every bit of his wanting showed on his face.
Her mouth opened, then carefully closed. On instinct, he looked down at himself and realized he hadn’t put on a shirt after his shower or fastened his jeans.
Doing that now brought her gaze from the tattoo on his arm right down to an area of his body that seemed to have this hyper-awareness of her. “I thought you were the pizza,” he said, the metal-on-metal glide of his zipper seeming extraordinarily loud, echoing between them.
“Uh…” Nicole jerked her head up and stared into his eyes with a blank expression, as if she couldn’t remember what she was doing there.
Christ, that was arousing.
And confusing as hell, because this woman, and this woman alone, seemed to be able to mess with his head.
She thrust out a set of plans. “From Taylor.” She slapped a file against his chest as well. “You’ve got the job, Mr. Architect.” And she turned away.
“Nicole.”
She was careful not to turn back to look at him. “Yes?”
What had he been going to say? Something. Anything. “I…got the job?”
“I just said so, didn’t I?”
Ah, his sweet, sweet Nicole. “Well, then. We need to celebrate.”
She pivoted back to face him. “Celebrate?”
“Mmm-hmm.” Oh yes, he was enjoying that spark of temper and heat in her eyes immensely, as it happened to match his.
“You know that Irish accent you pretend not to have?” She put a hand on her hip. “It was there when you first called out, before you knew it was me. And you know what else? You didn’t look in the mood to celebrate. You looked mad.” She peered around him at the computer. “At that?”
“Nope.” Setting down the plans and file, he reached down to sleep his screen, but hit Enter by mistake, sending the reply to the mystery e-mailer.
Furious at himself, he stared at the screen and uttered one concise oath.
“What?”
“Nothing.” And it would be nothing, he’d see to it. Turning away from the computer, he forced a deep breath before leaning back against the wall to properly soak up the sight of Nicole. She wore hip-hugging black jeans and a plain black tank top that didn’t quite meet the jeans. The peek-a-boo hints of bare, smooth skin decorated by a diamond twinkling from her belly button made his mouth water. She hadn’t done much to her hair other than plow her fingers through it, and the only makeup she wore was a glittery lipgloss. She was attitude personified, and yet he suddenly, viciously, wanted to devour her.
“Well, I’m not.”
Indeed. She seemed tempered and unguarded, and very undoctor-like. Something he’d have realized from the very first if lust hadn’t slapped him in the face. He could see the strain in her eyes now, the unhappiness in the set of her mouth. “What’s the matter with you?”
Lifting a shoulder, she looked away.
“Nicole?” Shocking how much he wanted to pull her close and cuddle. He, a man who’d never cuddled, or been cuddled, a day in his life. “Bad day at work?”
Another negligent shrug.
She was going to make him drag it out of her. Fine. He suddenly wanted to know badly enough to do so. “Did you…lose a patient?”
A sigh much too weighted for such a little thing escaped her. “Not today. Thankfully.”
“Someone threaten to sue you?”
Her mouth curved. “Not today. Thankfully.”
Hmm. A sense of humor under all that armor. He liked that. “Did you get an e-mail giving you a very unwelcome blast from your past?”
She studied him for a long moment, while he kicked himself for letting her slip past his guard enough that his mouth had run away with his good sense.
“Is that what happened to you?” she finally asked.
“We were talking about you.”
“I don’t want to talk about me.” To prove it, she crossed her arms.
“Ah. You’re a hoarder.”
“A
“You hoard your emotions. I appreciate that in a woman, as I do the same.”
“That’s not exactly something to be proud of.”
“No kidding. If I had a dime for every time a woman tried to get me to open up and cry all over her…” His mouth curved. “Well, let’s just say I’d be one wealthy man. So…” He cocked his head. “We’re both in a mood, full of temper and restless energy. Might as well pool our resources, darlin’.”
Her brows came together. The earrings up her ear glittered as she cocked her head. “Let me guess. We could
