Chapter Two Chapter TwoWinifred woke up the next morning and attempted to write. She went about the same rituals that had brought her such success the night before, such as positioning the chair at a slight angle to the fireplace, which had apparently been kick-ass feng shui. She played the same smooth jazz CD as the night before. She drank the same mint herbal tea in the same earthenwave coffee mug, which she placed in the exact same spot to the right of the laptop keyboard.
Last night, this delicate balance had allowed the words and images to fly from her brain so fast, her fingers had trouble keeping up.
But today—zilch. Nada. Not a damn thing. And she’d planned on spending the day adding oomph to the budding relationship between Max and Eva. (She’d decided the exotically beautiful Lebanese-British spy was definitely an Eva, not a Zoe.)
Win shook her wrists and took a deep breath, then positioned her fingers on the keys. What she needed was some red-hot sexual tension, a handful of racy double entendres, and a few scenes where Max and Eva were forced into confined spaces, their lives in danger and their endorphins raging.
Win sensed Lulu staring at her, and looked up to see the dog lying in a pool of sunshine, pity and disdain written all over her curly face.
“I’d like to see you write a red-hot script,” Win said to the dog. “I bet you can’t even type.”
Lulu sniffed the air and turned away, as if she’d been embarrassed by the outburst and was too ladylike to respond.
Win groaned. She jumped up from the straightback chair and began to pace. She rubbed her own shoulders and her own lower back as she let her eyes wander over the huge room. She did some stretches, some wall push-ups, some toe raises. She stood next to the towering window at the front of the house and ran in place for what seemed like seven hours but turned out to be two minutes and thirteen seconds, according to the stopwatch feature on her Rolex.
Her mind wandered to the mountain man, all the subtle sexuality that simmered in his dark eyes. The astounding ledge of his shoulders, the deep rumble of his voice. Where did that guy come from? Could she have imagined him? The idea frightened her—was her stress level so high, she was seeing things? Was she so sex-starved that she was having arousing encounters with pretend men?
Win ran to her laptop, took out the Boney James CD and put in The Black Eyed Peas, then danced around the room singing “Let’s Get It Started” At some point during the chorus, Lulu left the room, obviously needing more dignified environs.
And so it was that at about noon, Win found herself standing at the kitchen sink eating a huge Mrs. Field’s Macadamia Nut Chocolate Chip cookie and drinking skim milk directly from its half-gallon jug, wishing she had chosen to be a kindergarten teacher or a computer chip designer or an elephant trainer—anything but a screenwriter.
Win brushed the crumbs off her shirt and decided that if she wasn’t able to write, then she should do something useful, so she made her bed and rounded up a few dirty clothes—including the jeans she’d muddied running away from the make-believe mountain man—and headed to the washer. She threw them in, poured in the soap and turned the knob. Click.
“What the—?”
Win pushed and turned the damn knob a dozen times and even resorted to reading the operating instructions on the inside of the Maytag lid before she decided the appliance was broken.
When she called Artie’s office, Betsy informed her that her agent was having lunch with a client, and suggested she try the neighbor, Mr. MacBeth. No, Betsy didn’t have a telephone number for him, but the directions to his place were on the fax. Yes, she’d tell Artie to call. Yes, she’d tell him to get the car ready for the next day.
Win put on a pair of hiking shorts and, as a last-minute precaution, she grabbed a paring knife from the kitchen butcher block. She wrapped the knife inside a thick cotton tea towel and shoved it under her belt. Win supposed it was ridiculous to walk into the wilderness prepared to peel an apple, but after that encounter with the animal—and the imaginary mountain stud—she wanted to have something in the form of protection. She left Lulu in the house and headed out.
Win walked across slippery creek stones and climbed the same embankment from which the mountain man had leaped to her rescue the day before. About ten minutes up the trail, she saw a little cabin tucked in the trees. If Artie’s place was Park Avenue, then this place was Possom Holler. It was tidy, but just a simple log structure with a small front porch. And out front sat a big, shiny, black Chevy truck with Virginia plates, which Win found strange. She walked to the front door, worrying that she would be interrupting Mr. Macbeth’s visit from a friend. She knocked and heard a rustling inside.
