“Nate and his wife didn’t seem to mind the ghosts.”
“Sarah wouldn’t. It’d take a lot for Nate to believe he was in the presence of any ghost, never mind the ghosts of Abraham Lincoln and Robert E. Lee.” Mackenzie crossed her arms over her chest, her shirt rising just enough to reveal the bandages on her left side. “Would you like to come in for a minute?”
Rook took a step toward her. “I won’t stay long.”
He followed her into the cool kitchen. The small table was crowded with dishes and odds and ends, as if she’d just unpacked one of the boxes stacked along the wall. He wondered if she had plans for the evening, or if she would stay here, alone with her ghosts.
“Mac, about this afternoon at Harris’s house -”
“Not much to say, is there?”
“We want to find him.”
“Understood. If I knew where he was, I’d tell you. If I even had a clue, I’d tell you. I take it New Hampshire didn’t pan out, and you didn’t find him there.” She yanked out a chair at the table and plopped down. “He’s not wanted, officially. Is he providing you with information? He’s such a bottom-feeder. I can just imagine what all he knows.”
“We have no reason to believe he had anything to do with the attack on you.”
“Glad to hear it.” She didn’t seem to make any effort to hide her sarcasm, but bitterness wasn’t in her nature. She sighed. “Damn it, Rook. What’s going on?”
He noticed a six-inch length of spent packing tape on the floor and scooped it up, dropping it into an empty box set against the wall, next to the full ones. “Last night at Judge Peacham’s…Mac – you were holding back on her. She knew it. She just didn’t want to pressure you in front of me.”
“You FBI mind readers.”
“If it’s something I need to know, I want it. Now would be a good time.”
Mackenzie jumped to her feet, but gave a small moan and reached for her side. “Okay, so I can’t do sudden moves to throttle FBI agents just yet. Give me a couple more days.”
“Mac -”
“Whatever I told or didn’t tell Beanie last night is personal.”
“Are you sure?”
It was a simple, pointed question that made her snap her mouth shut. “ Cal stopped here and asked me about Harris before I left for New Hampshire. Have those two cooked up something that’s got the attention of the FBI?”
“Mac,” Rook said, then sighed. “I shouldn’t have come.”
An awkward silence descended between them.
She started for the door, presumably to see him out, but Rook touched her arm, felt the same spark of attraction he’d experienced when they’d first met, and acted on it. He curved his fingers under her chin and traced her lower lip with his thumb. “Mac.” He sighed once more, shaking his head. “Damn. I wasn’t going to kiss you again.”
She didn’t resist or tell him no or shove him out the door when his mouth found hers. Instead, she kissed him back. He could feel her eagerness – the spark of desire in her. If not for her bandaged side, he’d have slipped his arms around her and drawn her closer to him, let her feel his reaction to her, her touch, the taste of her.
“You’re complicating my life, Rook,” she said, then kissed him again.
He felt a shudder of arousal. “You’re not exactly simplifying mine.”
As she stood back from him, her very blue eyes met his. “I don’t like setting myself up to be hurt.”
He smiled. “That didn’t hurt, did it?”
She opened the door for him. Outside, the rain was steady now, falling softly, without wind, thunder, lightning. There was no front moving through to push out the heat and humidity. The light from the porch hit her face, bringing out the dark smudges under her eyes. It had only been five days since Mackenzie Stewart had found herself in a fight for her life – not enough time, Rook thought, for anyone to expect her to be back to normal, especially with her attacker still out there.
He walked past her and stepped onto the porch.
She remained in the doorway. “I’ve known Beanie Peacham all my life. I don’t trust many people, but I trust her.”
“What would you do for her?” Rook asked.
“She’s never asked anything from me.”
“Maybe she knows she doesn’t have to ask.”
He expected a hot reaction, but Mackenzie didn’t rise to his bait. “You mean because I anticipate her wishes? That’s not the case. It just isn’t. I’m not being defensive, and I’m not in denial.”
“Fair enough.”
“You don’t like her.”
Rook smelled earth and some kind of flowers on the rain, and he thought of ghosts, wondered if they ever ventured out across the plush grounds, among the tall, old trees. Man. What’s wrong with you?
He shook off thoughts of ghosts and focused on the woman in the doorway. He hated to abandon her – but what the hell else could he do? When Harris Mayer had pointed her out at the hotel last week, Rook had expected backing off from her wouldn’t be difficult. But he was wrong, and in the days since he’d left her the voice mail canceling dinner, he’d only found himself more attracted to her.
And yet he knew better than to underestimate this woman – to take her bandaged side and her response to him as vulnerability.
“I think Judge Peacham looks at you and sees the eleven-year-old, traumatized and guilt-ridden about her father’s accident,” he said. “And maybe the academic she’d hoped you’d become.”
“I did become,” Mackenzie said.
“Did she approve of your career change?”
“No one did. Beanie’s not alone in that one.”
“Why…”
“Why did I become a marshal?” Mackenzie grinned so suddenly, so unexpectedly that Rook felt gut-punched. “Because I didn’t want to write my dissertation.”
“Did your students always laugh at your jokes?”
“Always. You law enforcement types – not so much.” But her eyes turned serious, and she said, “I wanted to catch bad guys and help keep people safe. That’s it. That’s why I filled out my application.”
“It’s as valid a reason as any I’ve ever heard.”
“Why did you become an FBI agent?”
He shrugged. “It never occurred to me to do anything else. Mac -”
“I can’t make love with these damn stitches,” she said quietly, quickly. “So, just say good-night.”
Rook didn’t move. He could see what she was thinking. “Mac, making love to you isn’t just unfinished business that I need to take care of and then move on. I’m not that big a cad.” He stepped closer to her. “We can go a little further, even with the stitches. I won’t hurt you.”
“What?”
But she took his hand and backed into the kitchen, and he brought his palm to her breast, her eyes on him, liquid, certain, stripping away his reserve. “How could I have thought I could just walk away?”
She smiled, moving against his palm. “Don’t think about that now.”
He raised her shirt and heard her breath catch as he unclasped her bra and skimmed his fingertips across her hardening nipples, the soft skin of her breast. His senses flooded with the smell of her, the feel of her. She reached a hand into his hair, moaning softly as he teased and tantalized, then, careful of her bandaged side, lifted her bra and shirt over her head and cast them onto the floor.
“Rook,” she whispered, tightening her fist in his hair, then letting go. “Andrew…”
He gazed at her, taking in the milky skin, the curve of her breasts, the flat stomach, the flare of hips, wanting her, aching for her, his need a jolt to his system.
“Mac.”
His voice was strangled, and he gave up, slipped his hands around her, high, avoiding her injury. Her skin was cool now, creamy under his touch. Everything about her aroused him, absorbed him. He kissed her neck, moving lower, lost in the scent of her, the taste of her, as tongue and teeth explored, lingered, pushed her to soft moans of pleasure. He felt her falter slightly, but they both stayed on their feet.