She put a hand on his shoulder. “How long have I been living on my own, supporting myself?”
“Since you were eighteen.” He pointed at her. “But that was not my choice.”
“Exactly. I’m a grown woman who makes her own choices, and as I’ve told you before—respectfully—I don’t have to answer to you or to anyone.”
Owen wilted slightly, but it wasn’t the first time he’d heard her speak this way. After her mother had died, and after Owen had emotionally checked out, Olivia had made decisions for herself. Some of them had been downright stupid, even reckless, but the majority, she’d been proud of—like her business.
Her father’s gaze grew soft as he looked at her. “What happened to my little girl?”
“I left her back in high school.” Olivia leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “I have a busy day, as I’m sure you do, too.” She got into the backseat of the cab and gave him a little wave before her driver backed out and pulled away.
Mac stood in the living room, watching Olivia’s cab take off down the street. The glass on every window in the house was pretty thin, and he’d heard their entire conversation. Looked like he had gotten it wrong; Olivia may not be that sweet, naive girl he assumed her to be. But where her father didn’t want to deal with it, Mac burned to know every detail of the past she seemed to be hiding—especially after last night.
Grinning, he left the living room and went into his study. Embers burned in the fireplace, and as he sat in one of the leather armchairs, his body twitched with the memory of Olivia in his arms, on top of him, underneath him. The way she’d responded to his touch, the silent, hungry demands. She’d felt pleasure before, but she’d been denied it for way too long. There was no need to push her, he realized. The demands of her body had started to take over her good sense and Mac was going to be there, totally available when it happened again.
After all, her father thought him to be a womanizing bastard, and Mac was ready to prove him right.
All in all a very successful day, Olivia mused, walking from one beautifully furnished room to the next. She’d quite outdone herself, and in record time, too. Each room complemented the next in leather and iron, glass and walnut.
She stopped in the living room and marveled at the classic, comfortable feel of the space. Not to mention the warm air puffing from the vents in the baseboards. She’d finally found a guy to come out in the snow and turn on the heat. A vast improvement in and of itself.
Though she’d purchased all the linens for the upstairs, the bedroom furniture wouldn’t be arriving until early tomorrow morning. But they were close—well on their way to creating a very modern, very homey, very Mac-like environment.
“Ms. Winston?”
Olivia returned to the living room where Dennis Thompson, a local art gallery owner who looked rather like a short version of Ichabod Crane, was hanging several paintings she’d purchased for Mac’s house.
“What do you think?” he asked, holding up two Josef Albers pieces, both in several shades of yellow. “On top of one another?”
She sat on the new distressed, brown leather couch to get a better view. “Hmm…I don’t know. How about—”
“Side by side?” came Mac’s voice behind her.
Dennis Thompson looked behind Olivia and beamed at Mac. “Perfect. I’ll just go get my tools from the car.”
Olivia turned, surprised. “You’re home early, Mr. Valentine. Are you here to supervise?”
He was dressed in a tailored black suit and crisp white shirt, his tie loosened from his neck. “I came home for a late lunch or an early dinner.”
“Oh, really?” she said with a grin. “I haven’t stocked the fridge yet and you ate the only frozen pizza, so what were you planning on having? The cocktail onions or that last, lonely bottle of Corona?”
He walked around the couch and sat beside her. “You’re a pretty good chef, aren’t you?”
“I like to think so.” He smelled so good. She tried not to breathe through her nose.
“Well, then, can’t you make something amazing out of onions and beer?”
“No,” said Olivia succinctly, lifting an eyebrow. “Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“When do you normally leave the office to come home?”
His lips twitched. “Oh, I don’t know…”
“Approximately.”
“Seven, eight…nine, ten.”
She looked at her watch. “It’s four-thirty—why are you here?” Her heart began to pound in her chest as she wondered for a moment if he was there to see her. After what happened that morning with her father, she wouldn’t blame him. She just hoped he wouldn’t spread the story around town. “Are you going to fire me?”
“No.” He laughed. “That’s over and done with.” His voice turned serious. “As long as it doesn’t happen again. I can’t have your father showing up when the DeBolds arrive.”
“It will not happen again,” she assured him. “You have my word.”
Satisfied with that answer, Mac leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not exactly sure why I’m here. But I think the reason might be embarrassing.”
“For you or me?”
“Me. Definitely me.”
“Oh, well, then share, please.”
He glanced around the room. “It’s really warm in here.”
“I know. I had the tech come this morning and it took him hours just to—”
“No, I mean what you’ve created here from the furniture to the artwork to all those little things on the tables and in the bathroom and on the mantels. It’s all warm. I never thought I’d be comfortable with warm.…” He looked at her, surprise in his gaze. “As you start to make my house into a livable, family-friendly place I sort of want to be here to see it…and you.”
Her muscles tensed at his words and she could almost feel the pressure of his lips on her mouth once again. Her reaction to him, her attraction to him, wasn’t going away, she knew that. But she hoped that maybe the two of them could forget what happened last night and go on about their business.
When she found his gaze once again, Mac had that look in his eye, that roguish one that made her knees weak and her resolve disappear.
“Listen,” she began, “about last night…”
“Yes?”
“I was half-asleep.”
“Before or after you kissed me?” he asked huskily.
Right. Her brow creased with unease. “As clichéd as this is about to sound, it’ll never happen again.”
He grinned. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“We made sparks.”
His words and the casual way he offered them made her laugh. “I won’t argue with that. You’re one helluva kisser, Valentine, but…” And on that note, she sobered. “You’re also using me.” She put a hand up as she saw him open his mouth to speak. “I know you think I’m using you, too, but I’m not. And last night, I didn’t.”
His grin evaporated. “Then why…”
She stared at him, wondered what he would say if she told him she was starting to like him—that even with