“Who is it?” asked a male voice.
She cleared her throat and announced loudly, “Mr. MacBeth? I am so sorry to disturb you, but my name is Winifred Mackland and I’m staying at the Jacobs place and Artie said that if I should have any problems, you’d—”
The thick pine door opened, leaving just an old screen between herself and Mr. MacBeth, who, it turned out, was the mountain man, and who had, in fact, ditched the flannel shirt and now stood bare from the waist up. He opened the screen door, and that’s when Win saw that the half-naked man was sporting the most fabulous upper body she’d ever seen, decorated with an angry red welt at the left shoulder in the shape of a small scythe blade, held together with staples.
Win felt woozy. She opened her mouth to say something, but her eyes settled once again on the painful, crimson pucker of his flesh.
If she were writing this scene, Win would not have awakened the instant her face slammed to the floorboards. Instead, there would have been a dramatic moment when she recovered from her faint only to find Max Mercy—or the mountain man—hovering over her, looking concerned. But no. As it turned out, Win hit the floor, woke up, staggered to her feet and leaned over the porch railing, where she puked into the bushes.
“Expecting someone else, Miss Mackland?” He handed her a damp paper towel.
“Uh. Thanks.” She wiped her mouth. “How do you know my name?”
He shrugged. “The usual way. You just told me.”
“Right.”
“Let me get a shirt on.”
“Perhaps that would be best.”
“Care to come in and freshen up?”
Win followed him into the cabin, stunned by the buns of titanium he packed in those jeans. She’d never seen a physique like the mountain man’s, except in her mind, every time she pictured Maximillion Mercy.
The place was torn apart, boxes everywhere, furniture stacked into piles, plastic storage crates full of books and papers.
“My dad’s stuff. I’m getting ready to put the cabin on the market for him.”
“Oh.”
He directed her toward the bathroom, where Win threw cool water on her face, rinsed her mouth and checked out her hair. She gave up.
He waited for her in the hallway, leaning up against a knotty pine wall. “Mississipi?”
“Excuse me?”
“Arkansas, then? Louisiana?”
Win huffed and crossed her arms over her chest. She’d done remarkably well in masking her southern accent in the last fifteen years, to the point that hardly anyone ever noticed the underlying slow drawl of home.
She noticed that Mr. MacBeth now wore a heather green corduroy shirt. He smiled down at her, and suddenly the narrow hall seemed like one of those endorphin-charged confined spaces she should have been writing about. “Alabama. But I’m a New Yorker now.”
“Never would have guessed. So where’s Fifi today?”
She realized that he was making fun of her, and walked past him toward the main room, seething. How dare some card-carrying NRA member who’d been sliced up in a roadside tavern brawl make fun of her because she lived in the largest city in North America and was accompanied by a borrowed poodle?
“Her name is Lulu.”
“My bad.”
“I came here for a reason, Mr. MacBeth.” She turned to him, trying not to be too snarky, because she needed him to fix the washer. He clearly had no manners, because he hadn’t even asked her to have a seat. A quick look around showed her there weren’t any seats.
“You mentioned you needed help with something at the house?”
“The washer. Seems the water isn’t making it into the machine, and I hate to impose, but could you take a look?”
Mountain Man MacBeth frowned, those remarkable black eyebrows coming to a vee above those rich, deep, sexy eyes. “Is the water turned on at the main?”
“The main what?”
“The water main in the wall behind the washer.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He nodded slowly. “I can see that, Miss Mackland. Let’s go have a look.”
She watched him walk toward the door and grab a set of keys off a hook. She gasped. The idea that she’d get in a moving vehicle with a known animal killer was preposterous.
“I think I’ll walk.”
“Takes three minutes by car, Miss Mackland. Twenty by foot.”
