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She started for the door, presumably to see him out, but Rook touched her arm, felt the same spark of attraction he’d experienced when they’d first met, and acted on it. He curved his fingers under her chin and traced her lower lip with his thumb. “Mac.” He sighed once more, shaking his head. “Damn. I wasn’t going to kiss you again.”

She didn’t resist or tell him no or shove him out the door when his mouth found hers. Instead, she kissed him back. He could feel her eagerness – the spark of desire in her. If not for her bandaged side, he’d have slipped his arms around her and drawn her closer to him, let her feel his reaction to her, her touch, the taste of her.

“You’re complicating my life, Rook,” she said, then kissed him again.

He felt a shudder of arousal. “You’re not exactly simplifying mine.”

As she stood back from him, her very blue eyes met his. “I don’t like setting myself up to be hurt.”

He smiled. “That didn’t hurt, did it?”

She opened the door for him. Outside, the rain was steady now, falling softly, without wind, thunder, lightning. There was no front moving through to push out the heat and humidity. The light from the porch hit her face, bringing out the dark smudges under her eyes. It had only been five days since Mackenzie Stewart had found herself in a fight for her life – not enough time, Rook thought, for anyone to expect her to be back to normal, especially with her attacker still out there.

He walked past her and stepped onto the porch.

She remained in the doorway. “I’ve known Beanie Peacham all my life. I don’t trust many people, but I trust her.”

“What would you do for her?” Rook asked.

“She’s never asked anything from me.”

“Maybe she knows she doesn’t have to ask.”

He expected a hot reaction, but Mackenzie didn’t rise to his bait. “You mean because I anticipate her wishes? That’s not the case. It just isn’t. I’m not being defensive, and I’m not in denial.”

“Fair enough.”

“You don’t like her.”

Rook smelled earth and some kind of flowers on the rain, and he thought of ghosts, wondered if they ever ventured out across the plush grounds, among the tall, old trees. Man. What’s wrong with you?

He shook off thoughts of ghosts and focused on the woman in the doorway. He hated to abandon her – but what the hell else could he do? When Harris Mayer had pointed her out at the hotel last week, Rook had expected backing off from her wouldn’t be difficult. But he was wrong, and in the days since he’d left her the voice mail canceling dinner, he’d only found himself more attracted to her.

And yet he knew better than to underestimate this woman – to take her bandaged side and her response to him as vulnerability.

“I think Judge Peacham looks at you and sees the eleven-year-old, traumatized and guilt-ridden about her father’s accident,” he said. “And maybe the academic she’d hoped you’d become.”

“I did become,” Mackenzie said.

“Did she approve of your career change?”

“No one did. Beanie’s not alone in that one.”

“Why…”

“Why did I become a marshal?” Mackenzie grinned so suddenly, so unexpectedly that Rook felt gut-punched. “Because I didn’t want to write my dissertation.”

“Did your students always laugh at your jokes?”

“Always. You law enforcement types – not so much.” But her eyes turned serious, and she said, “I wanted to catch bad guys and help keep people safe. That’s it. That’s why I filled out my application.”

“It’s as valid a reason as any I’ve ever heard.”

“Why did you become an FBI agent?”

He shrugged. “It never occurred to me to do anything else. Mac -”

“I can’t make love with these damn stitches,” she said quietly, quickly. “So, just say good-night.”

Rook didn’t move. He could see what she was thinking. “Mac, making love to you isn’t just unfinished business that I need to take care of and then move on. I’m not that big a cad.” He stepped closer to her. “We can go a little further, even with the stitches. I won’t hurt you.”

“What?”

But she took his hand and backed into the kitchen, and he brought his palm to her breast, her eyes on him, liquid, certain, stripping away his reserve. “How could I have thought I could just walk away?”

She smiled, moving against his palm. “Don’t think about that now.”

He raised her shirt and heard her breath catch as he unclasped her bra and skimmed his fingertips across her hardening nipples, the soft skin of her breast. His senses flooded with the smell of her, the feel of her. She reached a hand into his hair, moaning softly as he teased and tantalized, then, careful of her bandaged side, lifted her bra and shirt over her head and cast them onto the floor.

“Rook,” she whispered, tightening her fist in his hair, then letting go. “Andrew…”

He gazed at her, taking in the milky skin, the curve of her breasts, the flat stomach, the flare of hips, wanting her, aching for her, his need a jolt to his system.

“Mac.”

His voice was strangled, and he gave up, slipped his hands around her, high, avoiding her injury. Her skin was cool now, creamy under his touch. Everything about her aroused him, absorbed him. He kissed her neck, moving lower, lost in the scent of her, the taste of her, as tongue and teeth explored, lingered, pushed her to soft moans of pleasure. He felt her falter slightly, but they both stayed on their feet.

Her skin heated, and she dug her fingers into his shoulders, giving a small cry, a gasp of need and frustration. When he rose up, her lips were parted, and he plunged his tongue into her mouth, letting her know just how aroused he was. But she found out for herself, dropping a hand between them, skimming her fingers across him, locating his zipper, lowering it. She slipped her hand inside. He was hard, throbbing against her touch.

He growled into her mouth. “Mac – hell.”

She smiled boldly. “Do you want me to stop?”

But his body answered for him, and she gulped in a breath, her smile gone now, her mouth on his again as she reached deep and took the length of him. He fought for air, kissing her, teasing her nipples with his thumbs in the same rhythm she used on him. When she quickened her pace, he eased one hand down the smooth skin of her back and into her pants, along the curve of her buttocks.

His urgency mounted, but he forced a pause, looked into her eyes, which were a dusky blue now, brimming with need and desire. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re not…oh.” She moved against his hand. “Trust me.”

His fingers reached her hot, moist center, and her grip on him faltered slightly. He didn’t stop. He flicked, pushed, circled his fingers around her, into her, probing, as she responded, moving against them, onto them. She worked her own magic and torture with her hand, capturing, stroking, faster, then faster yet.

“Mac, I can’t hold on.” He could hardly breathe, never mind talk.

“Then don’t, because neither can I.”

Her body shuddered and she cried out, her grip slackening. But she didn’t let go. She stiffened against him, and he could feel her willpower as she regained her hold. With her next brutal stroke, he used every ounce of self-control to keep himself from exploding.

Not now. At the moment, he thought, it was enough for him to pleasure her.

His time would come.

He thrust his fingers deep into her, as insistent and brutal as she’d been with him, watching her eyes close as she gave in to the sensations. She grasped his shoulders, bracing herself as her body rippled with release. Slick with perspiration, she collapsed against him, breathing hard into his neck.

Finally, she stood back, utterly spent and as unembarrassed as he was.

She scooped up her shirt and bra and grinned at him. “You really are a bastard, you know. Honestly. Making me be the only one who…” She didn’t finish.