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License to Thrill
Tori Carrington


Marc McCoy–Secret Service agent extraordinaire. His mission: to stop the woman he loves from marrying another man. And to save her life, if she'll let him.Melanie Weber–Marc's former partner and ex-lover. She's determined to give her unborn child a father. Even if it means giving up her own dreams.Sexy-as-sin Marc McCoy has always relished the thrill of the chase. But this is the first time he's ever had to chase a woman. He can't believe his Melanie is getting married–and not to him! But little does Melanie guess that Marc's got a plan to get her back–for good. After all, he is licensed to thrill….









“This is about that damned wedding again, isn’t it?”


Marc strode toward her, until he was so close Melanie could smell his aftershave. “And you want me to believe that in three months you found someone who could replace what took us three years to build?” he continued. “Tell me something, Mel. Does he make you pant the way I did?”

The brush of his palm against her right nipple caused a massive shudder to travel the length of her body. She knew she should move away from him, protesting the familiar intimate touch, but she could only stand transfixed, wanting him to touch her…and more. “He makes me happy,” Melanie said.

Marc frowned. “Outside of the bedroom. How’s he going to make you feel inside?” He cupped her breast, very obviously avoiding contact with the straining tip.

She stifled a moan and tried to stop herself from leaning into his touch. “I don’t think this…is a good idea, Marc. We should, um—” Melanie licked her lips, her gaze fixed on his mouth. “We should be discussing how we’re going to catch the guy who’s after me.”

Marc slowly shook his head. “Sweetheart, the only thing I’m interested in catching right now is you.”

As his mouth came down on hers, Melanie knew he already had.




Dear Reader,

Who can resist a sexy, rough-around-the-edges hero with a heart of gold? If you’ve read our first Temptation novel, Constant Craving, you know we can’t. So we decided to try it again. And this time, not only is our hero, secret agent Marc McCoy, totally irresistible…he’s got four dangerously attractive brothers cut from the same cloth. Is it any wonder we’re calling them THE MAGNIFICENT MCCOY MEN?

In License to Thrill, our intrepid hero, Marc McCoy is up against his ex-partner and former lover, Melanie Weber. Not only has she got another fiancé and a substantial secret that’s bound to show up in say, seven months—she’s also got a madman after her. But the story doesn’t begin and end there. Oh, no.

We hope you enjoy Marc and Mel’s adventurous journey to the altar. We’d love to hear what you think. Write to us at P.O. Box 12271, Toledo, OH 43612, or visit us at the web site we share with other Temptation authors at Temptationauthors.com. And be sure to watch for upcoming books featuring those oh-so-tempting McCoys….

Here’s wishing you love, romance and happy endings.

Lori & Tony Karayianni

a.k.a. Tori Carrington




License to Thrill

Tori Carrington







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


This one is for our remarkable editor, Brenda Chin, who led us to the cliff’s edge, then encouraged us to fly. Thank you from the bottom of our hearts.




Contents


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15




1


JUST THINKING about Marc McCoy made Melanie Weber tingle with need. Even now. Especially now.

She slid her palms over the thick silk of the traditional wedding dress she was being fitted for. It was ironic, really. She had never thought of her relationship with Marc in the traditional sense. Still, she had expected they’d always be together. Always be partners. Always be lovers.

But that was three months ago. Before she realized Marc could never love her. Before she was injured in the line of duty. Before she found out she was pregnant.

Melanie reluctantly opened her eyes, then tugged her hands away from the wedding dress. A pinpoint of guilt started in her stomach and slowly spread through the rest of her body. The last person she should be thinking about was Marc McCoy. She’d carefully tucked him in the past the day Craig had generously offered to solve both their problems by proposing to her. She owed it to Craig to keep focused on their plans for the future. She owed it to herself to keep her thoughts away from the past and all that could never be.

Still she recognized the churning signs of panic that had been swirling in her since she and Craig had picked up their marriage license that morning. She’d felt the same way the day she had faced her mother to tell her that she wasn’t majoring in business, as her mother so wanted. Only now she suspected hormones were more to blame for her anxiety—she hoped.

She turned slightly to view her profile. Funny, her jumbled thoughts didn’t keep her from longing to wear a dress with an open décolletage neckline. But that was impossible. The fresh scar just below her left collarbone was difficult to look at, even for her. She could imagine what would happen if she flashed her gunshot wound to one hundred of Bedford, Maryland’s, prominent citizens, much less her own mother. She shook her head. The seed-pearl-studded mock turtleneck that covered nearly every inch of her skin would have to do.

Melanie sucked in her stomach. If she didn’t have the dress let out just a tad, she would split a seam in front of Craig Gaffney, God and everyone halfway down the aisle two days from now.

“Wouldn’t that fuel Bedford’s gossip hot line for at least a month?” she whispered to her reflection. As it was, she’d already given them enough to talk about. Scary, since they didn’t even know the half of it.

“Joanie? Can you come here for a minute?” she called.

Her younger sister, Joanie, owned the Once Upon a Time Bridal Shoppe. It was just before closing, and with June looming but a few days away, Melanie’s dress wasn’t the only thing bursting at the seams. The shop was filled with stressed-out brides and overbearing mothers. She stuck her head into the hall. In the room opposite hers, Joanie slid a stray pin from the fabric peach forever around her wrist, then blew her hair from her eyes.

“Be with you in a minute, Melanie.”

“Hey, be careful!” complained the bride whose dress Joanie skillfully worked on. “If you get so much as one drop of blood on this dress, I won’t hesitate to sue.”

Melanie ducked into her dressing room. Her sister could probably make a good chunk of change by videotaping some of the more interesting fittings and selling the footage to their grooms. But something like that would never occur to Joanie. Her sister’s generous spirit and endless patience were the main reasons her business had grown so successful. They were also the reason she radiated happiness like a sweet perfume.

Melanie glimpsed her own rare smile in the mirror, then eyed the chair behind her. But no matter how much she wanted to rest her swollen feet, she didn’t dare sit down. Not unless she decided to let out the dress herself in a way that would guarantee she couldn’t wear it two days from now.

Saturday. Her wedding.

Her throat tightened, choking off her airway. She closed her eyes to ward off the unwanted reaction. Cold feet, that’s all it was. A major case of cold feet. What more could it be?

“You can handle this, Mellie. I don’t think I’ve met a braver woman than you. Aside from my Mary, of course.”

The words conjured up the image of Sean’s kind, time-marked face and sober green eyes.

Sean. Just Sean. She didn’t know his last name. But his presence had been the only thing that had kept her sane during that long week in the hospital. Odd, she thought, because he had been little more than a stranger. A visitor, there for another patient, who had entered the wrong room and found her alone and crying. It was the only time she’d been left alone by her mother, Joanie and Craig, who had all meant well but hadn’t a clue how to handle an injured secret service agent whose heart was breaking for the only person who hadn’t visited.

Sean hadn’t pried. He hadn’t tried to comfort her. He’d simply handed her a tissue and sat next to her bed as if it had been her he had come to visit all along.

Picking up a bouquet sample, Melanie listlessly straightened a silk lily of the valley in the all-white waterfall bouquet. She hadn’t seen Sean since she had been discharged, and hadn’t expected to. But thinking about him made her realize how much she missed her father. Made her selfishly yearn to have him there if only for an hour or so. If only to walk her down the aisle.

Blinking back unexpected tears, she refocused on the bouquet. Merely looking at the fake flowers made her feel like a fake herself. She turned away, not sure she wanted to see the woman reflected in the smooth glass. Three months ago…

“Three months ago you were a fool in love with your career. And an even bigger fool in lust with Marc McCoy,” she said softly.

She tossed the bouquet to the velvet chair and reached back to undo her dress, but she could barely move her arms. Joanie had trussed her in. It looked as if Joanie would have to let her out.

She sighed. “Just peachy.”

Joanie poked her head around the corner. “Whatcha need?”

Melanie sighed with relief then tried to pinch the tiniest bit of fabric away from her waist. “You were right. It needs letting out.”

