The Mackades Collection (Books 1-4). Nora Roberts

my buttons.”

      “Just practicing.” The grin was quick as lightning, and just as bold. “Besides, you always look so tidy, I can’t resist loosening you up.”

      Her retreat ended with her back between the side of the refrigerator and the wall.

      “Looks like you’ve backed yourself into a corner, darling.”

      He moved in slowly, slipping his hands around her waist, fitting his mouth to hers. He took his time sampling, his fingers spread over her rib cage, stopping just short of the curve of her breasts.

      She couldn’t stop her breath from quickening or her lips from responding. His tongue flicked over them, between them, met hers. His taste was dark, and rabidly male, and streaked straight to her center like an arrow on target.

      The small part of her mind that could still function warned her that he knew exactly how he affected women. All women. Any woman. But her body didn’t seem to give a damn.

      Her blood began to pound, her skin to vibrate, from the shock of dozens of tiny explosions. She was certain she could feel her own bones melt.

      She was exciting to watch. His eyes were open as he changed the angle of the kiss, deepened it, degree by painfully slow degree. He found the flutter of her lashes arousing, the faint flush desire brought to her cheeks seductive. And that helpless hitch of breath, that quick shiver when his fingers skimmed lightly over the tips of her breasts, utterly thrilling.

      With an effort, he stopped himself from taking more. “God. It gets better every time.” Gently he nuzzled his way to her ear. “Let’s try it again.”

      “No.” It surprised her that what she said and what she wanted were entirely different. In defense, she pressed a wineglass against his chest.

      He glanced down at the glass, then back at her face. His eyes weren’t smiling now, weren’t gently amused. There was an edge in them now, dark and potentially deadly. Despite all common sense, she found herself drawn to this man who would take, and damn all consequences.

      “Your hand’s shaking, Regan.”

      “I’m aware of that.”

      She spoke carefully, knowing that the wrong word, the wrong move, and what was in his eyes would leap out and devour her. And she would let it. She would love it.

      That was something she definitely had to think over.

      “Take the wine, Rafe. It’s red. It’ll leave a nasty stain on that shirt.”

      For one humming moment, he said nothing. A need he hadn’t understood or counted on had him by the throat with rusty little claws. She was afraid of him, he noted, deciding she was smart to be afraid. A woman like her didn’t have a clue what a man like him was really capable of.

      Taking the glass, he tapped it against hers, making the crystal ring, then turned back to the stove.

      She felt as though she’d barely avoided a tumble from a cliff. And realized she already regretted not taking the plunge. “I think I should say something. I, um…” She took a deep breath, then an even deeper gulp of wine. “I’m not going to pretend I’m not attracted to you, or that I didn’t enjoy that, when obviously I am, and I did.”

      Trying to relax, he leaned back against the counter, studied her over the rim of his glass. “And?”

      “And.” She scooped back her hair. “And I think complications are…complicated,” she said lamely. “I don’t want—that is, I don’t think…” She shut her eyes and drank again. “I’m stuttering.”

      “I noticed. It’s a nice boost to the ego.”

      “Your ego doesn’t need any boosting.” She blew out a breath, cleared her throat. “You’re very potent. I have no doubt sex would be memorable— Don’t smile at me that way.”

      “Sorry.” But the smile didn’t dim. “It must have been your choice of words. Memorable’s good. I like it. Why don’t we save time here? I get your point. You want to mull the idea over, make the next move when you’re ready.”

      She considered, then nodded slowly. “That’s close enough.”

      “Okay. Now here’s my point.” He turned on the burner under the skillet and added oil. “I really want you, Regan. It hit me right off, when I walked into Ed’s and you were sitting there with little Cassie, looking so pressed and polished.”

      She fought to ignore the flutters in her stomach. “Is that why you offered me the job on the Barlow place?”

      “You’re too smart to ask a question like that. This is sex. Sex is personal.”

      “All right.” She nodded again. “All right.”

      He picked up a plump roma tomato, examined it. “The problem here, as I see it, is that I don’t much care for mulling over things like this. No matter how you fancy it up, sex is still the animal. Smell, touch, taste.”

      His eyes were dark again, reckless. He picked up the knife, tested its point. “Take,” he added. “But that’s just me, and there are two of us here. So you go on ahead with your mulling.”

      Baffled, she stared at him as he chose a clove of garlic. “I’m trying to decide if you expect me to thank you for that.”

      “Nope.” Expertly he laid the flat of his knife over the garlic, gave one quick pound of his fist to crush it. “You’re just supposed to understand it, like I’m understanding you.”

      “You’re a real nineties man, MacKade.”

      “No, I’m not. And I’m going to make you stutter again. You can count on that.”

      Challenged, she picked up the wine, topped off their glasses. “Well, you count on this. If and when I decide to make my move, you’ll do some stuttering of your own.”

      He scooped the minced garlic into the oil, where it sizzled. “I like your style, darling. I really like your style.”

      Chapter 4

      Sunny skies and a southerly breeze brought in a welcome end-of-January thaw. Icicles dripped prettily from eaves and shone with rainbows. In front yards and fallow fields, snowmen began to lose weight. Regan spent a pleasant week earmarking stock for the Barlow place and hunting up additions to her supply at auction.

      When business was slow, she revised and honed her room-by-room decorating scheme for what was going to be the MacKade Inn at Antietam.

      Even now, as she described the attributes of a walnut credenza to a pair of very interested buyers, her mind was on the house. Though she hadn’t realized it, yet, she was as haunted by it as Rafe had been.

      The front bedroom, second floor, she mused, should have the four-poster with canopy, the rosebud wallpaper and the satinwood armoire. A romantic and traditional bridal suite, complete with little bowls of potpourri and vases of fresh flowers.

      And what had been the gathering room, on the main level, had that wonderful southern exposure. Of course, Rafe had to pick the right windows, but it would be spectacular in sunny colors with a trio of ficus trees, hanging ferns in glazed pots, and pretty little conversation groups of boldly floral love seats and wingback chairs.

      It was perfect for a conservatory, a place to gaze through the glass into the woods and gardens, with forced narcissi and hyacinths brightening midwinter gloom.

      She couldn’t wait to get her hands on the place, add those tiny, perfect details that would make it a home again.

      An inn, she reminded herself. A business. Comfortable, charming, but temporary. And it wasn’t hers. With an effort, she shook her head clear and concentrated on the sale at hand.

      “You can see the marquetry is high-quality,” she continued, keeping her sales pitch moderate and pleasant. “The bowfront cupboards on the side are the original