How did he know how long it took to reach the Jacobs place? Had he been stalking her? Peering in the windows as she wrote? Observing her breasts move under her thin tank top with each breath?
“I lived here every summer of my life till I turned eighteen. I’ve probably walked the path to the Jacobses’ a thousand times.”
Now Win felt foolish. This was his home. If anyone was stalking, it was her, just showing up unannounced like this.
“Of course,” she said.
“I won’t bite.” His voice betrayed his amusement. “My name is Vincent MacBeth. People call me Mac.”
He reached in his pocket and Win took a step backward, propelled by the memory of the gun.
“It’s always tucked into the back of my pants. Never my pocket.” He slowly reached toward her, his eyes clearly gauging her level of discomfort. “This is my wallet. Look at my ID so we can zoom on over and check out the water line, all right?”
She accepted the worn brown leather with trembling fingers. Holding this stranger’s wallet seemed like such an intimate act, almost a brazen suggestion on his part. Wallets were a man’s most personal possession, and handing it to her like that implied a great deal of trust. It felt like they were skipping several “get to know you” steps and heading right to the good stuff.
Win looked up and he was smiling at her. Holy shit, he was beautiful. Those eyes were authoritative and wise, his mouth a delicious collection of thick lips and white teeth surrounded by unshaven stubble. She wondered about all the textures she might encounter if she put her lips on his. He would be smooth but rough, wet and warm, gentle yet self-possessed and—
“Aren’t you going to look at my ID?”
“Right.”
Win opened the wallet. She encountered two forms of photo identification under clear plastic. A Virginia driver’s license and a U.S. Navy active duty badge with a rank of lieutenant, both with the name Vincent J. MacBeth. In one of the wallet slots was a concealed weapon permit. This would explain so many things.
“Yes, my injury is work-related.”
She handed the wallet back to him and his fingers grazed her own. That simple contact, combined with his seeming ability to hear her unspoken thoughts, wreaked havoc with Win’s nervous system. She felt exposed. She felt vulnerable in his presence. She felt the heat of total body awareness spread through her, culminating deep in her belly, her core, the command center for her personal juice flow.
“Let’s go turn on some pipes,” Vincent J. MacBeth said.
“Amen to that,” Win said, and got into the truck.
It took Mac about ten seconds to find the water valve and turn it to the “on” position. He smiled to himself quickly before he stood up.
“Next crisis?”
“I am so embarrassed. Can I get you anything? Maybe some lunch?”
He rested his left hip against the happily purring washing machine and pondered her generosity. It was the best offer he’d had in a long time, from the prettiest woman he’d seen in ages, and he’d be a fool to turn it down. But he didn’t want to appear overeager.
“You don’t need to go out of your way.”
The lovely lady tossed her curls and laughed. “It’s no trouble at all, Vincent. Have you had lunch?”
Vincent? No one had called him that since his mom died. She was the only person he’d ever allowed to use his full name and walk away with two functioning legs. His displeasure must have shown on his face.
A little scowl appeared on the woman’s flawless brow. “You don’t like to be called Vincent?”
“Just not used to it.”
“Would you prefer that I call you Mac?”
Mac smiled, thinking to himself that he’d prefer she called him a badass muthafucka or any number of other out-of-her-head obscenities, at the top of her lungs, while she lay underneath him.
“Vincent works for me.”
He could have sworn he saw a little seductive twitch on her lips, but it could have been the light. “And you prefer Win over Winifred, I assume?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
Mac laughed. Contrary to what he’d first assumed, this woman was no brainless tart. She’d clearly been out of her comfort zone in the woods yesterday—okay, and with the scar and the washer today—but apparently she was not used to rabid coyotes, gunshot wounds or malfunctioning appliances. She seemed more at ease in the comfort of Artie’s home, and Mac figured she was some hotshot New York producer Artie was trying to soften up for the kill. A few days up here could get anyone to relax their guard, even high-strung city women like Win Mackland.
“So what’s on the menu?” he asked.
