It was over. No matter how Mac came at this, he was pushing the limits of polite behavior. Harley might be arching that smooth body against him. She might be rubbing her sex against his hand and purring breathy little sighs, but her actions didn’t change the fact that had she been clearheaded she’d probably be pointing her gun at his head.
Dragging his fingers from between her legs, he grazed them along her smooth stomach, a safe zone amid all that skin. Then with disappointment bitter in his mouth, he motioned her to roll over so he could pull the comforter out from under her.
She complied without argument, another reminder that she wasn’t in her right mind, and burrowed her face in the pillow. Her red hair waved around her face like a vision from one of his fantasies and he covered her, feeling a sense of loss wildly out of balance with anything he’d ever known before.
“Another question, Harley, and then I’ll leave you alone.” When she nodded, he continued. “What upset you tonight?”
“What makes you think I’m upset?” Her eyes shuttered closed.
“You let me drive you home. If you hadn’t been upset, you’d have drop-kicked me and told me to take a hike.”
She gave a sleepy laugh. “I don’t like you.”
“I know. I don’t like you, either.” He paused. “Well?”
“Bad news. Now go away, Gerard.” She gave an exasperated sigh. “And you were…decent.”
He wondered if she realized just how decent he’d really been. Gazing down at her sleepy expression, he figured probably not, so he accepted her thanks and retreated from the bed. “Sweet dreams, Harley.”
But Mac didn’t go away. Walking from room to room, he searched for clues to help him understand this woman. He wondered what sort of bad news would drive her to drink.
He didn’t have a clue. Companion problems? Ill health? Financial disaster? Death in the family? Now that he thought about it, he didn’t recall ever hearing she had a family. Amazing how two people could work so closely together, butting heads at every turn… He’d have to find out a lot more about Harley’s life if he intended to slip past her defenses.
And he did. Tonight had only fueled his resolve.
Flipping on a table lamp in the living room, he took in an elaborate computer system and a low-slung leather couch. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked an arbor that appeared to back up to the wall of the property. There was expensive music equipment housed in a unit on one wall, but no television.
Given the obvious age of the architecture, Mac suspected the walls had been recently refinished to their pristine condition and the wood beam floor had been brought back and polished to a gleaming luster.
The kitchen appeared to be a work in progress, with partially bald walls half stripped of dated wallpaper. And something about the way a wallpaper scraper and trowel sat side by side in the drainboard with coffee mugs and water glasses made him suspect Harley had been doing the work herself.
Another surprise—he wouldn’t have pegged gun-toting, black-belt, chopper-riding Harley for the home-improvement type. Which went to show how much Mac needed to find out about her before he stood any chance of convincing her to let their attraction make a difference.
While checking out Harley’s desk, Mac felt the first flutter against his cheek. He swatted away the offending critter and, as it was Louisiana in September, just assumed he’d left the door open too long when he’d carried her inside.
It wasn’t until the third bug dive-bombed at him that he took a closer look. Grabbing the lamp from an end table, he noticed a spray of spider veins along the seam of one of her nicely refinished walls.
He hoped that whatever bad news she’d received today hadn’t pushed her too close to the edge, because she was facing even more if she hadn’t already figured out that she had termites.
Making his way back into her bedroom, Mac sat down and considered his best course of action while he watched her sleep.
A headstrong woman with household pests. Well, he’d wanted a challenge.
4
HARLEY’S FIRST HINT that something was wrong came with the feeling someone had unloaded an assault rifle inside her head.
Her second came when the floorboard by her bed creaked.
She zoomed to awake in a second, but didn’t open her eyes. Instead, she flexed her fingers under her pillow, touched the butt of the gun she kept there for emergencies. With a barely perceptible curl of her fingertips, she drew it into her hand. A perfect fit. She thumbed off the safety.
Her heart didn’t pound with fear. Her pulse didn’t rush on an adrenaline wave. Harley just felt…quiet. As if all distractions stopped to let her focus on the matter at hand.
She could hear the fine whoosh of breathing—a man’s, she thought—could feel the air beside her bed stir as he leaned close.
Her muscles flexed in readiness, and in one blast of motion, she aimed the gun exactly where she heard the breathing, opened her eyes to find herself staring at…
“Anthony!”
He didn’t look happy to be staring down the barrel of a gun. Arching a tawny brow, he used a scuffed finger to shift the muzzle away from his face. “Trigger-happy this morning, aren’t we, princess? Must have been a rough night.”
Her heart gave one hard throb and resumed beating. She lowered the gun, flipped the safety back on and returned it under her pillow. “What are you doing here?”
“I heard you had to be carried out of Harrah’s.”
The fuzzy memory of Mac Gerard vied for attention in her pounding head, and she rolled onto her back and groaned when her head swam sickeningly. She closed her eyes. “Who narced on me?”
“The Gooch. He said he saw you playing faro and drinking. I had to come find out for myself.”
“You came to check on the chopper.”
“No, princess. I was worried.”
“About your bike.”
“About you.” The mattress sank as he sat on the edge of the bed and she braced herself against the motion. “Look, I brought caffeine.”
“Venti?” She wasn’t offering reassurances or even sitting up for anything less.
“With five shots of leaded.”
“The chopper is fine.”
“I know. I checked the garage before I came in.”
She exhaled a sound that made Anthony laugh. So much for being the number-one concern in this man’s mind.
“Come on, princess. Sit up and drink. You’ll feel better.”
He gave her a shoulder to hang on to while she eased herself up and he stuffed pillows behind her to keep her upright. Then he handed her the cup.
Anthony was right, one sip of high-test brew slowed the rapid-fire pounding in her head. She sighed appreciatively.
“Went that bad with the exterminator yesterday?” he asked.
“The Gooch tell you that, too?”
“He didn’t need to. This is the third time I’ve seen you drink in twenty-two years. I don’t need a P.I. license to know what that means.”
“Ten-thousand dollars worth of bad.”
The amusement fade from his face. “Ouch.”
Ouch, indeed. Where the hell was she coming up with that kind of money? She’d had an idea last night and had taken her paycheck