Out of Control (39 page)

She opened it and stared at the beautiful square-cut emerald, glowing with soft light. It was surrounded by tiny pearls and baroque gold beads. “Oh, Davy,” she breathed.

“I thought the emerald would look good with your red hair, once you grow it back out,” he said hesitantly. “Is it OK?”

“It's spectacular,” she whispered. “It's so beautiful. Oh, God.”

Time for another Kleenex. She dealt with the mop-up operation with her right hand while he slid the ring onto her left. He pulled her hand to his lips and kissed it until her own knees almost gave way.

Davy hooked his finger into the loop of white bow that held the halter top closed under her breasts. The knot gave way, and he brushed the thing off her shoulders and stared hungrily at her body. “You said you were up for indecent proposals too, right?”

The look in his eye made her breathless. “With you, I'm up for anything. But aren't you sort of fragile and delicate right now?”

He ignored her question. “Will your friend Pia walk in on us?”

Margot glanced up at the clock. “She'll probably be out for another couple of hours, but I sleep in the studio in back if you'd rather—”

“Please. Yes. Now.”

She took his hand, and led him to the studio, filled by Pia's fold-out futon bed. Mikey scampered after them, but Davy scooped him up and ruffled his floppy bangs apologetically. “Later, dude. Nothing personal.” He put Mikey gently outside the door and closed it.

He pulled her into his arms, nuzzling her as his hands slid over her bare skin. He pushed her cutoffs and panties down with reverent gentleness and his fingers slid between her legs, teasing with a skill that brought an instant rush of damp heat to her sex. A ragged sigh jerked out of him when he felt her slick moisture on his fingers.

“Do you have any, ah…” Her voice trailed off as she remembered their last problematic condom conversation.

He shook his head. “It seemed presumptuous to come here with an engagement ring in one pocket and a condom in the other. Do you?”

She shook her head. Davy's warm lips brushed over her cheek.

“This is my reasoning,” he said. “I don't want any woman but you. I want to marry you as soon as we can get it together, and I want to make kids with you. Now, later, whenever we get lucky. So…?”

“Yes,” she said quickly. “Fine. I'm right there with you.” Her hands shook as she undid the buttons on his loose shirt. “Are you sure this is a good idea? We can wait for you to—”

“Don't want to wait. I'm starving.” He shrugged his shirt off. “Besides, it's a chance for you to knock me over with your feather and ravish me. I won't be delicate for long. Go for it while the going's good.”

He stretched out on the bed and tugged Margot down to straddle him. She stared at the bandage on his shoulder, starkly white against his bruised skin. “Oh, my poor baby,” she whispered.

He placed a finger over her lips. “Not now. You can fuss over me later. I want to play out my new favorite fantasy. Laid out on the bed while a gorgeous panther woman uses my helpless body as her boy toy.”

She laughed. “My turn to crack the whip, hmm?” She attacked the buttons on his jeans. “Tell me if anything I do hurts you—”

“Just don't leave me again,” he said. “That hurts me.”

She stared down into his somber eyes, trying to swallow around the lump in her throat. “I won't,” she said quietly. “You couldn't drag me away.” She pushed his jeans down and seized his stiff, hot penis in her hands. She caressed him as she positioned herself over his body.

It felt exquisitely right. She sighed as she sank down with aching slowness, taking him inside, dragging the precious moment out.

Davy grabbed her hands and brought them to his lips. “I love you, Margot,” he said.

She collapsed forward over his chest. “I love you, too,” she told him shakily. “Am I pressing on your sore spots? If I—”

“No. It's great. Therapeutic,” he assured her. He pulled her tighter against his chest as his hips surged beneath her. “I love you. I love you.” The words burst out of him, rough and impassioned, as if they'd been under pressure. “You're so beautiful. I'll always love you.”

She was too overcome with feeling to respond in words, but he understood her kisses perfectly. From the beginning, their bodies had never lied. They twined together, fused by passion and delight that took them to a realm beyond doubts or games or even words.

They gave themselves up to trust, and endless tenderness.

Are you ready for

HOT NIGHT?

Here's a sneak peek at Shannon McKenna's
next romantic thriller,

coming in October 2006 from Brava…

Z
an didn't come in, but just stood there waiting for her permission. Seconds ticked by. She flipped the kitchen light on to break the spell.

“Come on in.” She aimed for nonchalant, but her voice came out too high-pitched. “I hope a check is OK. I didn't plan for this.”

“A check is fine.” He strolled into her kitchen, his eyes sweeping the place with discreet curiosity.

Sheba padded daintily over to the stranger's feet, sniffed his boots and began to weave a sinuous figure eight around his ankles.

Abby was startled. Sheba was the most snobbish, uppity cat she'd ever known. She never sucked up to strangers. She clawed strips out of the hands of anyone foolish or presumptuous enough to pick her up.

The locksmith picked her up.

“Careful,” Abby warned. “She's twitchy. Don't let her scratch you.”

“She won't. Cats like me.” He stroked Sheba's downy back.

