Make Me Lose Control. Christie Ridgway

FIVE

      SHAY BUSIED HERSELF at the sink, swishing the dishcloth in the soapy water contained by one of the mixing bowls she’d used in preparing the evening meal. The chicken enchilada dinner had gone okay, she supposed, and she was relieved that she and Jace—his real name—seemed to be of the same mind.

      The mind in which the Deerpoint Inn didn’t exist.

      Or, at least, of the mind that they weren’t the same two people who had spent a night there together.

      If the three of them were going to share the house for the summer, Shay’s relationship with London’s father needed to be polite, professional and impersonal. Surely she could manage that.

      Then, even with her hand buried in the warm water on a warm night, a cold fingertip trailed down her spine. She froze, her prey-sense kicking in. Someone was behind her.

      Lifting her gaze to the window over the sink, she saw a man reflected in the glass. His height, his breadth, the very masculine mass of him seemed to press the air from the room. Her heart skipped as he strode inside on silent feet until only the expanse of the stainless-steel-topped island separated them.

      Calm down, Shay admonished herself. He’s no predator. He’s nothing to you, not even that attractive man at the bar who was so charming at dinner and so blissful in bed.

      As a matter of fact, he was the kind of man she wouldn’t find appealing at all. Upon learning of his ex’s death, he’d made exactly one phone call to his daughter and then left her in others’ care—without another word for weeks. Sure, Shay was self-aware enough to know she had a chip on her shoulder when it came to paternal issues, but anyone would agree that Jace should have maintained tighter contact since becoming London’s sole guardian.

      “Where’s the kid?” he asked now, his voice low.

      The sound of it—damn—reminded her of the night before. His voice, both rough and soft in the darkness as he murmured against the skin of her throat, as he whispered in the hot shell of her ear. Your breasts fit perfectly in my hands. Open your mouth for my tongue. Spread your thighs. Let me feel your wet heat.

      “Shay?”

      She jumped, and shook herself free of the memories. That man was not this one. The lover had been attentive and generous. This...stranger was neither of those things. “London is in her room, I believe.”

      “Look at me, will you?” he said. “We need to talk.”

      No, they didn’t. And looking at him, looking into those lion-gold eyes, wasn’t going to put them on that all-important professional footing. Maybe tomorrow, with more time and distance since they’d shared kisses, breath, a bed, she would have her armor intact and her memories safely locked away.

      Maybe she could fully face him then.

      The harsh screech of the bar-stool legs against the polished concrete floor scraped her nerves. He was sitting instead of going away, she thought with a grimace.

      But there was an odd heaviness to the sound of his body dropping into the chair. Without thinking, Shay swung around, only to see Jace sprawled in the seat, his elbows on the island, his head in his hands.

      “What is it?” she asked, alarmed.

      “I’ll be all right in a minute.”

      “Is it the elevation again?” She hurried to get him a glass of cold water. “Drink this down.”

      He didn’t move. “No.”

      “Don’t be an idiot,” she snapped. “If you’re afraid I’ll think less of you if your machismo takes another hit, forget about it. I—”

      “Already don’t think much of me?” he finished for her, lifting his head.

      He looked terrible. There were lines of pain around his eyes and he squinted as if the light were torture.

      “Why would you say that?” she asked, ignoring her guilty flush.

      His mouth twisted in a wry smile. “I caught the hint from those emails you sent.”

      Shay swallowed. Not only had she written all that stuff about dancing lessons and field trips to chocolate factories, but she also recalled subtly—or maybe not so subtly—expressing her opinion on absentee parenting. “You read them?”

      “Finally. After I recovered.”

      Her eyes rounded. “Um...recovered? Recovered from what?”

      “I need to get some pain relievers.” He stood abruptly, the uncharacteristically clumsy movement knocking over the stool. At the loud clatter, he put both hands to his head as if to hold it together.

      “Jace.” Shay rushed around the island to right the seat. Then she urged him back into it, tugging gently on one elbow. “I can get it. Something special? A prescription?”

      “No. Just a couple of the regular kind.”

      He took the tablets with the water and without argument. For a few moments he sat, eyes closed, just breathing. Shay gripped the metal edge of the island, watching him with concern.

      When his lashes lifted, she could see some of the discomfort had left him. “Better?” she asked.

      “Yeah.”

      “Are you going to tell me what’s up?”

      He shrugged. “Construction accident. I ended up with a badly sprained ankle and a concussion. For a time I found it difficult to think, read, communicate clearly. I still get headaches, obviously—tension brings them on.”

      Remorse flooded Shay. While she’d been sending snarky emails and thinking uncharitable thoughts, he’d been laid up thousands of miles away with serious injuries. Still... “There wasn’t someone who could send an email for you? Make a call?”

      “This was a lay-of-the land mission, four of us in the middle of nowhere. My interpreter-slash-fixer understood a limited amount of English and my Arabic is sketchy. Beyond blueprints, we had a difficult time making ourselves known to each other. So I concentrated on getting here as soon as I could.”

      Frowning a little, she drew closer, continuing to watch him with assessing eyes. Definitely better, but—

      “Christ, I don’t need a nurse. Stop hovering.”

      Affronted, Shay spun around.

      “Wait.” Jace reached out, but her arm slipped through his fingers. “I’m sorry. I’m not used to...”

      Hot showers, Shay thought, with sudden understanding. Birthday celebrations. Depending upon someone else, if only for a glass of water and a couple of aspirin. “It’s all right,” she said, insult evaporating. “I’m going to make coffee. Would you like some?”

      “Sure,” he said. “Thanks.”

      Her back was to him as she ground the beans and fiddled with the settings on the coffeemaker. Silence grew between them as she pulled mugs from the cabinet and readied the cream and sugar.

      Before she sensed a single footstep, heavy male hands closed over her shoulders. Shay jerked once, then stilled. When he wasn’t hurting from a headache, she thought, the big man moved with such smooth grace. Unnerved by it, Shay placed her palms flat on the countertop and tried to calm her thudding heart.

      “Shay,” Jace said, bending his head so his mouth was close to her ear. “I’m sorry. Really.”

      She closed her eyes, willing herself not to lean into his warmth. A ripple of desire rolled over her skin, slid down her arms, over her breasts, her belly, her hips. God, she’d never felt like this, so aware of a man, so greedy for his touch.

      She’d expected only one night with him, but now, now there was another possibility. There could be a summer of such moments, she thought, aching to feel his heat surrounding her, his weight on top of