“I was afraid of that.” Joanie came to stand behind her, assessing the damage. “I really hate to tell you I told you so, but—”

“You told me so.” Melanie watched her sister slide into her role as seamstress. While she may have spent the past eight years bucking tradition, Joanie had always been content with her life. More than that, she seemed to cherish the role she’d created for herself as everyone’s best friend.

It struck Melanie as odd that she should be the one getting married when her sister was still inexplicably single.

Joanie sighed wistfully. “I really do love this dress.” She smoothed the puckered seam. “I think it’s the one I would pick, you know, if I was in your place.” A shadow briefly moved over her pretty, freckled face. “You’re lucky, you know? I don’t think there’s a time in my life when I can’t remember Craig being around. And he’s always had such a crush on you.” She brushed a strand of red hair from her cheek. “You couldn’t ask for a better man….”

Her soft words drifted off. Melanie watched her sister, wondering if she was going to mention that the most she and Craig had ever been were friends. The best of friends, but just friends. But her sister appeared to be thinking of something else entirely.

“Joanie?”

Her sister blinked then stared at Melanie in the mirror. “Sorry, must have drifted off there. I haven’t had more than a couple hours sleep in the past two days.”

Melanie looked at her a little more closely. “Are you sure that’s all it is?”

“Sure? Of course I’m sure.” She tried to pinch the back of the dress. “Wow, exactly how much weight have you put on since last month?”

She gently batted Joanie away from where she poked at her stomach. “Not all that much.”

“Is it that time of the month?”

“No.” Melanie wished it were that simple. If only she could tell Joanie why, exactly, she had grown out of her dress. But doing so would undermine Craig’s generosity and would open up a whole different can of worms.

Two more days. Two more days and she could tell her sister and her mother.

Joanie pulled back. “No doubt about it. The seams need to be let out at least a half inch.”

Melanie swallowed hard. The formal rehearsal dinner her mother had insisted on was only… She glanced at her watch. “Oh, God, I’ve only got a half hour to get to Bedford Inn.”

Just then, an electronic bell rang, followed by a too-innocent, “Yoo-hoo!”

Joanie caught Melanie’s gaze in the mirror.

“Mother,” they said in unison.

“I’ll take care of her,” Melanie said, a heartbeat later. “You go finish up whatever you have to, so you can help me out at this dinner.”

“Hmm. I don’t know. A choice between dinner with Mother and your soon-to-be in-laws or playing voodoo doll with the bride next door? Tough call.”

Melanie latched onto Joanie’s arm. “Please don’t make me go through this alone.”

Her sister’s green eyes widened in mild surprise. “Melanie, you’re not facing a firing squad. Even if you were, you would be the one person I know who could handle it.” She covered Melanie’s hand with her own. “Okay, I’ll be there.” She laughed quietly. “But I have to say, you’re on your own for the honeymoon.”

Honeymoon. Melanie’s stomach tightened to the point of pain.

She gathered fistfuls of her full skirt in her hands and led the way from the room. She’d like to say she was surprised by her mother’s impromptu visit, but really couldn’t. Her mother had always been good at reading her. She didn’t doubt Wilhemenia Weber had picked up on the emotional turmoil she’d been going through for the past few months. And if she knew her mother, Wilhemenia wouldn’t stop until she found out what was going on.



IN HIS JEEP outside the bridal shop, Marc McCoy absently rubbed the back of his neck, then flicked the air-conditioning on. He didn’t know if it was the heat or his anxiety about what he was planning to do that made the temperature in the all-terrain vehicle intolerable, but if Mel took much longer, he was going to stalk in there after her. He grimaced. Who was he kidding? He wasn’t going anywhere. He’d sit here and wait just as he had for the past forty-five minutes. All because he’d been too wrapped up in his thoughts when she’d gone in to see his plan through. Eight solid hours of planning, and he’d been knocked out of commission just at the thought of coming face-to-face with her for the first time in three months.

He directed the cool air vent toward his face, then let his gaze drift to the two glossy magazines on the passenger seat. He resisted the urge to grab the first one to find out exactly “what a woman looks for in a man.” It wasn’t long ago he wouldn’t have been caught dead reading this stuff. But Mel’s absence in his life had left him with a gaping hole and long, endless nights that he tried to fill with reason.

He grabbed the magazines and shoved them under his seat.

He looked at his watch, then returned his attention to the shop.

He didn’t know why, exactly, he had hesitated when he first spotted Melanie leaving her mother’s house. For Pete’s sake, he didn’t even know why he hadn’t marched right into the house the moment he got into town.

Frustrated with his hesitation, he shut off the car engine, then reached for the door handle. His hand froze on the sun-warmed metal. Melanie’s mother was walking down the street looking like a woman on a mission.

“Uh-oh.”

Instantly, he was reminded why he hadn’t gone into the small house on Cherry Blossom Road. Because of Mel’s mother.

What was she doing here? In order to do what he had to, Mel had to be alone. She’d gone into the shop alone, and he’d expected her to come out the same way. What he hadn’t banked on was Wilhemenia Weber, who looked as though she’d come fresh from sucking on a dozen lemons, deciding to pay a visit.

She could be here to see Joanie, Marc thought. I hope she’s here to visit Joanie.

Five minutes later, the late afternoon sun reflected off the bridal shop door, and he sat up straighter.

“Show time.” Mel stepped onto the brick sidewalk. At least it looked like Mel. Grimacing, he slid down his sunglasses and squinted at the woman leaving. Yep, it was her all right. Minus the jeans, T-shirt and blue blazer she’d been wearing when she went in. Now she was decked out in one very short dress. But it was definitely her. It’s about time. What did she do? Decide to wear her purchase home? He reached for the door handle again. If he lived to be two hundred, he’d never understand what it was with women and clothes. He still had at least eight pairs of Mel’s shoes cluttering the closet in his town house. Keeping his gaze focused on Mel, he began to climb out…then froze.

There weren’t very many things Marc McCoy, Secret Service Agent, third of five proudly macho male siblings, was afraid of. But he was man enough to admit that Wilhemenia Weber was one of them. And when she followed Mel out of the shop, she threw a wrench the size of a semi truck into his plans.

“Damn.”

Marc fought the urge to sink down in his seat. Not only to keep Mel from spotting him, but to prevent her mother from focusing her fault-finding gaze on him. Oh, yeah, he’d met her once. And that one time was enough to know the woman would never like him. He grimaced, finding it difficult to believe it was just over three months ago, before that stupid discussion about love and before Mel’s injury, that she’d talked him into going home for Sunday dinner.

Mrs. Weber’s disapproving stare had started when he sat on the couch, causing the thick plastic furniture cover to crackle in a way that had made him flinch even as Mel laughed. The Stare had followed him throughout dinner, where Wilhemenia had jerked his soup bowl out from under his nose—apparently because he wasn’t convincing enough while trying to choke back the thick, cold green stuff—and ending when she’d practically slammed the door on him when he’d only been halfway out.

The only saving grace was that Mel had taken a perverse sort of pleasure in the whole ordeal. But he absolutely drew the line at returning to that woman’s home. Unless she took that stupid plastic off her furniture and ordered in for pizza and beer.

He sobered, realizing that would never happen. Not until Mel invited him back into her life.

His gaze followed mother and daughter down the sidewalk of the quaint little town of Bedford. What was more than a little unsettling was that he still wished Mrs. Weber had liked him…at least a little.

The risk of being spotted gone, Marc scanned the street before he slowly switched his attention to Mel. And found it suddenly difficult to breathe.

He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but she looked different somehow. Her blond hair was slightly longer, brushing the top of her shoulders in a curly way that caught the rays of the early evening sun. But that wasn’t it. Then it dawned on him. It was the dress. Well, not the dress, exactly, but the fact that she was wearing it. In muted pink with shiny flowery things stamped on the fabric, it was exactly the type of thing Mel wouldn’t have been caught dead in before. He appreciated the sway of her bottom, thinking he’d have been okay with her wearing feminine attire if she’d asked him. But she hadn’t. In fact, aside from the brief meeting when they’d first been assigned to work together, he’d never seen her in a dress. And then she’d been wearing a knee-length black skirt. This thing…this thing barely brushed the middle of her thighs.

Then there were those heels.

