McIver's Mission (4 page)

"I wouldn't think you needed any kind of excuse
to hold a woman. Aren't they lining up for the privilege?"

Shaun grinned. "I wasn't talking about
any
woman, I was talking about you. You fit in my arms, Doherty."

She rolled her eyes.

"I noticed it before, when we danced at Colin and
Nikki's wedding."

Arden
didn't want to be reminded of the dance they'd shared. Of the way their bodies
had melded together, like two pieces of a puzzle. It had made her wonder if
they would mesh so perfectly if they were horizontal.

"Anything you want to share?" Shaun sounded
amused.

"No," she snapped, conscious of the flush in
her cheeks.

"I've never seen you blush, Doherty. It's …
endearing."

"I don't blush."

"Yeah." He stroked a finger down the curve
of her cheek, and her breath caught in her throat. "You do."

She pulled back, stood up. "Do you want more
coffee?"

His smile was lazy, satisfied. "Sure."

Arden
retreated to the kitchen, chastising her overactive hormones. All he'd done was
touch her, and her skin had burned. She took several deep breaths before
returning to the living room with the pot of coffee. She refilled his mug,
conscious of his gaze following her even though she avoided looking at him. She
wasn't sure she understood what was going on here, what the undercurrents were
about. She was probably experiencing some kind of emotional meltdown—a normal
reaction after the kind of day she'd had.

Somewhat reassured, she returned to her seat on the
sofa.

"What's in all the boxes?" Shaun asked,
gesturing to the stack against the dining room wall.

"Books."

"What kind of books?"

"Textbooks, case law."

"Why aren't they unpacked?"

"I don't have any shelves."

He looked around, visually confirming her statement.
"I could build some for you."

She frowned. "Why?"

"I like to work with my hands," he said.

The innocent comment brought to mind erotic images of
things she'd like him to do with those hands, and building shelves wasn't in
the top ten. "I'm sure you have better things to do with your time,"
she said, sounding just a little breathless.

"Not really. And it would give us a chance to get
to know each other better."

"Why?" she asked again.

"Why not? We're friends, aren't we?"

"I guess so," she agreed, not completely
convinced.

"I built the shelves in Nikki's den," he
told her. "In case you have doubts about my abilities."

No,
Arden
had no such doubts. "Fine, you can build shelves for me if you want
to."

"Great. I'll come by tomorrow to take some
measurements. Think about what kind of wood you'd like."

As if she would know the difference between maple and
mahogany. She smiled. "All right."

"You have a beautiful smile, Doherty."

Arden
tried to shift away from him, but her hip was already against the arm of the
sofa. "Thank you."

"Why does that make you uncomfortable?" he
asked.

She didn't bother to deny it. She'd always felt that
too much importance was placed on appearance, and she knew she hadn't done
anything to earn her looks. The flawless skin, the silky hair, the dark,
almond-shaped eyes were a result of genetic makeup. She looked like her mother,
and she'd never been particularly proud of that fact. Every time she looked in
the mirror she was reminded of the woman who'd given birth to her, and who had
abandoned her. "Looks are superficial," she said. "They
shouldn't matter."

He seemed to consider her statement, then nodded.
"You also have a beautiful heart."

His words caused an unfamiliar warmth to expand inside
her. Uncomfortable with the feeling, she set her mug on the coffee table.
"It's getting late, Shaun."

"You're trying to get rid of me again."

"Yes."

"That's not a promising start to a
friendship," he said.

"I would think a friend would appreciate
honesty," she countered.

He sipped from his cup. "I'm not finished with my
coffee."

"Too bad. I have a busy day tomorrow and I need
to go to bed."

"Now that brings to mind all kinds of interesting
possibilities," he said.

A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. "Go home,
McIver."

"All right," he agreed, and drained the last
of his coffee.

Arden
followed Shaun to the door. She should have been relieved that he was leaving,
but now that his departure was imminent, she wasn't so eager to see him go.
She'd enjoyed the verbal sparring, the chance to think about things other than
the hellish day she'd had, and she didn't want to be alone with the memories
and regrets that plagued her.

As if sensing the direction of her thoughts, Shaun
paused with his hand on the doorknob. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine." Or she would be, anyway. If
there was one thing she'd learned over the years, it was how to take care of
herself.

Still he hesitated. "You know you can call me if
you need anything. Anytime."

It was a nice thought, but she couldn't—wouldn't—take
him up on it. "Go home, Shaun."

He smiled, and her traitorous pulse skipped a beat
before she ordered it to behave. She wasn't going to get all giddy and
weak-kneed just because Shaun McIver smiled at her. But she couldn't help the
way her breath caught in her throat when her eyes met his, watched them darken.

Something crackled in the air between them. Something
powerful and unexpected and just a little scary, and if her brain hadn't seemed
to shut down, she might have stepped away. Instead, she stood rooted,
mesmerized.

He leaned toward her, and if Arden didn't know better
she might have thought he was going to kiss her. But she did know better, and
she knew—

Chapter
3

«
^
»

W
hatever
it was Arden thought she knew slipped from her mind as Shaun's lips touched
hers.

She watched his eyelids lower, felt her own flutter,
then close. In darkness her other senses were heightened, the impact of the
kiss magnified. The touch of his lips sent tingles down her spine; the musky,
male scent of him clouded her brain; and she lost herself in his kiss.

