Chapter Two

Call him a masochist, but the way Sinclair tossed her long, dark hair over her shoulder and said, “No, thank you,” in a voice capable of freezing the balls off Satan made him want to risk kissing the go-to-hell pout off her lips. Then again, he’d been battling the urge to kiss her since he’d arrived at the reception and gotten his first in-the-flesh glimpse of her in a decade.

Instead he crossed his arms and braced a hip against the engineering masterpiece currently holding her skirt hostage. A quick look through the window confirmed what he already suspected. “Locked the keys in the car, did we?”

“No we. It’s not your problem.” She moved the gift bag she held from her side to her chest, like a shield. In an effort to put some distance between them, she took a step away. The sound of a seam ripping stopped her retreat.

Words would be overkill. He simply raised an eyebrow.

“Pack up that look and take it somewhere else.” She wrapped her fingers around the gold foil neck of the bottle in the gift bag, and pulled it free, holding it like a bat. “I can get myself out.”

“A glass bottle makes a lousy key. You could get hurt.” He took the champagne from her and slipped it back into the bag. “Let me help.”

Her little nose went in the air. “I’m fine.”

That she was. Even finer than he remembered, and his body still battled the consequences of having all that fineness pressed up against him. Of course, he remembered a girl—beautiful, headstrong, and out of his league in ways he’d been too much of a dumbass to fully appreciate at the time—but ultimately still a girl. Logically, he knew the same ten years that had transformed him from an eighteen-year-old fuckup to a VP of disaster planning and crisis management had turned her from a sixteen-year-old heartbreaker to a full-fledged adult. But the awareness hadn’t prepared him for the power and glory of the woman. Nothing could have.

When he’d reluctantly accepted this assignment in his old hometown, he’d expected to see her again. Wanted to. For curiosity’s sake, and old times’ sake, but he hadn’t expected to want her again. The strength of the reaction took him off guard—and not much did anymore. He shifted until he had her hemmed in between his body and the car, and watched her pupils expand to round, black islands in the stormy seas of her irises. The small, involuntary reaction sent him flashing back to humid nights alive with the sound of her hitching breaths, and those same dark pupils blown wide from everything he was doing to her. Everything they were doing to each other. He reached behind her and grabbed a fistful of her skirt, liking the jolt of lust he experienced at her quickly indrawn breath. He gave the skirt a testing tug.

“I don’t know, baby girl. I’d say it’s got you good. I could free you in less than five seconds, without putting so much as a scratch on you or the car, and the only thing I ask in return is for you to show me around.”

“No deal. I’ll handle it,” she shot back and braced her free hand in the center of his chest.

He stayed put, letting the tension crackle between them. Chemistry notwithstanding, she very clearly wanted nothing to do with him. That fact had also caught him off guard. Her cool disdain brought out a remnant of his former self he thought he’d outgrown a long time ago—the impulsive kid who acted first and thought about the consequences later. Case in point? He shouldn’t have said he was considering staying in Magnolia Grove. He wasn’t. Haggerty had sent him to do a job. He intended to do it well and be on his way. If, in the process, he showed the haters in his hometown a Maguire boy had made something of himself, all the better. Returning permanently, however, was not part of the plan. But her eagerness to be rid of him had made him want to get under her skin.

Her current predicament only strengthened the urge. How had he forgotten her stubborn streak, or how entertaining it was to mess with her? “Okay, then.” He backed off, and gave her a have-it-your-way shrug. “I’ll leave you to it. No pressure, but I think the whole crowd is coming out soon for the bouquet toss.” With that observation hanging in the air, he turned away and timed his steps to the silent countdown in his head…three, two, one…

“Okay. Wait.”

He stopped, but didn’t turn around. A man proceeded at his own risk when he pissed off a southern woman, and the smile of victory splitting his face would definitely piss her off. “Yes?”

“I’ll accept your help. I’m sure it won’t kill me to spend a couple hours playing tour guide.”

A couple hours? Fuck no. He wanted more time with her, and he wasn’t above negotiating to get it. He turned, regarded her calmly, and tossed her own words back to her. “No deal. I’ve done some research, and I know at least a dozen new developments I need to check out firsthand. Twelve tours—I pick the destinations.” Drawing on body language to tell her he wasn’t dicking around, he folded his arms across his chest and stood his ground.

“Twelve…?” Her voice trailed off as she digested the demand, and he fought back another laugh when she stomped her foot. “Absolutely not.”

He shrugged again, and started walking. Fortune favored the bold, because somewhere in the distance, a door slammed.

“Two tours,” she countered, but he detected a distinct note of desperation in her voice.

“Six tours. Best and final.”

The silence stretched so long he worried he’d overplayed his hand and she intended to call his bluff. Goddammit, he was going to have to give in and go pop the lock for nothing except his peace of mind. But then he heard her long, aggrieved sigh.

“Fine. Six tours. Not a mark on the car.”

He turned and walked back to her. “Or you?”

Her chin came up as he drew near. “That goes without saying.”

“Does it?” He dropped his gaze, and took a slow tour of some territory he’d once been intimately familiar with, starting at her bare shoulders and continuing to where satiny skin disappeared beneath blue silk. “I remember finding some extremely creative places to leave marks.” He ran his finger along the neckline of her dress. “So you wouldn’t get in trouble. You didn’t need to be as cautious with me.”

“I”—she broke off and swallowed—“I don’t remember…”

Oh, yeah. She remembered. He took the gift bag out of her hand and set it on the roof of the Mercedes. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Sinclair.”

“What?” The word barely qualified as a whisper.

“I’m still extremely creative.” With that, he dropped to his knee, and peered behind her.