Growing more than a little hot and bothered, Marc tugged at the neck of his T-shirt. The shoes added a good three inches to her five feet seven inches. That would bring the top of her head to his nose rather than his chin when they came face-to-face.

Mrs. Weber turned her head in his direction. Marc slumped in his seat, jamming his knees against the dashboard in the process. He cursed. But the words barely exited his mouth when Mel nearly toppled right off those high, sexy heels. He grinned, forgetting the pain shooting up his knees for a second. Now that was more like the Mel he knew and—

He bit back the word, an audible gulp filling the interior of the Jeep. What did he know about love? Hadn’t Mel told him during their first and only argument that he didn’t know diddly about love?

No, he didn’t, couldn’t love her. He just liked Mel’s sexy backside enough to think it worth protecting from the guy who’d already shot her once.

“Oh, yeah? Then tell me something, McCoy. Why is that damn engagement ring you’ve been carrying around for three months burning a hole in your pocket?”



ADVENTURE, FREEDOM and hot sex are overrated. Melanie squeezed her eyes shut and repeated the sentence slowly.

“Melanie, dear, there are guests present.”

She cracked her eyelids open to take in a generous view of Wilhemenia, who sat across from her in the dining area of the Bedford Inn. She wasn’t sure why, but lately everything her mother said, no matter how innocuous, got under her skin. She offered a patient smile. “Of course there are guests present. It’s my rehearsal dinner. I invited them, remember?”

She took in the gilded antique chairs, the crisp white damask tablecloths and the pretty flowered wallpaper, wondering exactly why the traditional event was called a rehearsal. It wasn’t as though she or Craig needed pointers on how to walk down the aisle. That was a no-brainer. She smiled at Craig’s father, who sat adjacent to her, and suppressed the urge to fidget, sure the unladylike move would elicit another public reprimand from her mother. Then realization settled in. The rehearsal part of it didn’t have so much to do with her and Craig. Rather it was a preview of what holidays would look like from here on out.

The tickle of panic that had been with her all day grew to a pang.

Melanie tried to shake the images that crowded her mind. But like an unwelcome visit from the ghost of Christmas future, she envisioned her mother perched on the edge of a couch making comments that always somehow seemed like criticisms about the Christmas tree and covertly trying to get at the nonexistent dust bunnies under the coffee table with her ever-present embroidered handkerchief.

And Craig’s parents? Melanie watched them as she chewed a bite of cold roast beef. Okay, so his father was a bit…overbearing. Suspicious almost. Which was only fair given the suddenness of the upcoming nuptials. Melanie’s cheeks heated. Craig’s mother, on the other hand, was almost effusively nice. Likely a result of spending the past forty years trying to compensate for her husband’s bad manners. And her desire for grandchildren from her only child. The roast beef stuck in Melanie’s throat. Doris was going to get one of those sooner than she expected.

Guilt ballooned to challenge the panic.

Craig’s mother smiled at her brightly. Melanie smiled back, the tongs of her fork screeching against china.

She purposely avoided looking at Wilhemenia.

“Scary, isn’t it?”

“Hmm?” She glanced at Craig, who sat next to her.

He leaned a little closer and lowered his voice so only she could hear. “The thought of these guys being in the same room for more than five minutes at a stretch.” He cleared his throat. “Just getting my own parents to spend that much time together is asking for trouble.”

His familiar grin eased her discomfort as he unwittingly fit his own welcome image in with the others stamped in her mind. It didn’t surprise her that he’d been thinking the same thing she had. Throughout their nearly lifelong friendship, Craig and she had always understood each other.

She watched as the grin vanished from his face. He tugged at his tie. She thought he must be feeling as awkward as she was. He leaned in her direction again. “When this infernal thing is over, we need to talk.”

“Sure, we can do that.” Melanie was almost relieved to focus on someone else. She had been so wrapped up in her own thoughts, she hadn’t considered that Craig might be as nervous about all this as she was. But the fact that his request was so very serious scared her. Was he having second thoughts?

She glanced up to find the table had gone suspiciously silent. “How about this heat wave?” she said, not comfortable with the way her mother was watching her.

Doris made some comparison between the heat and a tin roof that Melanie missed, but Craig’s burst of laughter made her sigh.

Why can’t you be more like Marc?

She jerked involuntarily at the unwelcome thought, sending her fork sailing through the air. She watched in horror as it spiraled above the table, prongs over stem, prongs over stem…. Finally it landed neatly in the middle of her mother’s plate, spearing her roasted potatoes.

“Melanie!”

Her cheeks felt on fire. Of all the places for the sucker to land. She tightly clasped her hands in her lap where they were unlikely to do more damage.

“Pardon me.”

“Are you all right?” Craig asked.

Melanie made a show of watching her mother pluck the foreign piece of silver from her food.

Look at him, she ordered herself. She did.

It wasn’t that Craig Gaffney wasn’t attractive. He was appealing in an all-American way that included surfer good looks, wide grin and a sharp mind for drugs. Pharmaceuticals, she amended. She thanked the waiter when he brought her another set of linen-wrapped silverware. Her mother cleared her throat. Melanie carefully freed the silver from the white linen and picked up the clean fork, though she didn’t think she could swallow another bite of food.

Craig had a great sense of humor. Did it really matter that he sometimes didn’t grasp a punch line? Or that his capacity for humor had somewhat dwindled since they announced their engagement?

She picked up her wineglass and took a hefty sip only to realize she shouldn’t be drinking. She forced herself to swallow, then coughed. Craig’s father narrowed his eyes, watching her far too closely.

“Wrong pipe,” she said quietly.

Her fiancé was also very comfortable to be around, she continued, reviewing her Pro-Marriage to Craig column. A quality that had instantly cemented their friendship nearly twenty-five years ago when they were in kindergarten. He didn’t judge her the way most people did then…and now. She glanced in her mother’s direction. Wilhemenia was frowning…again. No, Craig had always accepted her for who she was. Which made accepting his proposal all too easy when she’d spilled her troubles to him.

Craig leaned toward her, giving her a hefty whiff of his cologne. I can change that. He lowered his voice. “You don’t feel like you, well, you know, have to—”

“Throw up?” she said a little too loudly.

He didn’t laugh. Instantly, she realized why. No one else at the table knew she was pregnant.

She searched for a way to cover her mistake. “I think I’m suffering from a case of pre-wedding nerves. Otherwise, I’m fine. Really.” Which was true enough. She hadn’t suffered through a moment of morning sickness, and she was two weeks into her second trimester.

Pregnancy. Baby. Marriage.

Suddenly, Melanie did feel sick.

Sick with fear.

What did she know about being a mother?

“I never thought Melanie would be the first of my girls to marry,” Wilhemenia was saying to Doris. The comment caused Craig’s father’s gaze to sharpen. “Joanie was always the better bet.”

More wife material, Melanie silently added, wondering exactly where her sister was and why she wasn’t here defending her. And why was her mother discussing her as though she weren’t even at the table?

Craig’s mother tittered. “But you have to agree, she’ll make a handsome bride.”

Archie drained half his glass of beer. “Tell me again why you two are in such a rapid-fire hurry to have Pastor Pitts marry you?”

Melanie started. Craig squeezed her hand and said, “I think a twenty-five-year courtship is long enough, don’t you, Pumpkin?”

Pumpkin? Okay, so soon she’d look as though she’d swallowed a pumpkin, but still… “You did ask me to marry you on the playground, didn’t you, Pookems?”

He blinked at her.

Melanie was aghast at her behavior. She resisted propping her elbows on the table and covering her face as she considered exactly what was going to hit her and Craig once everyone found out she was pregnant. And learned just how far along she was. It wouldn’t take a Ph.D. to figure out the math. Craig had been not only out of town at the time of conception—he’d been out of the country. In New Guinea. Doing whatever pharmacists did in third-world countries. That wasn’t fair, because she knew exactly what he had been doing. While she…

Melanie finally gave in and rested her forehead against her hand, ignoring her mother’s stare.

God, she was going to be sick.

She pushed away from the table. Everyone grabbed their glasses and silverware to keep them from becoming deadly projectiles. Tears burned her eyes. Could she possibly make this dinner any worse?