Win sent him a flirty grin and gestured for him to follow her from the laundry room into the big, open kitchen. Following her was no great sacrifice—he’d follow a round, firm booty like that to hell and back.
“I was thinking a little salad and maybe some grilled teriyaki salmon. What do you usually have for lunch?”
Mac laughed. “A can of pork and beans. If I’m feeling frisky, I heat it up.”
“Yummy.” She blinked at him with a pair of stunning blue eyes. “But not exactly my style.”
Women with her coloring—such pale, pale skin, light eyes and dark hair—had always been his weakness. He’d never been a fan of blondes—too washed out for his tastes. He liked contrast in his women, and Win Mackland packed quite a few contrasts on her small frame. Like the way her breasts jutted out in contrast to her narrow shoulders and small waist; the way her hips swelled in contrast to her slim, long legs. When God put a woman together like this one, He had only one thing planned for her—a lifetime of fending off men.
“So you’re in the entertainment business?” He’d apparently spent too many months on assignment, where the only women around were the kind who’d enjoy stabbing him in the back, because he was having a viscerally sexual reaction to this pretty city girl. Though their conversation had been nothing but polite, Mac needed to change the subject in his own head. His mother had raised him better than to behave like a pig.
“Sort of. I’m a screenwriter.” She opened the refrigerator door. It was such a no-frills movement, but the turn of her torso, the slight bend at the waist—it was like she now had a big red bull’s-eyes drawn on all her female parts. Mac began to sweat. He told himself it was the result of the discomfort in his shoulder, not the hard-on in his pants.
“So you’re one of Artie’s clients?” He didn’t know how much longer he could keep up with the chitchat, when his hands were itching to feel that remarkable hair. He’d known women before with outrageously sexy hair like Win’s, and for every one of them it had been a source of consternation. He never understood why women fought to tame something so beautiful, keep it under control. Win had pulled hers back in a big clip, twisted up along the back of her head, leaving curls cascading down the sides like little black springs. He wondered how far the curls would reach down her back once he yanked out its restraint.
“Yes, I am one of Artie’s clients. I’m the one who’s going to single handedly ruin his reputation if I don’t get my new script written.” Win unwrapped a large salmon fillet and turned on the kitchen grill. “He sent me here to live in exile for three weeks. My orders are to write, or not bother coming back.”
Mac’s head began to pound. This woman was going to be here three weeks? He was thinking he’d have to fight off his attraction to her for a weekend. This made things infinitely more difficult, and interesting.
Win got out the lettuce, an orange pepper, tomatoes and cucumbers, and Mac offered to make the salad. Win smiled at him, got him a knife and a cutting board, and put him to work.
“Can’t we just use the one in your belt?”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“Your belt. The knife you’ve got tucked in your belt.”
Win giggled in relief, clearly embarrassed, then reached for the small knife, unwrapped it and placed it in the sink. “It was for protection,” she said.
“Of course.”
“You never know when some mountain man will force you at gunpoint to julienne vegetables.”
Mac smiled at her as he worked on the salad. “You’re a funny lady, Win. Do you write comedies?”
“Not really. I’m best known for the Lethal Mercy movies.”
Mac nearly sliced off his thumb. He tossed the knife down and stared at her, and the look on his face must have been a little too intense for Win, because she took a step back.
“Sorry. It’s just—are you kidding?” He laughed. “You wrote the Max Mercy movies?”
She huffed and turned away. He hadn’t meant to offend her, but he couldn’t fucking believe that this hot little piece of ass had dreamed up the action hero that his team relentlessly teased him about. When the first movie came out four years ago, everyone on his team—from the computer geeks to the sharpshooters to the language specialists—began calling him “Mac Mercy” behind his back. Then to his face. Which took a lot of nerve, considering he was their commanding officer.
Mac couldn’t stop smiling.
“I take it you’re amused,” she said, flipping the fish and brushing it with a coat of teriyaki sauce.
“I’m fascinated. I’m astounded. I’m . . .” Mac didn’t know how to put this without scaring her away. He did not want to scare away this remarkable woman. “I know your work well. I’m a fan of yours, and I’m becoming a bigger fan by the second.”