“Really?” she said wistfully. Her last would-be boyfriend, too long ago to calculate, had been violently allergic to Sheba, who was a constantly shedding ball of fluff. The affair had ended after a panicked trip to the emergency room. Cortisone shots really killed the mood.

“Never met a cat who didn't like me. They know I like them, too.” He caressed Sheba's ears. She purred raucously and flung her head back over his wrist, baring her throat with sluttish kitty abandon.

The man's big hands tickled fur beneath Sheba's chin. The cat writhed in ecstasy. It was very distracting. Abby dragged her eyes away from the spectacle with some effort. “Thank you, by the way,” she said.

He shrugged. “Just doing my job.”

“No, not for the lockout. I meant for what you did with Edgar.”

He looked uncomfortable. “You don't have to thank me.”

“Well, too bad,” she said. “Thanks anyway. It's a huge deal to me.”

He gave her a brief, dismissive nod, followed by a long silence fraught with embarrassment.

“I, uh, have to pay you,” she repeated.

“Yeah,” he agreed, rubbing expertly behind Sheba's ears.

“What's your fee?” she asked. “And is a check OK?”

He looked faintly amused. “You asked me that before.”

Abby discreetly tugged her neckline higher. “Did you answer?”

“Yes.” His deep voice was as soft as silk. “I said a check is fine.”

She let out her breath slowly, in a long, controlled stream, as her yoga teacher had taught her. “So what's your fee?” she repeated.

“Does your check have your phone number on it?” He stroked Sheba's fluffy belly. Her raucous purring seemed deafening.

“I can write my driver's license number on the back, if you'd like.”

“I'd rather have your phone number.”

Abby checked to make sure her hair was covering her cleavage. “I usually don't—that is, I prefer—I mean, why?”

“So I can ask you out.” He grinned. His teeth were very white. He had a deep dimple on one side of his cheek. So lopsided and playful, it seemed out of place in that lean, dangerous face.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and her toes curled inside her spike-heeled pumps, and a rush of shivery, breathless excitement tightened her chest so much she could no longer inhale. “I—I, um, thought this was a…a business transaction,” she stammered.

“It is. I just happened to ask for your number in the middle of it.”

Yeah, right.
“Don't take this personally, but it's been a bad night.”

“I know,” he assured her. “That's why I'm not asking you out tonight. I'm just getting your number. I'll wait until a decent interval has passed before I call and ask you out.”

Abby smoothed her damp, shaking hands down over her hips and tugged her skirt down over her thighs. “What's a decent interval?”

His grin widened. “Hadn't thought about it yet. Week? A couple days? Twelve hours? What do you think would be a decent inverval?”

She pressed her lips together hard. “Let's stick to business. How much do I owe you?”

He looked thoughtful. Sheba butted his hand with her fuzzy head. He stroked her obligingly. “That depends.”

“On what?” she demanded.

“The client. If that guy had called me—what was his name?”

“Who?” She was so flustered, she could barely follow him.

“The dickwad in the red Porsche. Edward? Edmund?”

“Oh. Edgar Thornton. The Third.”

He grunted. “Third, my ass. If it had been Edgar, I would've jacked up the price as much as my conscience would allow, which is quite a bit. Then I would have made him pay before I opened the door.”

Abby was suspicious of the dimple that came and went in his cheek. He was making fun of her. “And why is that?”

He shrugged. “He could afford it. Plus, he'd been driving under the influence, which pisses me off. I take drunken driving personally.”

“I'm not drunk. How do you know I wasn't driving?”

He rolled his eyes. “As if a meathead like him would let a girl drive his eighty-thousand-dollar penis substitute.”

A smothered snort of laughter shook her. “You have a point. I tried to get him to let me drive, but the harder I tried, the faster he went.” She shuddered. “Scared me to death.”

“Hmm,” Zan commented. “Truth is, I wouldn't have come out tonight if I hadn't liked your voice on the phone so much. I had to see who owned that voice. That sexy accent. Where are you from?”

Abby tried three times before she could make any sound come out of her throat. “Atlanta. But that's, ah, inappropriate.”

“Oh, don't mind me,” he said. “I'm just stalling.”

“I see that.” She grabbed her checkbook and opened it, scribbling down the date. “So how much do I owe you?”

“But as soon as you write that check, I'll have to go away.” His fingers dug into the thick fur of Sheba's belly. Her tail lashed wildly.

Abby wrenched her gaze away from the sensual spectacle and realized she'd written the wrong date. She tore it out and started over. “Stop stalling and tell me how much I owe you, Mr…. er…”

“Duncan,” he said. “Call me Zan. Here's my card.” He dug a business card out of his pocket and laid it on her counter. “I could cut you a deal. I always cut my friends a deal.”

Sheba nuzzled him with her fluffy head. Abby's heart pounded, and her face felt damp. A reaction to the adrenaline, she told herself.

Not the idea of being his, ah…friend.

“I appreciate your kindness, but I'm obligated to you already,” she said. “Please, just tell me your fee right now. It's very late.”

His eyebrows lifted. “No phone number?”