“Excuse me. I’m going to…” What? Lock myself in a bathroom stall until the world makes sense? “Powder my nose.”

Her mother neatly placed her napkin next to her plate. “I’ll come with you.”

“No!”

The occupants of the head table stared at her in stunned silence, as did the half of the population of Bedford that had been invited to the dinner. Melanie tried to control her voice. “I mean, thank you, Mother, but I can see to this myself.” Her mother appeared ready to argue. “I’m fine. Really.”

Melanie shakily stood her ground. Surprisingly, it worked. Her mother sat down. “Very well, dear.”

Melanie looked for the tiny bag she’d brought with her, then saw it lying on the floor. She stopped herself from crawling under the table for it, smiled at everyone, then stepped as casually as she could toward the hallway.

She felt awful. Her stomach was upset, she felt bloated and her swollen feet ached. But it was more than that. She felt out of her element. Usually in command of every situation, she now felt inexplicably vulnerable. As soon as she was in the hall, she collapsed against the wall, blinking back hot tears. What was the matter with her? Hormones? Or did some part of her realize she was making the biggest mistake of her life?

Out of eyeshot of everyone in the dining room, she slowly slid her hands down her stomach, resting them over the exact spot where even now her child was growing within her.

Marc’s child.

She briefly closed her eyes, wondering again if not telling Marc about her condition was such a good idea.

She wiped the dampness from her cheeks. Too late now, wasn’t it?

Besides, Marc had made it clear he wasn’t interested in anything permanent. She reached down and slid her aching feet from the torturous contraptions Joanie called shoes and tried to work the heel off one. She couldn’t very well wear them if they were broken, could she? It wouldn’t budge. She started in the direction of the rest rooms before someone caught her trying to snap the heel off from the other one.

Inside the pink-and-gold rest room, she locked herself into a stall and sank down on the seat. She needed a few moments to herself. Bolstering minutes to take a deep breath and pull herself together. She had to. Not for her sake. For her baby’s. And, a guilty part reminded her, for Craig. He deserved better than a cranky bride who abandoned him to his mother-in-law.

Melanie swallowed hard, appreciating if not particularly overjoyed with the humor of the situation. After using up the better part of her life trying not to upset the delicate balance of her relationship with her mother, she’d spent the past eight years going through an odd, ambitious sort of rebellion. Not a planned one, by any means. But during her first year at college, all the emotion—all the hunger for adventure she had secretly craved—had just kind of gushed out, overwhelming her with its intensity. She’d been as unable to deny the change in herself as she would have been able to keep the sun from warming her skin.

Then, three months ago, she had paid for that “coming out” of sorts. But tucking away the thrill-seeking Melanie Weber was not an easy task.

The outer door opened. “Yoo-hoo.”

Melanie closed her eyes and clutched her shoes, half wishing she could climb on top of the toilet so her mother couldn’t see her stocking feet from under the door. Not that it mattered. She peeked through her eyelids to find her mother angling her head to peer through the thin crack between the hinges.

“I’m in here, Mother.”

“Oh!”

She had to give her mother credit. At least she attempted to act as though she hadn’t just been gaping into a closed stall.

She heard the door next to hers close. There was no rustling of clothes, meaning her mother wasn’t doing anything in her stall, either.

“Mother?”

“Yes, Melanie?”

“Why are you so afraid I won’t go through with…well, you know, with marrying Craig?”

There was silence, then the distinct sound of the toilet paper roll going around in circles. Melanie gave in to a sudden smile. At least her mother was attempting to make the situation look somehow normal.

“Well…I have to admit, I am a little concerned about your unusual behavior these past couple days.” Wilhemenia paused. “I don’t know, your behavior reminds me so much of that time you came home from university for the summer and neglected to tell me you’d changed your major from business to pre-law.” She made a quiet sound. “I won’t say a word about how your choice of careers after graduation disappointed me.”

You don’t have to say anything because you already have. Every time you want me to do something I’m against.

Melanie propped her shoes on a metal shelf then toyed with her own toilet paper. “And do you really think hovering over me like a—” jailer? “—like a mother hen is going to prevent that from happening?”

Another brief silence. “It’s not like that at all. I…I just want to be here if you need anyone to talk to.”

Melanie caught herself ripping the paper to shreds, the pieces floating to land around her feet.

“Melanie?”

God, she was crying again. If she kept up the waterworks, she’d end up floating down the aisle on a wave of her own tears.

Her mother spoke again. “Is there anything you want to talk about?”

Melanie opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She swiped at her damp cheeks.

Her mother cleared her throat. “If this is about that Marc character, you should just put him out of your mind right now.”

Melanie released a long, silent sigh, the words a vivid reminder of exactly why she couldn’t talk to her mother.

“He’s not the marrying kind, you know. More little boy than man. You’d only be miserable.”

Melanie nodded, hating her mother’s words but agreeing with them nonetheless. She was beginning to suspect that the only thing worse than being without Marc McCoy was being with him.

“Mom?” The shortening of the word mother should have sounded foreign, but oddly enough it didn’t. “Did you love Dad?”

For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why she had asked that. Her father had died when she was three, right after Joanie was born. What did ancient history—especially her mother’s ancient history—have to do with what was happening now?

“Never mind. Forget I just asked that question.” Melanie got up and collected her shoes.

“Melanie?”

She stopped midway toward the door. “Yes?”

“I…” Wilhemenia’s voice trailed off. “I just wanted to tell you that all I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy.”

Some of Melanie’s tension melted away. “Marrying Craig will make me happy, Mom. Thanks.” She gestured vaguely, though her mother couldn’t see her. “Thanks for putting everything back into perspective.”

Clutching her shoes in one hand, she opened the outer door. She skidded to a dead stop, finding herself nose-to-chin with a whole different barrier.

Marc McCoy.

Melanie’s breath gusted from her.

That can’t be right. This was her rehearsal dinner. Marc shouldn’t be anywhere near the inn or the rest rooms, much less her, right now. Yet there he was, big as life and twice as tantalizing. She stumbled backward.

“Wrong way. You want to come out.” Marc folded his fingers around her wrist and tugged her the rest of the way into the hall. Melanie’s knees felt about as substantial as baby food. She had no choice but to lean into him, causing a wave of longing to flow through her body. Suddenly, three months seemed like a very short period of time, indeed.

“What’s going—”

“Shh.” Marc laid a finger against her mouth. The simple action was maddeningly sensual. Her gaze was glued to his lips. But rather than kissing her, he set her purposefully away from him, confounding her even more. She moved her hand to the side of her throat, feeling her pulse thrumming wildly, her skin searingly hot.

“Interesting conversation you and your mother were having in there,” he said.

Melanie avoided his gaze. “You heard?”

She didn’t realize what he was doing until he slid a mop handle through the door handle, securely barring her mother inside the ladies’ room.

A hysterical laugh tickled Melanie’s throat. She couldn’t count the times she would have loved to lock her mother in a room. But wishful thinking was one thing; willful doing was quite another. She battled the irresponsible emotion.

“Let’s go,” Marc said, taking her hand.

Let’s go? Had he actually just said, “Let’s go”?

Melanie dug in her heels as best she could, considering she wore no shoes. Her stocking feet slid across the tile as Marc hauled her toward the parking lot. She swatted at him with the lethal shoes in her free hand.

“Hold on a minute, McCoy. Just where do you think you’re taking me?”

He stopped. “Why, out of here, of course.”

Melanie stared at the man who had the power to overturn every one of her well-laid plans. Her stomach pitched as she realized he intended to do just that.

Then he had the nerve to grin. Grin! Okay, he was rubbing the spot where her spike heel had nicely connected, but otherwise there was no evidence she had done anything more than blow a strand of his rich brown hair out of place.

“Hello, Mel. Miss me?”

Miss him? About as much as a bad sunburn. But her heart started to murmur something else. Melanie ignored it.

“What are you doing here? You weren’t on the guest list. I know because I drew it up.”

“I penciled myself in.” Marc’s reflective sunglasses prevented her from seeing his brown eyes, but his smile told her more than she wanted to know. His head tilted forward as he took a languid look over the tight-fitting silk of her dress, then up to where the sleek material hugged her waist and breasts. “Put on some weight, haven’t you, Mel?”