Win slowly turned her head. In her eyes he could see amusement, doubt, and something more—something hot and blatantly sexual. She gave him a pensive smile.
“This is going to sound strange and I hope you don’t flip out when I say this, Vincent.” She leaned up against the counter and crossed her arms over what he estimated to be C-cups. “But you remind me . . . well . . . you are so much like—”
“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s have lunch.”
They sat at the table on the back deck and ate and talked and talked some more. By three in the afternoon, they were sprawled out on lounge chairs with a bottle of Artie’s 1994 Opus One Cabernet Sauvignon and two glasses for company. Win supposed she should feel guilty about raiding her agent’s top-notch wine cellar, but she rationalized it by noting that her creative juices were flowing.
In fact, her juices were flowing so much, her panties were damp.
Vincent had just told her he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an afternoon so relaxing. He said life had been hectic with work and then his dad had a stroke six weeks before. Mac Senior had already moved from the cabin to an assisted-living facility, where he could be independent and have medical care right at home.
Vincent also talked about his childhood in Brooklyn, how his mother died when he was sixteen, and how his father had a hard time controlling his wild teenage son. “I was a one-boy wrecking crew,” he said. He glanced her way with a crooked, stubble-framed grin, “I still am, but now I get paid for it.”
At that moment, Win noticed that the wine—and the man—had stunted her ability to think straight. Her fingers began to tingle, her chest was warm, and she let her head loll back against the chaise cushion.
Suddenly, she emerged from her wine-and celibacy-induced fog to see it all clearly—she’d been set up! Artie wanted her to meet Vincent! He arranged this encounter to get her out of her writing slump!
She giggled, realizing she was so relaxed, it didn’t even piss her off, and let out a big sigh.
“Did Artie tell you I was coming up here?”
Vincent frowned a little and gave it a moment’s thought. “No.”
Win took a sip of the rich, dark wine. “The script I’m working on is supposed to be Max Mercy’s love story, did I mention that? Max meets his match—a beautiful and dangerous babe in serious trouble, of course—and the two of them go around kicking a lot of ass in exotic foreign locales and having a lot of sex.”
One corner of Vincent’s mouth twitched. “Sex and violence. It’s a Max Mercy movie all right.”
“Ah, but this time it’s the real deal.” Win smiled at him. “He falls in love.”
Vincent’s right eyebrow arched high in disbelief. “Max drops the L-bomb in this movie?”
Win laughed. “Hey, the bigger they are, the harder they fall.”
“So they say.”
Win watched him take a swig from his wineglass and settle comfortably in the chair. She decided to tell him of her dilemma. “The problem is, I’ve been suffering from a little writer’s block lately, so the story isn’t really where it should be.”
Vincent pondered that for a moment. “Are you blocked with the ass-kicking or the sex-having?”
“Both.”
He turned his big body in the chair toward her, his interest in both topics plain to see. When his shoulder touched the cushion, he grimaced in pain.
“Not as much as it did two weeks ago.”
“What happened to you?”
Vincent smiled and said, “A buddy of mine in an exotic foreign locale was having some serious trouble, so I had to go kick a lot of ass.”
“I see. Did you have any sex while you were out and about?”
“None whatsoever. But I did manage to take a bullet and fall from a second-story window ledge, which can screw up your life almost as much as sex.”
Win gasped. “Oh my God!”
“It’s getting better every day.”
She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the chair, leaning closer to Vincent. Her head was spinning and she quickly glanced at the wine bottle—empty. No wonder she was dizzy. She leaned forward on her elbows.
“Do you know how funny our names sound together—Winifred and Vincent? We sound like an old British couple with bad teeth and a country house.”
Vincent chuckled. “We both have excellent teeth, the country houses aren’t ours, and I love your imagination.” He adjusted his position and hissed in pain.
Win walked over to his chair, and sat right next to him. “Can I do anything for you?” she whispered.
