License to Thrill. Tori Carrington

a single thing since their breakup. She came awfully close to indulging in a smile, thinking she could check back in fifty years and everything would probably be the same, only a lot older. His battered leather recliner was still a mile away from the television set, though he’d argued with her for weeks after she had convinced him to move it there. Her short-lived plan had been to arrange his things so that when she moved in, he wouldn’t have to move anything to accommodate her stuff.

      It was a stupid plan.

      She swallowed, trying to forget all about that time in her life. Staring at spilt milk wasn’t going to get it cleaned up, as her mother was fond of saying.

      She thought about Craig and all he offered, comparing him to Marc and the thrilling impermanence of a life spent on the edge. Craig was practical, thoughtful and predictable. Marc was exhilaratingly irresponsible, selfish and boyishly irresistible.

      But, ultimately, the absence of a father in her life made Melanie desperately long for her child to know one. And Craig would give her child everything he needed. Her baby deserved that.

      Marc… Well, Marc wasn’t interested in being a father.

      No matter what happened, she knew she had to marry Craig.

      Still, the sadness that filled her was overwhelming in its intensity.

      As her gaze slowly focused, it settled on the coffee table. A pile of well-thumbed magazines littered the top. Melanie bent down and let Brando go. The cat scampered toward the kitchen, as she moved toward the table.

      Cosmopolitan? Redbook? Working Woman? She slowly leafed through the magazines strewn across the surface between empty beer bottles and a doughnut box.

      “Mel, I was thinking—” Marc’s words abruptly stopped.

      Before she had a chance to blink, he was across the room, gathering the books. “Never mind those. They, um, were delivered here by mistake.”

      Melanie turned over the one she held and found his name on the label. She blinked at him, a curious warmth spreading through her chest.

      He jerked the magazine from her grasp.

      She decided he had gone mad. He might look like the same hunk who had swept her off her feet two years ago with his charm and devil-may-care take on life. But his actions now… She was afraid they marked him a few croutons short of a full salad. So what if he looked even more in control than he ever had? He had kidnapped her, for God’s sake. Swiped her from her wedding rehearsal dinner not ten yards away from a roomful of guests. Threw her over his shoulder and handcuffed her in the back of his Jeep. And he was reading women’s magazines. That more than anything proved he wasn’t in full charge of his faculties.

      Yet the fact that he was reading women’s magazines somehow touched her.

      “I should have left you handcuffed,” Marc grumbled.

      “Let me guess, you like the pictures,” she said, forcing her gaze to the French doors leading to the back yard. He was so outrageously embarrassed, reminding her of a young boy who’d just got caught with a Playboy under his bed. “Actually, I’m surprised you didn’t. Leave me handcuffed, that is.”

      He stuffed the magazines into a garbage can. “I didn’t think it was necessary. The way I figure it, you run, I’m on you before you can get ten feet.” He tugged at the collar of his T-shirt. “So you might as well sit down until I’m finished.” Tin cans clunked together as he tossed a handful into a large brown bag.

      She watched him, not sure what to make of his behavior. He was still so much a little boy wrapped up in a gorgeous man’s body. On the job he was a confident professional, but when it came to matters of the heart, she was afraid Marc could qualify for the role of Dumbest in the sequel to Dumb and Dumber. She swallowed hard. She pushed aside her attraction to those endearing qualities and reminded herself that she needed a responsible adult.

      She absently sat in his recliner, but the action wasn’t as easy as she had hoped. The hem of her dress hiked up to her panties. She tugged at her sister’s idea of a dress, wishing she had gone with something a little more conservative.

      “Do you want a coffee? It’s your favorite,” Marc said.

      She shifted to look into his face. He held out a hefty mug to her. The aroma of French vanilla made her mouth water. She accepted the mug, longing for a sip, though she couldn’t drink it. Caffeine and all that. Still, she decided it best not to argue with him right now. She’d pretend to drink the coffee. Then she would talk him into letting her go. It was as simple as that.

      Marc continued doing whatever it was he was doing, passing through the room several times carrying bags. One bag in particular caught her attention because it wasn’t plain brown paper like the others, but rather a glossy pink with purple handles. She squinted to read the words printed across the outside: Old Towne Bed and Bath Shoppe.

      She sat upright and made an attempt at pulling the ripped seam of her dress together even as she tugged at the hem. “Okay, let me phrase my question in a way even you can understand, Marc. What, exactly, is your objective?”

      “My objective?” He stood and stuffed something into the pink bag.

      She fidgeted. “You didn’t go through all this just so you could serve me a coffee.” She glanced at the untouched coffee in the cup she’d put on the table, then eyed him. “Did you?”

      He rocked on his heels, then folded his arms across his chest. “No, you’re right, I didn’t.”

      Hope shot through her. He was beginning to sound reasonable. Good. That meant she would soon be out of this place and back to her new safe, predictable life in Bedford in no time. “So?”

      “Ah, yes, my objective.” He reached to scoop up Brando, who sat on the floor. The casual move made Melanie remember when she’d brought the scrappy cat home from the shelter after having him neutered and declawed. Marc had picked up the tiny, shivering kitten, drew him close to his chest and said, “I coulda been a contender,” earning the cat his name.

      Marc cleared his throat. “Let’s just say it’s important for you to spend some time with me, that’s all.”

      “Time?” Melanie focused on the conversation, not liking his vague answer. “How much time are we talking about here? An hour? Two hours?”

      He lifted his head to meet her gaze. Melanie’s throat closed at the determination she saw in his eyes. “As much time as it takes.”

      “What?” Melanie rose from the chair. “As much time as it takes for what?” Certainly he wasn’t trying to… “I am going to marry Craig, Marc.”

      He stepped closer to her, then appeared to change his mind and stepped back. Despite the distance that separated them, Melanie felt as if he’d touched her.

      “All this, your getting married…it’s about that night, isn’t it?” he asked.

      She knew he had to be talking about the disastrous discussion they’d had about love just before she was shot. Melanie swallowed her surprise. She had seen Marc McCoy in various hair-raising situations. But never had he been so eager to understand.

      “It’s about more than that night.” She fought to hold his gaze, though she wanted to look elsewhere, fearing what she might give away. “Marc, I know my getting married must have come as a shock to you.” She tried to feel her way. She didn’t know what to say. Especially when he dragged a hand through his dark hair, tousling it in that way she loved. “For Pete’s sake, we don’t even know each other.”

      She stopped and looked him in the eye. “I mean, we know each other. But not very well.” She was faltering and she knew it. There were some areas where they knew each other only too well. “I’ve never even met your family. You’ve met my mother, but just the once.” She cleared her throat. “I’m not even sure what your favorite color—”

      “Green.”

      She gave