Scorching heat spilled over her cheeks again as she fought the desire to cover her stomach. He doesn’t know, she reminded herself.

“Looks good on you.”

While her physical dimensions had altered a bit since she last saw Marc, he hadn’t changed a bit. At six foot two, he was two hundred pounds of raw, muscled male. His military background was evident only in his tall posture. The easygoing grin and lazy casualness were pure Marc, as were his black T-shirt, jeans and the suede vest she knew concealed the 9mm revolver he always carried.

The mop handle rattled against the door. “Melanie?”

Oh, God. Mother. “You know, it’s not very nice to go around locking people in bathrooms.” Melanie tugged her hand, but he only tightened his hold. “Marc!”

“What?”

“Let me go.” She considered whacking him with her shoe again. He finally released her.

“Aw, now is that any way to treat an old boyfriend?”

A handsome grimace creased Marc’s face. A face she had tried to forget. A face chock-full of remarkable features she sometimes found herself wishing her child would inherit. Their child. Melanie swallowed hard.

“Ex-partner, then,” he said quietly. “Surely you have a few minutes for your ex-partner.”

Partners. Yes, they had been at least that. Although not in any permanent sense of the word, despite her present condition. Their partnership had been more professional than personal, and she had been dumb to forget that even for a second. As special agents for the Treasury Department’s Secret Service Division, they had worked together for two years. Up until Melanie decided it was time to get out.

Wrong choice of words. She hadn’t decided anything. The decision had been made for her. By a fellow agent who had turned his gun on her…and by a doctor’s innocent words.

“Ex-partners do not lie in wait when all they want to do is catch up,” she said softly. “What do you want?”

Marc had always been good at his job. When he wanted, he could be formidable. His physical appearance alone was enough to scare off any number of fanatics hoping for a shot at stardom by targeting a political candidate. But in his downtime, Melanie knew him to be an irresistibly handsome, rambunctious little boy who usually took nothing and no one seriously. Which gave her a definite advantage over him.

Melanie bit her lip. She didn’t want to think like an agent anymore. In fact, she hadn’t thought about her previous career for at least—well, half a day. Hooker had called her from jail that morning, after a two-month silence, despite court orders for him not to do so. Hearing his voice before she broke the connection had rattled her as much as his previous calls, not to mention the countless letters he’d sent her, which she had returned unopened. Out of the need to feel safe, she’d strapped her firearm on. An irrational act, considering Hooker was in custody.

“Yoo-hoo. Melanie, there’s something blocking the door. Could you open it, please?” There were rattling sounds as her mother tried to open it herself. “Melanie?”

Melanie swallowed hard, feeling Marc’s gaze hone in on her despite the sunglasses. She suppressed a shiver.

“You’re going to have to call off the wedding, Mel.”

She blinked. “What?” she whispered.

“You heard me. Tell the poor guy you agreed to marry you’re sorry, but there’s been a change in plans.”

Hysterical laughter again threatened to erupt from Melanie’s throat. She thought of all the plans that had been made, the guests who had been invited, and realized she’d drop everything in a heartbeat if she thought for a minute that Marc loved her. But he’d already made it clear he didn’t and never would.

No, Marc’s appearance was just one more unfair occurrence in a day chock-full of them.

“Not on your life.” She surveyed him. She noticed the way he stood, all too handsome and deceptively relaxed, then watched the casual way he shifted his weight toward the bathroom door. Melanie’s gaze slid to the barrier, and her heart gave a triple beat.

“Melanie? Who’s out there with you? Is it Craig? Maybe he can help—”

Melanie dove for the mop handle. Before she could pull it free, Marc’s arms snaked around her waist. She gasped and thrust her elbow into his stomach with all the force she could muster, given her restricting apparel. She met with what felt like reinforced steel. While she’d gone a little soft around the middle, he’d gotten more than a bit harder.

“Come on, Mel, don’t make me go to Plan B,” he murmured.

Plan B? What was he talking about? And why did dread and anticipation spread through her at the humor in his voice? She stilled. “You can let go of me now,” she said with forced calm.

“Why? So you can try to let your mother out again? No way. I’ve been trying to get you alone all afternoon. Now that I’ve got you, I intend to do what I came for.” His breath stirred the hair over her right ear. She was powerless to stop an obvious shiver. “You are happy to see me.”

She tried to loosen his grasp, but again he tightened it.

“Come on, Marc, where am I going to go?” She wriggled against him, hating that he could read her reaction so well.

“Mmm.”

Melanie’s knees threatened to give out at the sound of his soft hum. His palms had flattened against her hips and now nudged up toward the underside of her breasts. She gasped, every traitorous part of her body craving that all too familiar touch.

Marc buried his face in her hair and breathed deeply. “God, I forgot what it was like to touch you.”

Need grew within her again, stronger this time. “Please let me go.” She hated the helpless quality of her voice and tried to insert some metal. “Or else I’ll do something you won’t find very pleasant.”

His chuckle stirred more than her hair. “You always were one for idle threats, weren’t you?”

Somehow she found the energy to do what she had to. Curling her fingers around one of the shoes, she swung it backward, heel first, hitting her intended target. Air rushed from Marc’s body. He stumbled back, releasing his hold on her and reaching for his crotch.

“How idle was that?” Melanie whispered. Clutching her shoes in one hand, she reached for the mop handle with her other.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Marc said.

Melanie’s stomach gave a small flip as she struggled to open the bathroom door. She nearly had the mop free when Marc drove it home.

“Why did I think this would be easy?” he murmured.

The world tilted beneath Melanie. By the time everything stopped spinning, she found herself draped over one of Marc’s wide shoulders, her shoes bouncing off the tiled floor. Her eyes were parallel with his jeans-clad rear end. And oh, what a rear end it was, too. Too bad she wasn’t in the mood to enjoy it at the moment.

What was she thinking? She didn’t want to enjoy anything about Marc. Not now. Not ever again. In two days she was getting married. And not to Marc. Because Marc had a bad habit of disappearing when she needed him most.

“I can’t believe you just did that!”

“Yeah, well, believe it,” he murmured. “I don’t care what they say, sometimes drastic measures are necessary.”

They? Who were they? God, she wished some of this mad situation would start making sense.

Marc suddenly stilled. “Everything’s fine, sir. You just go on about your business.”

Melanie peeked around his hips to see her uncle Fred worrying his tie in his hands. Bedford’s most prominent banker scurried toward the men’s room across the hall, not even attempting to help. Melanie suddenly wanted to cry.

A tentative knocking sounded on the ladies’ room door. “Melanie? Are you all right?”

Drawing in a fortifying breath, she said, “I’m fine, Mother.” Aside from feeling like a sack of flour. “Feel better now?” she asked him quietly.

“Much, thank you,” Marc said lightly. “Now, tell me how I go about making you see reason.”

“Reason? I’m not the one who just threw someone over her shoulder.”

She felt a hot hand on her ankle. She fidgeted and tried to see what he was doing.

“Hold still, or you’ll find a hand right where I’m sure you least want it,” he said. “Tell me, Mel, do you still take that neat little nickel-plated .25 everywhere you go?”

Melanie’s eyes widened as he cupped her right heel, then slowly slid his fingers up her calf, tickling the back of her knee. “Marc! Get your hands off me, you overgrown—”

His probing ceased just short of her panties. He stood silently for long moments. Melanie didn’t dare breathe. Awareness tingled everywhere his hand had touched, and even now neglected parts of herself pleaded for the pleasure they knew Marc could bring.

“Satisfied?” she croaked.

“Not nearly,” Marc said quietly. He moved his hand across her backside, eliciting a gasp, then slowly began down her other leg. “There she blows,” he said, pulling her .25 free from her thigh holster.

Melanie groaned and pushed against him in exasperation.

“Tell me, Mel, does your fiancé know what you hide under your skirt?” he asked, not removing his hand. Instead, he caressed the spot around her empty holster with feathery, fiery flicks of his callused thumb. She wriggled against him, threatening to topple herself to the floor. The way she figured it, anything was better than subjecting herself to Marc’s all-knowing touch.