Her hand smacked his shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“Seeing if I can find a creative solution to your little predicament.” The position gave him an up-close look at the tangle of her skirt in the car door, the torn seam that rendered the dress un-wearable—he turned his head slightly—aaand the tiny, lacy, black panties that left mouthwatering portions of her ass bare to his view. Without doing any sort of motive check, he let his cheek brush the smooth flesh.

Muscles quivered in response. The hand on his shoulder switched to the top of his head, but she didn’t push him away. He trailed his lips across her thigh, automatically following the line of her panties where it hugged her hip and arrowed around front.

Her shuddery exhale triggered his inhale. Her scent stormed his senses, achingly familiar, and dangerously arousing. The molecules infiltrated his brain, coated the back of his throat, and left him dizzy from need. Balancing before her on both knees, taking a hip in each hand, he slowly closed in on the sheer triangle covering the prize.

“Shane…”

He took another hungry inhale. The tip of his nose skimmed the lace. “Yes?”

Those slim fingers slid down until her palm cupped the back of his head. Her thighs parted. “Ye—”

A car alarm shattered the silence and broke the spell lust and memories had woven around them. She jerked away, shoved her skirt down, and glared at him. “That’s not part of our deal.”

He stood, intentionally taking up the space she’d tried to carve out for herself. “Don’t kid yourself, Sinclair. That’s always been part of our deal.” True, but the retort stemmed from pure frustration. With himself, for letting his dick take charge of things when the rest of him had just managed to gain a little headway, and with her, for trying to deny the pull between them.

“Our agreement involved you getting me out of this mess”—she poked his pectoral—“not inspecting my underwear. Can you do it, or not?”

He was reasonably confident he could do both. “Here.” He shrugged out of his suit jacket and slung it around her shoulders.

“Thanks, but I—hey!”

His fingers found the zipper pull between her shoulder blades and whipped it down before she could finish her protest. As the dress pooled around her ankles, he hauled her against him and lifted her clear.

“This is your idea of a rescue?” Her voice pitched up with each word.

“You’re free. The car’s fine. I believe that satisfies the terms of our deal.”

“Put. Me. Down.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He let her slide slowly down his body. Her eyes widened when his hard-on raked her stomach. As soon as her feet touched the ground, she backed away, but he saw her gaze dart to the front of his pants. She bit her lip and shifted her attention to some point over his shoulder.

“This hardly improves my situation.”

That depended on the perspective. From his vantage point, things couldn’t get much better. He drank in the sliver of skin on display between the edges of his jacket. The small rose of black silk perfectly centered in her lush cleavage, her flat stomach, the scrap of lace he’d come within a hairsbreadth of kissing just seconds ago. But the clatter of a door and the hollow sound of footfalls on porch boards heralded company, and he didn’t want to share the view. He swept her into his arms. Her little huff of breath told him she hadn’t anticipated the move. “Don’t criticize. This is only phase one of the plan.”

“Manhandling me is phase two?”

“Saving your sweet ass is phase two.” He strode to the passenger side of his rented Range Rover, unlocked the doors, and deposited her inside. “Wait here.”

A quick trip to the trunk of the SUV gained him what he sought, and a few strides later he offered her the USMC T-shirt and cut-off sweats he’d stowed in his gym bag. “Put these on. I’ll take the gift inside, grab your things, and tell Savannah about your wardrobe malfunction. When I get back with your purse, you can drive home and change. If you hurry, you’ll make it back in time to see the happy couple off.”

Whatever argument she’d been preparing faltered in the face of his comprehensive planning—or maybe the thought of missing Beau and Savannah’s departure. She took the clothes he held and spared him a “Thank you.”

“I live to serve,” he replied and left her to change while he saw to phase two. It didn’t take long to find Savannah, offer up a vague explanation, and entrust her with the gift bag in exchange for her sister’s purse.

When he returned to the parking area, Sinclair was already standing beside his car, looking ridiculously sexy with her slim body swimming in his shirt, and his sweat shorts riding low on her hips. It would take all of three seconds to rid her of those clothes. He imagined wrapping his fist around the T-shirt and tearing it off. The bra he’d glimpsed earlier would come next. The lacy, strapless confection pretty much begged to be stripped away. Images burned into his brain, and his palms tingled at the thought of holding her bare breasts, lifting them and lowering his head, seeing if they were as responsive as they’d been ten years ago when he’d been the first guy to touch them…kiss them…draw them into his mouth as deeply as he could and devour her until she buried her face in his hair to muffle her cries of pleasure.

His better judgment intruded. Not tonight. Probably not ever, if you keep standing here, staring at her tits. He cleared his throat and handed her the purse. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

“That’s not necessary.” She opened the sleek, blue silk bag and pulled out her keys. “I’ve got it from here… Shoot. I locked my dad’s keys in the car. I wonder if I’ll be able to get a locksmith out this late on a Saturday?”

“And that brings me to phase three of the plan.”

“There’s a phase three?”

He took her hand and led her through the maze of parked cars to the Mercedes. “Phase three.” While she watched, he withdrew the compact multi-tool he kept on his key chain, extended the lock-pick modification, and went to work. After a moment, he found the release. A twist, and the lock popped. He opened the door, retrieved the keys from the front seat, and handed them to her, along with her torn dress. “Anything else?”

Her eyes narrowed. “If you knew how to open the door all along, why the hell did you…?”

To hell with not pissing off a southern woman. He didn’t even try to hold back his grin. “You negotiated for your freedom. You didn’t specify I had to use the most expedient means available.”

He heard her muttered curse before she turned on her heel and stormed off.

“Hey, Sinclair?”

“What?” She slowed but didn’t bother stopping.

“I’m booking my first tour. Tomorrow afternoon. I’ll pick you up.”