“No phone number.” She poised the pen over the check.

He looked wistful. “OK. Make it for a hundred and twenty.”

Abby's mouth fell open. She slapped the pen down onto the counter. “That's highway robbery!”

He blinked, with exaggerated innocence. “At least I didn't ask you to pay me in advance.”

“You couldn't have! My checkbook was locked inside!”

“Never said I wasn't practical.” His eyes gleamed with sly humor as he stroked her cat. She had abandoned herself in his arms, her fluffy tail dangling over his dark sleeve like a feather boa.

“One twenty is ridiculous!” she snapped.

The lines around his eyes crinkled. “I didn't mean to piss you off,” he said meekly. “I thought you didn't want to feel obligated.”

“There are limits!”

“I'll make a deal with you, then,” he said. “Your lock is crap. I probably could have opened it with my bare hands. Let me replace it with something decent. A Schlage, maybe. Parts and labor, plus the lockout, two hundred bucks. It's a great deal.”

She tried not to laugh. “You are an opportunist.”

“One seventy-five, then. Parts and labor. I swear, you won't regret it. Call around, do a price comparison, if you want.”

She rolled her eyes. “Get real.”

“Don't be mad,” he coaxed. “One-sixty? I swear, I'm losing money.”

Sheba yawned hugely and stretched, in a state of utter bliss.

Abby scurried around the kitchen counter and flipped open her checkbook. This conversation had dragged on long enough, and it was her own damn fault for encouraging him. She wrote out a check for one hundred and twenty dollars. “Who do I make this stupid check out to?”

“Make it out to Night Owl Lock & Safe.” He leaned over the kitchen counter, blocking her light.

“Step back. Don't loom over me,” she snapped, signing the check. “Tomorrow I'm going to make some calls to see what the going rate is for a nighttime lockout.”

“Be my guest.”

“If I find that you've egregiously overcharged me, I'm going to call the Better Business Bureau.”

“You do that,” he said. “Then call me up and tell me what an evil, greedy, grasping bastard I am. Any hour of the day or night is fine.”

She held out the check. “Take this. And put my cat down.”

“But she loves me. Look at her. She's as limp as a noodle.”

“That is irrelevant,” she said tartly. “Thank you, and good night.”

“It's true, what I said about your lock,” he said quietly. “You need a dead bolt and a chain. And an alarm system.”

“How much would it cost to install a lock that you couldn't get through?” she demanded.

He smiled again. “It would cost you a fortune to install a lock I couldn't eventually get through,” he said. “I'm really, really good. Patient, thorough…tireless.”

She broke eye contact, and laughed, nervously. “My goodness. You certainly do have a high opinion of yourself.”

“Yes, I do.”

She blew out a sharp breath. “Don't make fun of me,” she said. “What a night. First Edgar, now you. Just take your check, please.” She pushed the check across the counter at him.

Zan did not take it. When she met his eyes, his smile was gone.

“I am nothing like Edgar,” he said. “I have nothing in common with that shit-eating insect.”

His tone chilled her. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you,” she murmured. “This is getting awkward.”

“I don't want your apologies,” he said.

She was at a loss for a moment. “Look, ah, thanks again for—”

“I don't want your thanks. Most of all, I don't want your check.”

“So what do you want, then?” The words burst out, unconsidered.

The eloquent silence following her words made her feel like a total idiot. “Oh, wow,” she whispered. “Duh. I set myself nicely up for that one, didn't I? Handed it right to you on a silver platter.”

“A kiss,” he said softly.

She blinked. “A…what?”

“That's what I want.”

She put her hands over her hot cheeks. “Whoa. Back up a step.”

“You don't have to kiss me,” he said. “You don't have to do anything. You asked me what I wanted, and I'm telling you.”

She was completely disconcerted. “I can't.”

“I know. That's OK. I'll live,” he said. “You're just so pretty. You smell wonderful, and your voice is so pretty, it makes shivers go down my spine. I'm talking about just a tiny, respectful, worshipping kiss. Like kissing the feet of a goddess. A sip of paradise. That's what I want.”

Oh, he was good. Scarily good. She was entranced by those magic golden eyes, that silk and velvet voice. Helplessly imagining how it would feel to be kissed like that; as if she were precious, unique. Loved.

She backed away, appalled at how tempted she was. “I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I…I just can't risk that.”

He nodded. “Of course you can't. I shouldn't even have said it to you, after what you went through tonight. Sorry. Don't sweat it.”

Damn. If he'd been churlish, that would have broken his spell, and she could have showed him the door. Buh-bye.

As it was, his sweetness threw her into terrible confusion.

He placed Sheba on the floor, gave her a farewell stroke, and rose to his feet. He gave her a gallant nod that was almost a bow, and walked out. She stared at the rectangle of night beyond the open door.

The darkness looked so terribly blank.

A surge of unreasoning panic made her stumble out onto the porch, just to make sure he was real. Not just a feverish dream.

He was real. He was halfway down the steps. “Zan!” she called.

He stopped, waited a few seconds before he turned. “Yeah?”