“Put me down.”

His hand abruptly disappeared from her leg.

Rather than relief, Melanie felt nothing but disappointment. She held on for dear life as he bent to pick up her shoes.

“I will,” he said, the lazy teasing back in his voice. “Eventually.”




2


MARC TOOK IN everything and everyone in the parking lot in one glance. He hadn’t expected to spot Tom Hooker lurking in the shadows—the shooter who could even now have his gunsights set on Mel—but he hadn’t expected Hooker to escape custody the day before, either. No matter how overloaded his senses were with Mel’s nearness, he couldn’t forget that all evidence indicated Hooker was not only on a direct route to Mel, he was armed to the teeth, as well.

He picked up his pace.

Well, that hadn’t exactly gone as planned, had it? He shifted Mel’s weight more evenly over his shoulder, ignoring her attempts to get him to let her down. Ignoring, too, the warmth of having her body against his again, even given present circumstances. He strode toward his Jeep, parked in the far corner of the lot. The smell of new fabric mingled with Mel’s soft, subtle perfume. Linden flowers. That’s what he had always likened the scent to. She had always insisted it was jasmine. One of these days he’d take her to his family home in Manchester, Virginia, to show her the linden tree in the back yard. The tree’s brief but fragrant blossoms were the closest he’d ever gotten to any type of flower in the all-male household in which he’d been raised. Of course, while Mel shared his small town background, the only flowers likely to be found in her yard were of the rose variety.

“Where are you taking me?” Mel asked, wiggling to free herself from his hold.

“Cut it out, Mel. You’re just making this harder.” He tried not to focus on the way her breasts jiggled against his back and gave her bottom another squeeze. He grinned at her gasp.

“Is that what this is all about?” Her voice was raspy. Her movements stopped. “Are you doing this to cop one last feel?”

“Feel?” He opened the back door of the Jeep, thinking that touching her again would indeed be reason enough for him to kidnap her. “No, Mel.” He laid her across the back seat, causing the tight, short skirt to shimmy up her thighs, baring her legs and other more secret areas for his scrutiny. He tossed her shoes into the back, his gaze glued to the tiny scrap of material that masqueraded as underwear. It didn’t come close to disguising the soft, down-covered swell of sweet flesh it covered.

He concentrated on the tightening of his throat instead of the swelling in another area of his anatomy. Oh, how he longed to claim that mouth of hers with his, to skim his hands down her lush body, to trail a finger along the border of those panties, slowly, teasingly, watching as the silky material dampened with her reaction….

He reined in his thoughts. Speaking of groins, he’d be better off protecting his whenever he was on this side of her feet. The thought hit him just as she thrust her foot toward him.

He caught her ankle. Despite her actions, in her face he read the same longing he felt. He hadn’t realized how much he missed small moments like these. When everything but Mel vanished into the background. When just knowing how quickly he could make her come apart sent his blood pounding through his veins and opened a peculiar sort of weightlessness in his stomach.

He shifted his hand up her calf, the languid move hiding the way he shook inside.

“Marrying Craig will make me happy.”

Melanie’s words to her mother just moments earlier echoed through his mind. His hand froze as he slowly tore his gaze from her face. The feel of her warm, satiny skin beneath his palm made him fear it would take a crowbar to lift his hand.

A glance around the parking area reminded him where he was and what he was doing. Gradually, the sound of his heartbeat lessened, and the drone of cars passing on the nearby street increased. He finally moved his hand and swallowed…hard.

“Nice view,” he said, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

When he dared look at her again, her cheeks were flushed with color and she was avoiding his gaze. But it was the rough sound of her voice that betrayed her most of all. “Yeah, well, you might want to get a good look while you can.” Mel battled with the skirt, pulling on the hem until it somewhat covered her.

I don’t need to look. Everything about you is already burned into my memory.

Marc forced himself to reach for the handcuffs he’d left on the floor. He leaned toward her, careful not to let things spiral out of control again. Afraid it wouldn’t take much.

“I’m really sorry about doing this, Mel.” He grasped her wrist. He expected a struggle, but surprisingly he encountered little. He grimaced as he tugged her arm over her head. The metal teeth of the cuffs caught as he attached one side to her wrist, threaded the other through the handgrip above the window, then dragged her other arm up. He tried not to notice the way her chest heaved with every breath as he caught her legs under his weight. He took his sunglasses off and tossed them to the front seat. He was about to pull away when his gaze snagged on hers again.

God, it had been a long time. Too long.

Marc stretched his neck, thinking an ordinary man would be a goner with one look into Mel’s face right now. She looked altogether too kissable, too damned sexy. Luckily he’d never considered himself an ordinary man. He came from four generations of McCoys who had served in the military or law enforcement or both. He had once been a Marine. Nope, none of the five current McCoy brothers, if asked, would ever admit to knowing the meaning of the word ordinary.

Only problem was, the pep talk wasn’t doing diddly to douse his need to taste her lips….

Before he knew it, he was leaning closer to her, his breath mingling with her wine-scented breath. He eyed her mouth, groaning at the way she moistened her lips with a quick dart of her pink tongue.

“Marc, you better, um, not do what I think you’re about to.”

“Do what?” Get it under control, McCoy. “Kiss you?”

She made a sound that was somewhere between a whimper and a warning. It took Herculean strength to leave her mouth untouched, her lips slightly parted, no matter how much he wanted to claim both. Because of how much he wanted to. Instead he brushed his lips against the sensitive shell of her ear. “Remember when we used the handcuffs for reasons that were…not professionally correct?”

“That…that was a long time ago.” She fairly croaked.

“Not so long ago that you can’t remember.” Not so long ago that he couldn’t remember, either. Even now he hardened painfully at the images that slipped through his mind. Sex with Mel had always been intense. But, somehow, looking at her now, he found it hard to believe this prissily dressed example of upper-middle-class bliss could still be an inventive spitfire between the sheets.

He heard the click of her swallow as she moved restlessly beneath him.

Oh, she remembered, all right. He could tell by the way she arched against him even as she sought to put more distance between them. Impossible, given their current position.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for either of us to remember,” she said quietly, turning her head away when he would have pressed his mouth against her jawline.

He forced himself to pull back. “I think it’s the best idea I’ve heard in a long time.”

She turned her head toward him. “Just one of the many examples of how differently we think, isn’t it?”

He recognized the shadow of pain in her eyes. He’d seen it once before. The night before she was shot. The night they’d had their first and, as luck would have it, last argument. The night she had asked if he loved her.

Remembering the moment, Marc found swallowing almost impossible. But upon closer examination, he discovered there was something else in the depths of her eyes that was somehow unlike the pain she had so clearly felt then.

Before he could pinpoint exactly what, she moved one of her legs up, catching him off guard, though her stockings guaranteed her attempts were ineffective. He grimaced, thinking it was a good thing he’d tossed her shoes into the back or he’d have been in trouble.

“You’re getting rusty, Mel.” He patted her legs then reluctantly drew back. “I guess a dress and a couple months under Mother Wilhemenia’s roof will do that to a person.”

He watched the color return to her cheeks, though she still refused to meet his gaze. “And you’re still as reckless as you always were, aren’t you, Marc?”

“You used to tell me my…how did you put it? My adventurous nature was what you loved about me.” He cringed at the loose use of the L-word.

“What?” The cuffs clanked as she shifted to look at him. “I never said I loved that about you. That trait is exactly what made me—what made us so different.”

Marc eased himself out of the car and closed the door. He drew in a deep breath and worked his shoulders to loosen the muscles there. Yes, Mel had always appealed to him in a way he’d never wanted to examine too closely, but this… He thrust his hand through his hair, frustrated by his inability to define what he was feeling. One thing he did know was that he’d have to control it if he was going to protect Mel in the way she needed to be protected. And if he was going to get her back into his life.

He glanced toward the inn. Why didn’t it surprise him to find Mrs. Weber marching through the door? He grimaced, watching as she motioned to a man about his own age. Marc clutched the driver’s door handle. Mel’s groom, he guessed.

No, this wasn’t going as planned at all.

