Messing with Mac. Jill Shalvis

how a little part of her tingled to touch it, hoist it over her head and let loose. Barbaric, yes, and suddenly very appealing.

      “You know you want to,” Mac said in a low, husky dare. “Touch it.”

      She cocked a brow and looked at him from beneath lowered lashes. “So…are they all the same size?”

      His eyes sparked, heated and flamed.

      And one question was answered…she had most definitely not imagined that intense sexual speculation.

      “I thought size didn’t matter to a woman.”

      She lifted a shoulder. “That’s just the story some woman started in order to appease her poor husband who didn’t have…the right equipment.”

      “Hmm.” He lifted the sledgehammer again, his eyes amused now. “The right equipment, huh?”

      “That’s right.”

      He looked at the sledgehammer with a new light, then back into her eyes. “Seeing as I have the right equipment, are you going to go for it?”

      Oh yeah, she was. For the sledgehammer, anyway.

      What could it hurt? She had aggression coming out her ears; for her grandfather, who was probably sitting on a cloud laughing down at her right this very minute, for her mother, who would rather do anything than be a mother, for her dwindling bank account, for the chandelier she’d lost out on…for being alone in all this.

      For just about every damn thing in her entire life, she needed that sledgehammer.

      Mac held it out.

      Her fingers itched.

      His eyes sizzled with the dare, and a potent, heady male heat.

      “Fine.” She set her hat back on her head, snatched the tool from him, then swore in a very unladylike way as the thing jerked both her arms down with its weight, slamming the heavy sledgehammer to the floor.

      Mac tsked. “Sorry, I thought you were stronger than that.”

      2

      TAYLOR’S ACCUSING EYES speared Mac, and he had to bite back his grin as he lifted an innocent shoulder.

      She let out a rude sound, and with determination and aggression blaring out her eyes, she hoisted the sledgehammer up…and nearly fell to her very finely dressed ass. Stumbling back a step, she spread her legs out a little for balance, then sent him a triumphant smile.

      It stopped his heart.

      Funny, that, since he’d have sworn the organ in question had dried up from abuse and misuse.

      Taylor turned her back on him and with all her might, swung the sledgehammer into the wall. When drywall fell and dust rose, she let out a cocky laugh, whirling back to make sure he was looking.

      Oh, he was looking. He’d been looking since she’d first sauntered into the room, just as he had a feeling men always looked at Taylor Wellington.

      He’d bet his last dollar that she knew it as well. She was a pricey number, all fancy labels and perfect grooming. Stunning, too, with her blond hair, see-through green eyes and a body meant to bring a grown man right to his knees. She had long, willowy curves, outlined in mouthwatering detail beneath the silky sundress that made his hands itch to mess her up. It was crazy, but he had the most inane urge to toss off her hat, sink his fingers into her hair and shake a little, to eat off her carefully applied lipstick that smelled like peaches and cream, to run his hands over that cobalt silk and see if she looked as good undone as she looked done.

      But he recognized a spoiled socialite when he saw one. Oh yeah, he did. He’d been there, bought the T-shirt, and because of it, he wasn’t tempted.

      Well, maybe a little tempted, but he wasn’t an idiot. She was upset because of some silly little bid she’d lost for a damn light fixture, when Mac had his entire future riding on a bid as well. A bid with South Village’s town council to get in on the area’s renovation and preservation acts. South Village wasn’t some prefab pedestrian neighborhood like Universal’s City Walk, but a genuine historical district in the middle of extensive restoration. He had bid on several of the upcoming jobs that would hopefully set up his business and reputation. Now that was something to get a little excited over, and he was trying not to think about how badly he wanted to be awarded those bids.

      Taylor lifted the sledgehammer again, and with all her might, gave it everything she had. Not a strand of hair fell out of place beneath her hat, and nary a wrinkle appeared on those fine clothes. More interesting, he sensed she wasn’t just humoring him here, but was genuinely striving to work off steam. Her mouth was grim, her eyes quite focused on the task, as if she was imagining someone’s face right where the sledgehammer fell.

      It shocked him, the barely restrained violence pouring out of her, but what really shocked him was how arousing it was to watch her go at it. With every swing, her perfect, palm-sized breasts jiggled, her hips wriggled, her ass shimmied and shook.

      And damn, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. “Remind me to never piss you off,” he said, and she let out a rough sound of agreement as she swung again.

      She was going to get blisters if she kept it up, which she appeared to intend to do. He hadn’t expected her to be able to lift the sledgehammer, much less swing it. “Uh…Princess? Don’t you think that’s probably enough?”

      Ignoring him, she swung again, but it took a huge effort.

      Figuring she had to be nearing exhaustion, he shifted closer, thinking he should grab the sledge-hammer before she hurt herself. That’s all he needed, was to maim the boss before she paid him.

      Blocking him with an elbow, she growled, “Back off.”

      Torn between annoyance and amusement, he did. “Okay, maybe I was wrong, maybe anger management classes would have been more effective for you.”

      “No.” Heave. Smash. Heave. Smash. “You were right, this is good. And…” Heave. Smash. “Cheap, too.”

      She paused, gasping for breath.

      “You could always just ask Daddy for more money,” he suggested.

      She went utterly still. Then carefully and purposely set down the sledgehammer before turning to him, eyes suddenly cold as ice. “You know, I think I’m finished after all. Thank you,” she added politely, and then cool as he pleased, walked past him and quietly shut the door behind her.

      Shaking his head, he let out a low whistle. Classy down to the last millimeter, when what she’d obviously wanted was to tear into his hide. Still in that state of amused annoyance, he let himself out of the unit as well, figuring he’d give in on this, her need to have the rest of the day to herself.

      Only because it suited him.

      Mac got into his truck and drove east. He didn’t live in the high-class, high-rent district of South Village. Nor with the middle class in their gated condo developments and upscale houses that all mirrored each other. He didn’t live with the wannabes on the outskirts either.

      He lived exactly where he wanted to, and damn expectations. He lived in the area known as The Tracks, which before the Town Council and Historical Society had gotten a hold of it meant that he lived on the wrong side of the tracks.

      He appreciated the irony of it.

      In ten minutes he was walking into his own little house, little being the key word here. The first thing he did was toss his mail—unread—on the table, where it knocked over the existing pile of unpaid bills.

      Didn’t matter. No matter how big that stack got, he was still free. Free of his family’s obligations, well-meaning but smothering nonetheless. Free of his ex-wife—whom he had to thank for all those un paid bills.

      He’d refused to let her live off his very generous family and their money, refused to make her the socialite she wanted to be. As a result,