All right. She knew that was stupid—she had no business flirting with a powerful stranger at a remote wilderness retreat. Any woman who did something that dumb got exactly what she deserved. At least that’s what she was hoping.
“As a matter of fact, you can.” Vincent put his wine down, and studied her carefully. His face was serene, strong and sexy as hell.
“Take off all your clothes, Winifred, and sit that incredible ass of yours down in that hot tub over there and wait for me to join you.” He flashed his white teeth at her. “I’m going to get another bottle of wine.”
Win gulped audibly. He hadn’t even touched her—not even a handshake—and he was telling her to get naked and wait for him in a hot tub? That smile still lingered on his face, and it did little to temper the glint in his eye. This man was dangerous. This man was hot. This man was the answer to her prayers.
“Okay,” Win said, standing up. She began by taking off her hiking boots and socks.
Vincent laughed and got up from the chair, hissing in pain again. As he headed into the house he turned. “Uh, Win? Did you bring condoms, by any chance?”
Win’s hand froze on the buttons of her shirt. Of course she didn’t bring condoms! “No! I came up here to write about sex, not actually have it.”
Vincent laughed and shook his head. “If I’m not mistaken, Artie probably planned for every contingency. Be right back.”
Win was having an out-of-body experience. Someone’s hands—they looked a lot like her own—began to unbutton every last button on her shirt, then undid her belt buckle, removed her hiking shorts, pulled off her French-cut panties and underwire bra, and removed the clip from her hair. Somehow, she found herself walking toward the hot tub. That familiar-looking hand found the control panel on the wall, flipped the switch, and pulled off the thick padded cover. Then the hand held on to the railing as she stepped in.
So hot, so hot, so hot . . . and her skin tingled and her nipples drew up and tightened and she heard a little voice sing out in her head, “Let’s get it started in here. . . .”
Win eased down until the water lapped at her shoulders and her bottom rested comfortably on the ledge, massaged by conveniently placed water jets. And then it hit her—deadline stress must have weakened her mores! She didn’t even know this man! This was not like her. She had a three-date rule from which she never deviated. All right, just that once, but that was one hell of a first date and it was in Montreal, for God’s sake, and it was a private jet, not a commercial carrier.
And this? Win’s heart bounced around in her chest with the force of a jackhammer. She felt herself smile. This was better than Montreal and the private jet. Hell—this was better than anything she could cook up in her imagination, which was definitely saying something.
There were condoms everywhere—condoms in the bedside table in the guest room, condoms in the medicine cabinets, condoms in the cookie jar in the kitchen. As Mac went around the house on condom patrol, he figured Artie must’ve arranged for someone to take care of all these little details, including turning off the laundry room water main.
Poor Win never had a chance. And now, neither did he.
“Thank you, Artie,” Mac whispered, selecting a nice 2001 La Tache French Burgundy from the cellar, deciding they should stick with red.
He exited the doors to the deck and stopped in his tracks. Win’s delicious dark curls tumbled out behind her, spread out on the red-wood rim of the hot tub. Her eyes were closed, and her dramatic lashes lay thick upon her pale cheeks. Her lips were stained red from the wine and were slightly parted. And bobbing in the bubbles were two stupendous breasts, hard dark pink nipples just visible under the roiling surface.
Mac couldn’t seem to catch his breath. This beautiful woman was game. It was almost unbelievable. He knew it had been so long that if he didn’t exercise caution, he’d pop his own cork before he could open the second bottle of wine.
He walked stealthily toward the sunken tub and stared down at her. She opened her eyes and smiled; then he watched her gaze travel to the plastic grocery bag dangling from his hand. Mac set down the wine bottle and corkscrew, then held the bag open for her inspection.
“Damn,” she breathed.
“I fear Artie may overestimate me.”
Win sat up a little, her eyes wide. “There have got to be two hundred condoms in there!” She leaned her head back and laughed quite hard, and Mac loved the sound. It was loud and raucous and oh yes, he could hear the Alabama in it. Plus he could see all of her nipples now. He began ripping off his clothes and was down to his boxers when her laughing abruptly ended.
