It had to be because he wouldn’t allow it to be anything else.
That being said, he was playing with fire in more ways than one. Yes, Rory might be the best physiotherapist around and eminently qualified to treat him, but she was also his famous ex’s sister. If the press found out about this new connection, they would salivate over the story. If they then found out he and Rory were attracted to each other they’d think they’d died and gone to press heaven.
There were many reasons to downplay his injury, but the thought of putting Rory through the same hell Shay experienced at the hands of those rabid wolves made him feel sick. Not happening, he decided.
Not again.
Thank God she’d refused his asinine suggestion to move in with him. Wasn’t that a perfect example of how his brain shut down whenever she was around? If she moved in he’d give them, mmm, maybe five minutes before they were naked and panting.
He had no choice but to keep his attraction to her under control, keep his distance—emotionally and physically. He had to protect himself and protect her, and the only way to do both was to put her in the neutral zone—that mental zone he’d created for people, events, stuff that didn’t, or shouldn’t, impact him.
So he’d put her there, but he wasn’t convinced, in any way, shape or form, that she’d actually remain there.
* * *
Rory stood on the pavement outside Mac’s Kitsilano home, the key Mac had given her earlier in her hand. The house wasn’t what she’d expected. She’d thought he’d have a blocky, masculine home with lots of concrete and steel. She hadn’t expected the three-story with its A-pitched roof, painted the color of cool mist with dark gray accents. It looked more like a home and less like the den of sin she’d expected.
Rory walked up the steps to the front door, slid the key into the lock and entered the house, stopping to shove the key back into the front pocket of her jeans. There was good art on the wall, she noticed as she moved farther into the living area, and the leather furniture was oversize and of high quality. A massive flat-screen TV dominated one wall, and apart from a couple of photographs of the three Maverick-teers, there wasn’t anything personal in the room. Mac had no hockey memorabilia on display, nothing to suggest he was the hottest property on ice. She’d expected his walls to be covered with framed jerseys and big self-portraits. Instead his taste ran to original art and black-and-white photographs.
“Rory?” Mac’s voice drifted down the stairs. “Come on up. Top floor.”
She walked back into the hallway and up the stairs. She reached the second floor, looked down the passage and wished she could explore. Instead she jogged up the short, second flight that ended at the entrance to an expansive bedroom. The high pitch of the roof formed the paneled ceiling. The room was dominated by a massive king-size messy but empty bed. Rory looked around and saw Mac sprawled on a long sofa on the far side of the room. His head rested against the arm and his eyes were closed. Pain had etched deep grooves next to his mouth. His normally tanned skin was pale and he was taking long, slow, measured breaths.
His eyes didn’t open but his mouth did. “Hey, were there any press people outside when you let yourself in?”
“No, why?”
“Just asking.”
Rory dropped her gaze and her eyebrows lifted at his unbuttoned white shirt, his unzipped gray suit pants and his bare feet. An aqua tie lay on the seat next to him, on top of what was obviously a matching suit jacket. Black shoes and socks sat on the wood coffee table in front of him.
Oh, hell, no! “Going somewhere?”
“Planning on it.”
“The only place you are going is back to bed.” Rory folded her arms against her chest. “You need a full-time nurse, McCaskill.”
If she moved in then she could stop him from making stupid decisions. But would she be able to stop herself from making stupid decisions, like sleeping with him?
“I don’t need a nurse, I need a morphine drip,” Mac responded, finally opening his eyes and squinting at her.
“Would you care to explain why you are all dressed up when you should be in bed, resting that injury?” Rory demanded, annoyed. This was what she’d been worried about. Mac thought that he was a superhero, that the usual consequences of surgery and injury didn’t apply to him.
Despite the fact that he was a very intelligent man, the wheel was turning but the hamster seemed to be dead.
“Don’t give me grief, Rory,” Mac said, sounding exhausted. “Trust me, there is no place I’d rather be than in bed but something came up.”
“A wine auction? A ball? A poker game?” Rory asked, her eyebrows lifting. Mac was very active on the Vancouver social scene and he was, with the women who spun in and out of his life, invited to all the social events.
Mac, despite his pain, managed to send her an annoyed glance. “Myra Hasselback, current owner of the Mavericks, is holding an end-of-season cocktail party for the sponsors, management and staff. I can’t miss it. As Captain, I am expected to be there.”
“But...” Rory looked from him to his arm and back again. “Does she know that you are hurt?”
Mac’s smile was grim. “Oh, she knows, but she doesn’t know how bad it is. Kade told her it’s a slight sprain, nothing for her to worry about. She told Kade to tell me she was looking forward to seeing me tonight. Besides, she knows I would move heaven and earth to be at the cocktail party. It’s a tradition that was important to Vernon.” Mac sat up slowly. “She’d suspect something if I wasn’t there.”
“Judging by your pale face and pain-filled eyes she’s going to suspect something anyway.” Rory sighed her frustration. “What do the other two Maverick-teers have to say on the subject?”
“They wanted me to fake a stomach bug or an allergic reaction to medication.”
“Not a bad idea. Why not go with that?”
Mac looked uncomfortable. “I suppose I could but I don’t want to give her an excuse to arrive on my doorstep after the party is over to check on me.”
“She’s done that before?” Rory asked.
Mac looked uncomfortable, and not from the pain. “Yeah, once or twice.”
Rory turned his words over, recalling the thirty-year difference between Myra and her dead husband. Ah, the widow wanted naked comforting.
Rory wanted to ask if he’d slept with Myra but she mentally slapped her hand across her mouth. She had no right to ask that but... But nothing. She had no right to know.
“Anyway, about the party, I need to be there. The speculation will be endless if I don’t attend. It would raise a lot of questions, questions I do not want to answer.” Mac looked stubborn. “No, it’s better for me to act like everything is normal as far as I possibly can. So, will you please help me finish getting dressed?”
“I’m not happy about this, Mac.”
“I know. I’m not either.”
But he’d go, Rory realized. He needed rest and time for that injury to heal but he would do what he always did. If this was his intended pace, they were in for some serious problems.
Rory walked across his bedroom to stand in front of the huge windows and watched a container ship navigate the sound. But her thoughts weren’t on the gorgeous view, they were on that stubborn man who didn’t know the meaning of the words slow down, take it easy. To heal, Mac needed rest and lots of it. It was that simple, that imperative.
That difficult.
Dammit, she was going to have to move in here. His arm, his career, the Mavericks were at risk and she was balking because he had the ability to melt the elastic on her panties.