Then again, nothing with Mel had ever really gone as planned. If it had, she would still be with him and the division and she wouldn’t be getting ready to marry some other fool on Saturday morning, putting herself at more risk than she knew. And making him feel lonelier than he’d ever thought possible.

He climbed in and slammed the door so hard the Jeep rocked. He started the engine.

“Where are you taking me?” Mel asked again. The persistent clank of the cuffs told him she was examining them. He didn’t have to look. She knew as well as he did there was no way she could free herself. Not unless she carried a key in her bra. Something he doubted, but he had prepared for the possibility anyway by making sure she couldn’t reach it if she did have one.

“Just sit back and enjoy the ride, Mel. You’re not exactly in a position to do much else.”

She pushed at the back of his seat with her feet. Marc leaned forward. She might have gotten a little rusty, but she still packed a hell of a punch. And he wouldn’t put it past her to have enough strength in those long legs to send him flying through the windshield.

He should have brought some shackles.

Stick to the plan.

Just because the plan was off course didn’t mean he couldn’t proceed with the rest of it.

He thought back to a magazine article he’d recently read. When having problems, focus on the good things.

“Mel?” he said quietly.

A long silence, then a tentative, “What?” drifted from the back seat. He looked to find her still examining the cuffs. Marc faced the road again.

“Remember the time we were on the vice-presidential detail in Seattle?”

Silence.

“You remember. He was in Washington for the preprimary debate, and we were placed on extra alert—”

“I remember,” Mel interrupted, apparently giving up her study of the cuffs.

He glanced to find her staring at him. “Then you remember what you did when you saw that perp in the hotel kitchen? You wrestled the guy to the floor before he had a chance to identify himself.” She turned her face away. “Good thing the vice president’s ticker was strong, or you would have given him a heart attack.”

No response. Marc tightened his hands on the steering wheel. Maybe that hadn’t been the best memory to use.

“Of course you couldn’t have known he liked to walk the streets incognito, picking up a paper or two. Hell, none of us knew.”

Silence.

Marc cleared his throat. The art of conversation was obviously not an inherited skill. His father was a pro at it—at least with others—as was his brother Mitch. Given Mel’s response, he guessed he was still an amateur. “Not in the mood for reminiscing, Mel?”

“Don’t call me Mel,” she said finally. He exhaled in surprised relief. An angry Mel was much easier to deal with than a silent one. “My name’s Melanie. And no, I don’t feel like revisiting the past, Marc. I’d just as soon forget it.”

He turned onto the on-ramp for I-270 South. “It wasn’t that long ago.”

“Ninety-two days. Two-thousand, two hundred and eight hours. One hundred, thirty-two thousand—”

“All right, I get the picture already,” he grumbled.

“—four hundred and eighty minutes,” she finished, her voice little more than a whisper. “That’s a lot of time. Enough time for a person to completely reinvent herself.” She paused. “I’m not rusty, Marc. I’m not the person you knew.”

Maybe she had a point there. Marc rubbed his fingers across his chin. Then again, his reaction to her hadn’t changed. While Mel still carried her .25—strapped to her milky thigh, no less—she didn’t call herself his partner anymore, in either sense of the word, no matter how much he wanted to lose himself in her. Now more than ever. Three months without Melanie had done that to him.

He resisted the urge to rearrange a certain painfully erect body part into a more comfortable position. He reminded himself that his plan had as much to do with physical urges as it did with the threat that loomed over Mel’s head. And the changes in her merely amplified her need for protection.

What would she do when he told her Hooker had escaped from custody en route to his hearing? That it was strongly suspected he was coming after her to finish the job?

He looked at her in the rearview mirror, flinching when the rock she wore on her left ring finger reflected the sunlight. He thought about the velvet pouch in his pocket. His ring was nothing compared to the one she had on. Little more than costume jewelry. Why had he decided an emerald was prettier than a diamond?

He grimaced, wondering why he carried the stupid thing around, anyway.

Marc mulled the situation over for the half-hour ride into the city, finding no easy answers to his questions or the ones Mel kept asking. Honesty to a degree. That’s what a piece in last month’s issue of It’s a Woman’s World had said. But what was that degree? He absently thrust his fingers through his hair. Sure, he knew enough not to tell a woman her hips looked big in a certain pair of jeans or that a shade of lipstick looked awful when it did…well, most of the time anyway. But how much did he tell Mel about what was going on? Was it best to keep the truth from her altogether? Was it better to let her believe he’d kidnapped her to keep her from marrying someone else? Which wasn’t exactly a lie…

He slid the velvet pouch to the side of his pocket. Who in the hell had colored in so many shades of the truth, anyway? He really couldn’t guess how Mel would react. All he knew was that her injury must have scared her but good, or she would have never quit the division.

“God, you’re not taking me to your town house, are you?” Mel’s voice broke into his thoughts.

He cleared his throat. “So you still recognize the way. Given the number of times you’ve visited lately, I’m surprised.”

She whispered something he couldn’t hear. He turned to look at her. He’d noticed before that she’d let her hair grow. He watched the setting sun bounce rays off the golden strands, making it appear as if she wore a halo. Only he knew how much of the devil resided within her, even if she chose to forget.

“What was that?” he asked.

Metal clanked against metal, but she said nothing.

“Let’s see, what could it have been? Hmm. Could you have been commenting on how many times I visited you in that colonial mansion wannabe on Cherry Blossom Road in Bedford you now call home?”

Her continued silence told him what he wanted to know.

He grew more agitated. “I was afraid your mother wouldn’t tell you how many times she turned me away—”

“She did not.” Another nudge to the back of his seat nearly threw him against the steering wheel. But it was the loud tearing of material that caught his attention.

Marc pulled into the garage of the two-family town house he had lived in for the past ten months. With a flick of the remote, the garage door started to close, clipping off the sunlight. He turned to see Mel’s frown as she took stock of the rip in her dress.

“Tsk, tsk,” he said softly.

“Go to hell, McCoy.”

He climbed out of the Jeep. “Oh, me and hell are coming to know each other very well lately,” he said to himself, then opened the back door. “Are you going to cooperate? Or should I leave you out here until you cool down?”

He watched her school her features into a mask of calm. Only the bright spots of red on her cheeks gave away her true feelings. “I’ll cooperate.”

He grinned, not buying her act for a second. “Good.”

He took the key to the cuffs out of his front jeans pocket and released her. She rubbed at the red rings around her wrists, then stared at the tear in her dress.

“I can’t believe you did this,” she said as she scooted to the door. Marc stepped out of the way. “Where’s the phone?”

She glanced around the garage to where a telephone extension had once hung next to the door to the kitchen. “Phone?” he asked.

Her gaze warily shifted to him. “Yes, you know, that little banana-shaped instrument you use to contact others. Where is it?”

He glanced at her, taking in her shoeless feet. “Let’s go inside, why don’t we?”

He placed his hand at the small of her back, silently groaning at the way the silk of her dress complimented the warm hollow. She didn’t budge. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Oh? You’re here, aren’t you?”

“Not by choice.” She moved away from his touch, and he saw the ten-inch tear in the side seam of her dress.

He dropped his voice an octave, doubt briefly tainting his intentions. “What makes you think you have a choice now?”

Wrong thing to say. He knew without any magazine telling him that. No one liked to be boxed in. Especially a woman like Mel.

He watched as her eyes widened slightly. For the first time in the years he’d known her, he spotted fear lurking in her face, in her stiff posture. Never had Melanie Weber been afraid of him. And he didn’t like the thought that she was now, even if it was for her own good. He molded his fingers gently around her upper arm and urged her toward the door.

“Come on. If you’re still hungry, you can raid the fridge while I see to some things.”

She tried to tug her arm from his grip. “I don’t want to raid your fridge, Marc. I’m supposed to be in the middle of a perfectly wonderful dinner with—”

“I know. Your groom-to-be, his parents, your mother and all of Bedford. I hate to tell you this, Mel, but I think your guests have figured out you won’t be back.”

Her gaze fastened on his face, but she kept walking. He steered her through the door, then closed it and turned the key in the dead bolt. He pocketed the key, then let her go, oddly disappointed he no longer had a reason to touch her.