His lips were warm and firm as they moved over hers
with a mastery that was either pure God-given talent or the result of much
practice. A mastery that didn't so much coax as demand a response. She
responded, and demanded in turn.

The sensations that stirred inside her were as
unwelcome as they were unfamiliar. She'd been kissed by more than a few men in
her thirty-one years, but she'd never been kissed like this. The heat building
inside her was like an inferno: burning, raging, devouring. Desire wasn't a new
emotion, but the intensity of this desire baffled her even as her mouth moved
against his. Had any of her brain cells been functioning, she might have pulled
back. She might have recognized this as insanity and withdrawn from it. But
that first touch of his lips on hers had abolished all rational thought,
leaving only edgy, achy need.

When his tongue slipped between her parted lips and
stroked the ultrasensitive ridges on the roof of her mouth, she almost moaned.
He tasted of salsa and coffee and man: spicy and potent and hot.

She vaguely registered the pressure of his hand on her
back, drawing her slowly but inexorably closer to the hard length of his body.
She didn't, couldn't, resist. Her arms wound around his neck, her breasts
crushed against the solidity of his chest. His heart beat against hers, as fast
and heavy as her own.

His hands slid lower, cupped her buttocks, positioned
her more firmly against him. She could feel the evidence of his arousal, and
the answering, aching heat between her thighs. She wanted him. Oh, how she
wanted him. It was irrational, insane, but it was real. She wasn't the type of
woman to indulge in meaningless sex. She didn't have casual affairs. She'd
never been tempted.

But she was now, and she was dangerously close to
giving over to her impulses and dragging Shaun to the floor with her.

It was Shaun who drew back, easing his lips from hers
with obvious reluctance. His hands moved up to her hips, held her steady. She
might have pulled away, if she'd been sure her legs would support her.

"That was … um…" She swept her tongue along
her bottom lip nervously. "Unexpected."

"Yeah," he agreed, the husky tone of his
voice making her wonder if he'd been as affected by the kiss as she'd been.
"And probably not wise."

Although she could think of a dozen reasons why she
knew it wasn't smart to kiss him the way she just had, she wasn't sure she
appreciated his commentary on the matter. "
You
kissed
me
,"
she reminded him.

He grinned. "You kissed back pretty good."

Arden felt color flood into her cheeks. "You were
leaving," she reminded him, managing to pull out of his arms.

"Yeah, I guess I was."

But still he hesitated, and it took more willpower
than she'd known she possessed not to ask him to stay.

"Good night, Arden."

Then he was gone.

It was the sound of the door latch clicking into place
that mobilized her, and Arden moved to engage the dead bolt. Then she leaned
back against the locked door, her knees as limp as overcooked spaghetti, her
lips still tingling.

* * *

Arden
awoke Saturday morning feeling rested, and she realized that the previous night
was the first since Denise and Brian were killed that she'd slept deeply,
peacefully, without the nightmares that had recently plagued her.

She sat up in bed, frowning as hints of a dream nudged
at her subconscious.

Not a nightmare; a dream.

A dream about a man.

A kiss.

She touched her fingertips to her lips. She could
still feel him there. Taste him.

Shaun.

She covered her face with her hands.

The last thing she needed was to be fantasizing about
her cousin's husband's brother. Despite the events of the previous evening,
Shaun McIver was the last man in
Fairweather
she
would consider getting involved with.

Not that he'd offered her anything more than dinner,
she reminded herself. She wouldn't put too much stock in the fact that he'd
flirted with her. To men like Shaun, flirting was as natural as breathing, and
he'd only paid attention to her because she'd cried on his shoulder.

What had come over her? She
never
lost control
like that. Not since she was ten years old and Aunt Tess had brought her to
Fairweather
. Maybe the tears had been building up for too
long. She knew she could represent her clients better if she viewed their cases
objectively, and for the most part, she managed to project an image of detached
professionalism. But it wasn't in her nature to shut off her emotions, and
she'd never managed to distance herself from others' problems.

In the six years since she'd been out of law school,
hundreds of clients had passed through the doors of her law office. Those who
could afford to paid an outrageous hourly fee for her passion and expertise and
thus subsidized those who could only manage a reduced rate. Some paid nothing
at all. She didn't like to turn away a client; she wouldn't turn away someone
who needed her.

Denise Hemingway had needed her. Arden had first met
Denise at the women's shelter six months earlier. It wasn't the first time
Denise had gone to the shelter, but it was the first time she'd shown a
willingness to discuss leaving her husband. Still, it had taken four more
months—and several more beatings—before she'd done so. Only after her husband
knocked their four-year-old son down a flight of stairs had Denise realized it
was crucial to get out. Not just for her own sake, but for her child's.

Arden had got Denise a restraining order against Eric
Hemingway and a judgment for interim custody and child support. Denise and
Brian had both gone into counseling, Denise was actively seeking employment, and
Brian had just started school. Arden had believed that things could only get
better for them.

She'd been wrong.

She'd never forget Denise and Brian, but she knew she
had to put the tragedy behind her and move on. She had to believe that she
could still help other women, or there would be no reason for her to get out of
bed in the morning.