“Maybe I have.”
“Bruce, drop it. Forget doing her any favors and go back to taking care of yourself. It’s what you do best.” Veronica’s laugh taunted Mac, and Mac flexed her fingers, engaging in a temporary fantasy involving wrapping them around Veronica’s blue-blood throat.
“Veronica, just give her a chance. She’s only a few years from her horticulture degree.”
“It might as well be light-years. She’s too young and not a good risk for the investment.” Veronica’s voice faded away.
Holding her breath, Mac waited until their voices blended with all the others. She rubbed a hand across her queasy stomach. The tantalizing smell of salmon and prime rib did nothing for her appetite. She was not a typical young woman, which should have been blatantly obvious to Veronica if she’d ever noticed Mac working at the facility. Obviously, she hadn’t.
Mac called for a taxi and started walking, meeting the driver a few blocks away. Once she was safely in the back seat, she tapped out a text message to Bruiser: Not feeling well. Didn’t want to ruin your night. I got a ride home. Please enjoy the evening.
Somebody should.
Chapter 7—Illegal Motion
Despite it being a very bad idea, Bruiser left the barbecue just before midnight and drove to Mac’s house. Probably a little late to be paying a visit, but good sense had deserted him for some damn reason.
Bruiser stepped out of his car and was on the front porch in six long strides. He pounded on the thick wooden door. “Come on, Mac, open the damn door.”
A few minutes later, Mac threw the door open, looking more than a little pissed and sexily rumpled, reminding him of a woman who’d spent the night with her lover. Only she hadn’t. At least he didn’t think so. He looked over her shoulder but didn’t see anyone inside. Relief swept through him.
He liked her like this—not that he didn’t like her all dressed up too. This was his Mac. The real Mac. Her face scrubbed free of makeup. Her flawless skin au naturel. Her golden hair in a haphazard ponytail. Unlike the beauty of earlier in the evening, he could handle this Mac. At least, he hoped he could.
“What the hell do you want?” She rubbed her eyes and glared at him.
He squinted into the bright porch light. “I came to see if you’re okay.” Lame, Mackey, really lame.
“Of course I’m okay. Now, good night.” She tried to push the door shut.
He stuck his foot in it. “If you’re okay, why did you leave the barbecue before dinner?”
“I wasn’t hungry.” She wouldn’t meet his gaze.
Bruiser rolled his eyes, pushed his way inside, and plopped down on the couch. He glanced around the cozy little living room and liked what he saw. Definitely a homey place, the kind a guy would look forward to coming home to after a long day at work. Neat and tidy without being overly so; the room didn’t fit his image of Mac. In fact, he saw a woman’s touch reflected in the attention to detail and the placement of the country-style accessories. But then Mac was a woman, a fact of which he’d been painfully reminded tonight.
Grabbing the remote, he switched to ESPN and made himself at home, even though he hadn’t a clue why he was doing it. He grinned, goaded by Mac’s annoyed expression. “Nice house.” He gave her a once-over, and his gaze stalled out in the vicinity of her tits. Holy fuck, she had a nice rack. Not that he hadn’t noticed earlier, but hell, she’d traded in her party clothes for a long, formfitting tank top with no bra. Her nipples stood out against the thin material, like they were happy to see him. He sure as hell was happy to see them.
Catching him gawking, Mac quickly crossed her arms over her chest, which hiked up the bottom of her shirt. A nice pair of red lace panties peeked out from her jeans. Lace? Mac? Well, he’d be damned. Bruiser tried not to smirk but failed miserably, which seemed to piss her off even more. Pissed-off women possessed a lot of passion when channeled in the right direction, and a pissed-off Mac turned him on. Way too much.
Coming here had been a bad idea. He should just leave. A black cat that looked like a refugee from a losing battle sat on the arm of the couch and sized him up, cocking his head to see him out of his one good eye. Bruiser was pretty sure the cat found him lacking. He didn’t much like cats. His mother had had cats when he was growing up. The little shits made it their job to torture him every chance they got. He leveled the cat with a leave-me-the-fuck-alone glare. The cat glared back, as if to say, My house, buddy. Not yours.
Mac stood nearby, not seeming to care that she wasn’t exactly dressed for company. She propped her hands on her hips. Bruiser licked his lips as her chest rose and fell, mesmerizing him. He loved the challenge of a pissy woman, loved to cajole them into bed and turn them into putty in his experienced hands.
“You need to go.”
He shrugged one shoulder and smiled. “How about a pizza?” The cat crawled across the back of the couch and sat near his shoulder, switching its tail and swatting him on the cheek with each stroke. He scowled at the cat. The cat scowled right back.
“You don’t much like cats, do you?”
“What’s to like about them?”
She almost smiled but not quite. Instead, she turned her belligerence up a notch, which only served to nudge his interest up a notch higher.
“How about you leave? Now.” Seeming to realize she might be showing a little too much, she tugged on her top, which of course pulled the material tight against her breasts. Bruiser drew in a sharp breath and cursed the powers that be, while at the same