He gazed down to see Win’s open mouth and wide eyes. “Do you need to see additional forms of ID before we go any further?”
She shook her head in silence.
“Good.” Mac hooked his fingers into the elastic waistband of his shorts and pushed down. Win let out a cute little squeak as his cock jumped free, and she kept squeaking the whole time he lowered himself into the tub. The water felt so damn good, he released a roar of satisfaction.
“Is your shoulder going to be okay?”
“I don’t plan on swimming in here, so I’ll be fine.”
That was when he felt a small, soft hand land on his good shoulder, then run down to his bicep, stop, stroke down his forearm, stop again, and run back up to his bicep. She made that squeaking sound again.
“What exactly do you plan on doing in here, Lieutenant Macbeth?”
He liked her directness. He liked it a lot. Though really, what option was there in this situation? They were adults. Naked adults. Half-drunk naked adults alone in the woods—in a hot tub. Directness was almost called for.
He smiled at her. “I plan on using a lot of those condoms, and not for water balloons.”
She laughed again and moved her soft little hand to the back of his neck, where she rubbed. The pleasure was off the chart, and all she’d done was caress him above the waist. He hadn’t had a woman touch him like that—with desire and real affection—in years. Three years, to be precise. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed that combination until right this moment.
“Would you like some more wine, Vincent?”
He let his head roll around as she kneaded the tight tendons on the back of his neck. “Absolutely.”
“Unfortunately, we left the glasses over by the chairs.”
He groaned. “Be right back.”
“No.” She stopped massaging. “Please allow me.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck . . . she was up out of the water and climbing over him to get to the steps and that’s when he put his hand right on the sweet swell of her ass. He marveled at the fact that it was the very first time he’d reached out and made contact with her. There had been no handshake. No kiss. No gentlemanly palm to her lower back as he opened the door for her. Nope—the first time he intentionally touched Win Mackland it was big palm to sweet, wet, creamy-skinned ass.
He wasn’t going to last five minutes at this rate.
She rose from the hot tub, and he stared at her like a man who’d never seen a naked woman in his life. Perhaps he’d never seen one like this. All those womanly curves he’d noticed under her clothes were jaw-dropping in their unadorned state. Her breasts were round and soft and jutted out at this amazing little upward tilt that made him want to suck like a newborn. Her ass was a goddamn work of art, with fleshy but firm globes decorated with two little dimples at her spine. She bent over for the glasses and he got his first flash of dark pink, pouting pussy surrounded by a little patch of dark curls and he had to bite down hard on the inside of his mouth to keep from shouting.
Then she turned around, wineglasses in hand, her face lit up with a knowing smile that he could easily get used to, and she took her time coming back. He watched her thick hair bounce, her hips sway. He watched rivulets of water trickle down her taut tummy. He watched her lush thighs move back and forth, framing that delicate little pussy of hers. Suddenly, he realized there was a real risk that they’d run out of condoms. Three weeks was twenty-one days. If they fucked ten times a day, they’d be cutting it close. He’d have to pace himself.
Win eased herself back into the water and opened the wine, which she set aside to breathe.
“You know, this is not the norm for me.”
Mac was relieved to hear it and gave her a smile she apparently liked.
“But you are one incredibly sexy man, Vincent MacBeth.” Her voice was a whisper. “And I have a very big favor to ask you.”
He wasn’t sure where she was going with this, but he figured he might as well get his only concern out of the way. He hoped she’d take it well.
“No, you may not call me Maximillion,” he said.
She laughed again, loud and deep, running a hand through her damp curls. “As a rule, I keep a decent grip on reality, Vincent. And besides, I know you’re not Max, because you’re . . . well, you’re real.”
He liked that answer and smiled at her. “I am indeed. So what can this very real man do for you, Winifred?”
She batted her eyelashes at him, bit her bottom lip, then said, “I need you to be my muse for a few weeks. Think you’re up to the job?”