She was aware of the other diners watching curiously. She could almost feel them waiting to see what Brogan Campbell would do with his woman, who was obviously enjoying an evening with another man. Eve just wished there had actually been enjoyment.

Chatham Bromleah Doogan was a player, and he didn’t try to hide it. He was nice about it. He was damned charming about it. But Chatham was unapologetically a playboy.

Brogan was unapologetically all man. Wild, tough, dangerous. He was willing to be tame, but only under his own conditions, and only at those times that he chose to be.

He wasn’t willing to be tamed at this moment, though.

His gaze locked on hers, the blue-gray depths a sliver of color behind the lashes of his narrowed gaze, he came to a stop at the table, glowering down at her.

Chatham never lifted his gaze from the dessert menu.

“Ah, the maître d’,” Chatham murmured dismissively. “Isn’t it about time?”

Eve almost groaned in rising trepidation.

This could get ugly fast.

Brogan lifted a red-gold brow mockingly as he stared down at her. The arch conveyed such deliberate intent that she could feel her knees almost trembling.

How the hell was she supposed to handle this?

Chatham lifted his head then, gazing up at Brogan arrogantly.

“He’s not the maître d’,” she commented as Brogan completely ignored him.

“Really?” Chatham drawled in amusement. “My dear, I would have never guessed. Friend of yours?”

It could end gracefully, she thought.

Without bloodshed.

She hoped.

Eve cleared her throat. “Sometimes, I guess.”

Chatham chuckled. “A friend is not a friend, my dear, unless he is a friend at all times.”

“So I’ve heard.” She couldn’t break the hold Brogan had on her gaze. She wanted to. She tried to. Yet she couldn’t turn away.

“What happened to the ride?” she asked, fighting the tremble in her voice as something flickered in Brogan’s gaze.

“I canceled it,” he growled as he slowly lifted his hands from where he’d had his thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans.

Almost immediately his hands flattened against the top of the table, his upper body bending to her. He was almost nose-to-nose with her so fast she could only stare up at him in surprise.

“Are you coming peacefully, or will I have to discuss the situation with your date?”

Eve’s gaze flickered in Chatham’s direction. He sat back in his chair, completely at ease as he, too, seemed to await her decision. His dark brown eyes mocked her dilemma, and for a second Eve swore he appeared as self-satisfied as the proverbial cat with the canary.

“I’m not waiting much longer,” Brogan warned her softly.

“I believe we should leave this decision up to Ms. Mackay, without undue coercion,” Chatham advised, causing Eve to flick a horrified glance in his direction.

Didn’t he know a dangerous situation when he saw one? Brogan was in no way willing to endure advice at the moment.

“I’m sorry about this, Chatham.” Lifting the napkin from her lap, Eve laid it on the table as she apologized.

Rising, she quickly opened her small clutch purse and pulled several bills free before laying them on the table.

“That is entirely unnecessary.” Chatham looked almost horrified as he glanced at the bills before his gaze lifted to her again. “My dear, your company was well worth the meal.”

Brogan jerked her money from the table.

“Brogan?” she hissed, outraged by the action.

“He looks like he can afford the damned meal.” Brogan snorted.

Chatham rose to his feet, the amusement in his gaze intensifying.

Turning to Brogan, she said querulously, “I hope you brought something besides that Harley.”

“I came prepared.”

There was something about the way he said it and the words he used that sent a rush of heat flooding her body.

Before Brogan turned away, though, he reached into his pocket, pulled two hundreds free, and tossed them to the table.

“I can pay for the meal.” Chatham chuckled.

“Take the money and count yourself lucky,” Brogan suggested, his tone dark and forbidding. “My ancestors castrated poachers. With great satisfaction.”

Chatham lifted a brow as the diners around them snickered in amusement.

Gripping her upper arm, Brogan led her unhurriedly through the restaurant and out the front door as outrage rushed through her.

“That was completely uncalled-for, Brogan.” She turned to face him as he stepped into the driver’s seat after helping her into the truck. Glaring up at the brooding anger burning in his gaze, she ignored the butterfly excitement in her stomach.

“You had absolutely no right whatsoever to barge in on my date in such a way.”

“A date, was it?” Silky, dangerous, his voice lowered and his expression tightened savagely as he started the truck. “I’d change the description of that little outing if I were you, Eve. Because you knew better than to date until this relationship thing of ours has been settled, one way or the other.”

“That’s what you think,” she snapped back at him, so offended by his attitude she could barely tolerate it. “We have no relationship, remember? I told you, I can’t do this.”

It was killing her—the need for his touch, for his kiss. It raged inside her, hotter even than the anger now coursing inside her. “Because of you my brother is probably getting calls from everyone in that restaurant about now. He’s going to end up at my door again—God forbid, while you’re in my bed. And before the night is over I’m going to feel like the worst sister to live, because I find it completely impossible to tell you no.”

She was only barely aware of the tightening of Brogan’s knuckles on the steering wheel, as though he were fighting desperately to keep his hands off her.

“You tell me no all the damned time,” he argued, his tone rasping with irritation. “Your damned brother can just be proud as hell of you, can’t he, Eve?”

“Not if he shows up and you’re in my bed.” Turning to face forward again, her arms crossing over her breasts, she glared into the evening traffic.

Until the chain swinging on the rearview mirror drew her gaze. She recognized the small gold cross Timothy Cranston had told her belonged to his daughter. She had been wearing it the day a bomb had killed her and her mother.

“Timothy let you use his truck?” she questioned in disbelief. “He doesn’t even like you.”

“I stole it,” he informed her with such a look of triumph she was momentarily taken aback. “I knew where he kept the spare key and I just took it.”

Pure disbelief filled her as she shook her head and returned her gaze forward. She had to grit her teeth to keep herself from completely losing her temper. That lasted all of the time it took him to pass the turnoff that led to the inn.

“Where are you going? You just missed the turn to the house,” she reminded him as he continued through town.

“I borrowed a place for the night.” He shocked her with the statement. “I don’t intend to have Dawg Mackay disturb me again while we’re together, Eve. I may end up forgetting he’s your brother.”

“The only friend you have in this county who would have something to loan is Billy Ray, and all he has is that ragged houseboat of his. You think Dawg won’t know the minute we pull into the marina and go onto that alley cat’s boat? Are you trying to rub his nose in the fact that I can’t stay away from you?”

Where had his mind gone? There wasn’t a chance in hell that she was getting on a houseboat with him. Especially Billy Ray Chauncey’s. The man was a dog when it came to women.

“For God’s sake, give me a little credit here, Eve.” The look he shot her was rife with simmering lust and banked frustration. “Do you really think I’m going to give Dawg Mackay the opportunity to try to beat the shit out of me?”

“Try?” She looked back at him doubtfully, determined to make him as crazy as he made her.