She ran her hand absently over the marble-tiled countertop that had been the deciding factor in his taking the town house, though he had yet to understand her fascination with the piece of rock. She turned toward him, her eyes soft and watchful.

Marc barely heard the loud, curious meow and the clicking of nails against the kitchen floor until Brando wound himself around Mel’s ankles.

“Oh, God, you still have him.” She bent to lift the cat into her arms and cuddled him close. For a moment, a crazy moment, Marc allowed himself to believe Mel was here on her own steam.

“Of course, I kept him,” Marc said quietly, turning away. He tensed, half expecting her to mention all the times he swore he’d toss the scruffy scrap of gray fur from the place after she’d dumped the stray in his lap. But after Mel disappeared from his life… Well, the arguments on how the new town house and the cat wouldn’t get along meant little. And having something of Mel meant a hell of a lot more.

He felt her probing gaze on him. Well, that bothersome habit hadn’t changed, had it? She still looked at him as if she could see to the core of his soul. And, stupidly, he still felt the need to hide it from her. Especially now.

He opened the refrigerator, using the door to block her gaze. “Why don’t you go wait in the living room. This shouldn’t take long.” Peripherally, he saw her finger the empty phone perch on the far kitchen wall. Then the pat of her shoeless feet against the tile told him she had left the room.



MELANIE MADE HER WAY through the all too familiar town house, trying not to notice the changes. Or, more importantly, trying not to register all that hadn’t changed.

She didn’t want to see the paperback she had readily abandoned on the side table when Marc had tackled her on the leather sofa.

She didn’t want to remember how they had a wallpaper glue fight while decorating.

She rested her hand on the dining room table, trying to erase from her mind what had happened the one and only time they had attempted to have a civil meal, only to end up with her right elbow resting in a plate full of mashed potatoes. It had taken three washes to get all the gravy out of her hair.

She closed her eyes. No phones. Not a single one of the three extensions was in sight. She swallowed the panic that had been accumulating in the back of her throat all day. During the drive, she had come to the conclusion that she couldn’t return to the dinner and pretend nothing had happened; that much was obvious. But at least she could tell someone she was okay and that they shouldn’t worry.

“Who would you like to explain this to, Melanie?” she whispered, absently stroking the purring cat in her arms. “I’ve got it. You’d call Craig. He’d be upset, but surely he’d understand. No, no, you’d call Mother and make her worry even more that you’re going to run out on your groom.”

She leaned against the living room wall and closed her eyes, not wanting to be reminded of the past. But everything in this place brought the memories rushing back. Marc hadn’t changed 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 a shaky smile. “And mine?”

He stared at her, seemingly at a loss. She wished he would say purple, as if that in itself would prove he cared about her.

But he remained painfully silent.

Finally, he said gruffly, “I’m going to finish up. Why don’t we have this little talk later, okay?”

“Talk,” Melanie repeated numbly, her point more than hitting home. “Yes, yes, we do need to have a talk.”

She watched him set Brando down and leave the room, incapable of all but the simplest of movements. Like blinking.

She desperately needed to convince him that they weren’t meant for each other—before his mere presence swayed her the other way. She needed to remind him that he didn’t love her, no matter how much it hurt to face that inescapable fact.

Brando brushed against her foot. She absently scooped the tom up and stroked him, then glanced at her watch. She caught herself bouncing the cat as if he were an infant and forced herself to stop. She didn’t understand why she had to explain anything. Hadn’t it been Marc who said he never wanted children? Hadn’t it been Marc who was nowhere to be seen when she was lying in a hospital bed after surgery to remove the bullet she’d taken? When she’d learned she was pregnant?

She realized she was close to tears. She couldn’t deal with this right now. She really couldn’t.

Her legs were no longer able to support her. She sank into the beige leather couch, listening to the sound of running water from the kitchen. Marc’s peculiar behavior wasn’t the only cause for concern. There were her curious feelings for the man, reignited the moment she saw him standing outside the inn’s ladies’ room. She blamed his absence from her life, the shock of seeing him again after so long, for most of her reaction. But she knew she couldn’t easily dismiss the other feelings that had stirred to life. Her blood ran thick; her lips were forever dry, as though waiting for him to moisten them with his kiss; her body trembled in a way she had somehow forgotten it could but all too readily remembered.

But it was more than that. She had missed him. Missed his boyish smile, his adolescent sense of humor—

“Are you sure you don’t want something to eat before we leave?”

Marc’s question pulled her from her thoughts. At the mention of food, the cat leaped from her lap and meowed. Melanie swallowed the lump in her throat. Marc acted as if this situation were nothing more than two old flames catching up, but the fact that he’d carried her there, not to mention removing all the telephones, told her she was little more than a prisoner.

Prisoner.

“Uh, yes, I am a little hungry,” she said, trying for a smile. His grin told her he wasn’t buying her change in behavior. Still, Melanie tilted her head and desperately kept smiling. Finally he said something under his breath, then returned to the kitchen.

Her heart racing, Melanie got up from the couch so quickly she was sure she heard another rip of fabric somewhere in the back of her dress. She tugged at the hem and hurried toward the French doors—the obvious choice for escape. Too obvious.

“Think, Mel, think.” She started at her use of her old nickname. Everyone at the division had called her Mel. Initially, she had encouraged the habit. The male name did away with a lot of the pre-meeting sexual discrimination so inherent on the job, especially since out of two thousand secret service agents, only one hundred twenty-five were women. Of course, it hadn’t meant a thing after she met someone face-to-face, but with her knowledge of tactical techniques and natural skill with firearms, she had more than held her own in the male-dominated field.

The bedroom.

She bit her lip. Marc would probably expect the bedroom to be the last place she’d go. Given his ego where his libido was concerned, he would think her too weak to confront the memories of their lovemaking.

She tried the door to the bedroom, then caught sight of the bathroom. She hurried across the hall and turned on both faucets, then pushed the auto lock in and closed the door before stepping into the bedroom.

Twilight filtered through the miniblinds on the windows, slanting intimate shadows across the unmade king-size bed. Melanie swallowed. If Marc had judged her too weak to come in here, she had a sinking feeling he might have been right. They hadn’t spent a great deal of time in the town house, but what little time they had was spent primarily in this room.

She edged along the wall and the closed closet doors, irrationally afraid that if she got too close to the familiarly rumpled bed, she might be tempted to climb in. Her pulse racing, she made her way to the closest window. The other one would require her to step around that bed. Her palms grew damp, and she hoped she wouldn’t have to do that.

“Mel?”

Every molecule of air froze in her lungs as Marc’s voice filtered through the closed door. There was a quick knock against the bathroom door across the hall. She hurried to the window. Hoisting the miniblinds, she stared outside, then tried to unlatch the window. It wouldn’t budge. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure the door was still closed and blindly tried to open the window. Nothing. She stared at the previously easy-to-turn latch and found that a tiny lock had been secured to it. She considered using the brass clock on the night table to break the glass. Then her gaze caught on something else.

Slowly, she lifted the turned-down picture frame next to the clock. Her breath caught when she looked at a picture of herself.

Where? How? Neither of them had ever owned a camera. Heat swept across her cheeks. At least not while they were together. Now she owned a top-of-the-line camera with all the extras in preparation for the birth of her—their—baby.

But this picture…

She scanned the background of the photo and realized she hadn’t posed for the shot. It had been taken on the job. Marc must have had a copy made and had her image cropped and enlarged. Her heart gave a tender squeeze.

“Nice try.”

Melanie jumped, nearly dropping the picture as she turned toward the door. There was a time not so long ago when no one could have entered a room without her knowing it. Obviously that was no longer the case. She turned to find Marc filling every inch of the doorway, his hands on his lean hips, his sexy grin peeling back the layers of her resistance.

“I…” She what? Melanie swallowed and put the picture frame on the nightstand. She had tried to escape. It was as simple as that. “You can’t keep me here, you know. By now a lot of people will be looking for me.” She stared at him. “You’re well versed on the legalities, so I won’t bother with those.” She squared her shoulders. “But I don’t know if you understand how morally incorrect this is. If you have one ounce of feeling left for me, Marc, you’ll let me walk out the front door. Please.”




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