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Authors: Hazel Hunter
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Geoffrey.”
•••••
Maybe it was a good thing that Isabelle didn’t remember. Frankly, Mac hoped she never did. As she slipped off his jacket, Mac saw her ripped blouse. Though his anger flared, the image of Geoffrey laying in his own urine quickly tempered it. Mac took the jacket from her. In the rush of finding her and discovering the botulism, he’d ignored the smell but Isabelle was right. Geoffrey’s cologne was all over it because he’d been all over–
Isabelle took off the ruined blouse as well.
“I think this has to go in the trash,” she said, letting it fall on the floor.
“Right,” Mac muttered, staring at her.
Her hands went behind her and he heard the zipper of her skirt. Then that fell to the floor too. As she stepped out of it, she held out her gloved hand to him for support and he took it in his. The image of her laying unconscious flashed into his mind.
“When I saw you there,” he said lowly. She’d been taking off her heels but paused. “I saw that you still had your gloves on.” He took a deep breath. “And I was relieved ,” he said, exhaling. “It was strange. It was so important .” He looked at her hand in his, ran his thumb over the back of it, rumpling the fabric of her glove. “I didn’t want anyone else to…or for you to know anyone…” He shrugged and shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“I do,” she said, both her hands closing over his, as she drew him toward the hallway. “I know exactly.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE STEAMY MIST from the warm water drifted through the bathroom. As Isabelle took off her bra, she watched Mac unbuckle his belt and drop his pants to the floor. Then came the too-tight shirt. He quickly peeled it up, past the corrugated leanness of his flat abdomen. His mounded pecs stretched upward but the fabric caught around his broad shoulders. After just a moment, though, the shirt cleared his head. Isabelle had paused but quickly slipped off her panties–and stopped.
She stared at her gloves.
His security clearance. I can’t wear these in the shower.
She glanced at the water-beaded glass and then at the bathroom door.
“We can’t live,” Mac said, fixing her with his gaze, “for a moment that may never come.”
For a few seconds, Isabelle could only stare at him as she processed what he’d said. He’d known exactly what she was thinking. It was almost like being read. Though they hadn’t talked about his work, suddenly it felt as though they had. There was always the chance she might read something she shouldn’t–something she couldn’t .
“But Mac,” she began.
He closed the distance and gently pulled them together.
“That’s not really living,” he said.
She quickly shook her head.
“Even if that’s true,” she said. “It’s better than the alternative. It’s better than–”
“But that’s just it,” Mac said, caressing her face. “You can’t lose me anymore than I can lose you .” He took her face between both his hands. “How, Isabelle, after everything we’ve been through,” he said lowly, “can you still think you’re the only one who feels like that?”
She blinked at him, at the raw intensity in the quiet question, at the torrent of emotions that it suddenly unleashed: a painful pang of regret; a staggering rush of relief; and a swell of love so deep and so strong that… There could only be one answer to Mac’s question.
Isabelle unfastened the clasp on her glove. As Mac looked down, he let go of her face. Her hands shook as though she’d never done this before but as the first glove came off, Mac held out his hand. Slowly, she laid the trembling material in it. The second one came off easier and, with a slow and deep breath, she laid it on top of the first. Mac’s gorgeous smile said everything–beaming and infectious–and she had to smile nervously in return. But as he turned to place the gloves on the counter, Isabelle saw his upper back. Deep purple bruises
•••••
Maybe it was a good thing that Isabelle didn’t remember. Frankly, Mac hoped she never did. As she slipped off his jacket, Mac saw her ripped blouse. Though his anger flared, the image of Geoffrey laying in his own urine quickly tempered it. Mac took the jacket from her. In the rush of finding her and discovering the botulism, he’d ignored the smell but Isabelle was right. Geoffrey’s cologne was all over it because he’d been all over–
Isabelle took off the ruined blouse as well.
“I think this has to go in the trash,” she said, letting it fall on the floor.
“Right,” Mac muttered, staring at her.
Her hands went behind her and he heard the zipper of her skirt. Then that fell to the floor too. As she stepped out of it, she held out her gloved hand to him for support and he took it in his. The image of her laying unconscious flashed into his mind.
“When I saw you there,” he said lowly. She’d been taking off her heels but paused. “I saw that you still had your gloves on.” He took a deep breath. “And I was relieved ,” he said, exhaling. “It was strange. It was so important .” He looked at her hand in his, ran his thumb over the back of it, rumpling the fabric of her glove. “I didn’t want anyone else to…or for you to know anyone…” He shrugged and shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“I do,” she said, both her hands closing over his, as she drew him toward the hallway. “I know exactly.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE STEAMY MIST from the warm water drifted through the bathroom. As Isabelle took off her bra, she watched Mac unbuckle his belt and drop his pants to the floor. Then came the too-tight shirt. He quickly peeled it up, past the corrugated leanness of his flat abdomen. His mounded pecs stretched upward but the fabric caught around his broad shoulders. After just a moment, though, the shirt cleared his head. Isabelle had paused but quickly slipped off her panties–and stopped.
She stared at her gloves.
His security clearance. I can’t wear these in the shower.
She glanced at the water-beaded glass and then at the bathroom door.
“We can’t live,” Mac said, fixing her with his gaze, “for a moment that may never come.”
For a few seconds, Isabelle could only stare at him as she processed what he’d said. He’d known exactly what she was thinking. It was almost like being read. Though they hadn’t talked about his work, suddenly it felt as though they had. There was always the chance she might read something she shouldn’t–something she couldn’t .
“But Mac,” she began.
He closed the distance and gently pulled them together.
“That’s not really living,” he said.
She quickly shook her head.
“Even if that’s true,” she said. “It’s better than the alternative. It’s better than–”
“But that’s just it,” Mac said, caressing her face. “You can’t lose me anymore than I can lose you .” He took her face between both his hands. “How, Isabelle, after everything we’ve been through,” he said lowly, “can you still think you’re the only one who feels like that?”
She blinked at him, at the raw intensity in the quiet question, at the torrent of emotions that it suddenly unleashed: a painful pang of regret; a staggering rush of relief; and a swell of love so deep and so strong that… There could only be one answer to Mac’s question.
Isabelle unfastened the clasp on her glove. As Mac looked down, he let go of her face. Her hands shook as though she’d never done this before but as the first glove came off, Mac held out his hand. Slowly, she laid the trembling material in it. The second one came off easier and, with a slow and deep breath, she laid it on top of the first. Mac’s gorgeous smile said everything–beaming and infectious–and she had to smile nervously in return. But as he turned to place the gloves on the counter, Isabelle saw his upper back. Deep purple bruises
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