The Man For Maggie

Chapter 2

Maggie’s body glowed pink, blooming from the aftereffects of a hot shower and brisk rubdown with a thick towel. Her comb slid off the long, creamy slice of marble below the huge mirror and into her palm. Holding the comb firmly enough to mark her skin, she slicked her wet hair back without once looking at her reflection. Her father’s dark green silk robe hung on the back of the door and she slipped into it, hiding her nakedness.

A hint of Frank’s favorite cologne still lingered in the soft folds after all these months, the fragrance teasing at her memory as she wrapped the robe’s generous width around her. Doubling it over at the front, she crossed her arms tightly against her breasts, trying to remember the last time her father had held her—and failing.

So long…so long ago since the dreams began and the hugs had stopped. Puberty at least. But then, maybe all fathers began distancing themselves from their daughters at that age, and everything else was in her imagination. The way the dreams were, according to Frank Kovacs. Her father had had a way of saying things, like an edict from on high, and Maggie had known not to argue when he used a certain tone of voice.

Stubborn, arrogant man.

If only he’d believed in her.

Maggie’s lips quivered and she pushed the thoughts away before they undid all the good the shower had achieved. Just give her one dreamless night and she’d be okay. Thoughts of Max Strachan were banned as well. Thoughts like the ones that had made her stumble out of the shower, grab the towel and attempt to erase the graphic visions with rough friction.

The water had been hot, so hot—not as soft as the tank water at home, but with more pressure—and she’d luxuriated in the difference, letting the needle-sharp jets tingle against her skin, tilting her head back to let the water pour over the tightness in her throat, then split into three streams as it coursed around her breasts. She could put up with the smell of chlorine just for the way the spray sent her blood zinging through every particle of her skin till she felt as hot inside as out.

Then she’d glanced down while she’d soaped her breasts.

And seen Max’s hands.

His broad palms cupped her breasts from the sides and his fingers created patterns of tanned and pale skin across the full mounds. Max used the contained strength she’d felt earlier to conjure the silkiest of caresses from pure, latent power. His touch, gentle yet hot as fire, seared through to her soul as the water careened over the growth of dark hair, plastering it to taut, lean sinew and bone until it spilled off his wrists. Here was a vision that could shatter her fragile control, and as her nipples tightened into sharp points and stabbed into his palms, she squeezed her eyes shut and still couldn’t blank it out.

Damn, she was losing it.

Maggie hitched the belt of the robe around her waist and tightened it. Pulling hard on the ends until she could hardly breathe, she formed a bow with short jerky movements of her hands. Who was having the last laugh now? She could hear her father’s voice echo in her mind.

“Too much imagination.”

Thick carpet soaked up his footsteps, and heavily embossed, light blue wallpaper, hung with reproduction artwork, ate up all other sound, obliterating his presence. As he reached the terra-cotta door, which emphasized the similar-colored pattern on the dark blue carpet, a swift glance over his shoulder confirmed he was on his own. One more strike against the up-market apartment tower. If anyone was going to creep up on Max, he wanted to hear him coming. Sure, the tenants had probably paid a bundle to achieve this high-tech impression of peace and solitude, although if he lived ten stories up, his number one priority would be knowing no one had come along and kicked the rest of the building out from under him.

He reached out and rang the bell to the left of the solid wood door. A peephole had been set dead center in the thick plank bisecting the door. He eyed it for a moment, just a moment, and considered sticking his thumb over the aperture, then changed his mind. At thirty-four he was past playing those kinds of games.

Maggie would let him in—she had to. There was an awareness, an attraction. It had shimmered between them like a living, breathing thing no smelly, clamorous pub could pollute. He’d felt it, and he would swear she had, too—he wouldn’t have risked calling on her otherwise.

From his first sight of her on the other side of the bar, tension had begun to claw at his gut. Even learning her name and knowing her history hadn’t dulled the sharp edges of neediness he’d felt at the touch of her hand. And unless he mistook his instincts, it had driven her away. Among other things. But she would recognize what it had cost him to come here tonight. He was certain of that.

Max rang the bell again and stood close to the door, his hands braced on either side of the frame, waiting, wondering what he’d do if she wasn’t inside. Although she should have been expecting him. He’d shown his ID to the security guard at the desk when he’d asked for her on the way through, and if the guy had been doing his job he would have told her the police were on the way up.

Max could feel her watching him. He sensed her presence on the other side of the door as surely as if she’d reached out and touched him. That was all it took. His groin tightened and all the blood in his brain rushed down to his crotch. Max closed his eyes and swallowed, fighting for control.

A few more minutes and Maggie would have been sound asleep. She’d curled up on one of the sofas with the robe wrapped around her knees and her feet tucked under it. While the fire flickered gaseous flames up the chimney, she’d dozed lightly, with the TV droning softly, turned to a program guaranteed to cure the worst of insomniacs. It had taken her ten seconds to come to. Longer till the second ring confirmed the noise wasn’t coming from the TV.

A shiver splashed with excitement and muddied by apprehension flowed through her as she looked into the viewer’s fish-eye lens.

She knew him.

It made no difference that he was standing so close to the door only the lower half of his face was visible. She recognized the dark green shirt and loosely knotted, matching tie under the jacket of small, muted-green checks he’d worn earlier. Recognized the movement in the strong throat as he swallowed, and most of all she recognized the hard, square-cut jaw. Nothing had changed in the last few hours except the deepening shadow of a relentless growth of beard.

Maggie’s pulse quickened and the nerves on the surface of her skin vibrated the way a piano wire does when a fingernail scratches it from end to end.

It didn’t stop her asking, “Who’s there?”

“The police.”

“How can I tell? Hold your ID up to the security viewer.”

“For Pete’s sake, Maggie! Stop fooling around. You know it’s me, Max. Sergeant Strachan. Your memory can’t be that short.” His exasperation showed in the explosive bursts of language, harsh at first, then softening, cajoling. “Please, Maggie, open the door and let me in. I need to speak to you.”

She hesitated long enough to elicit another plea.

“Maggie, you know we have to talk.”

She could only guess why he’d turned up at her door at ten o’clock at night, and neither conclusion brought any comfort. But it appeared to be business as usual, otherwise he would have said “Max here” instead of “the police,” and the only way to discover if her suspicions were right was to let the man talk. “I don’t know what you think we have to say to one another, but you can come in—just for a few minutes,” she said, qualifying her previous statement as she undid the chain and clicked open the locks.

She stepped back, swinging the door so its full width separated them instead of mere inches. “Come in,” she said, increasing the distance between them by another step.

Nothing had changed.

Whatever effect he had on her imagination, Max Strachan up close and personal sent it off the graph. He walked past her into the apartment and her heart lurched, starting a fast, syncopated beat as she watched his wide shoulders fill up the archway that separated the foyer from the main living area.

The soft brilliance of table lamps and wall sconces blinded Max after the muted lighting in the corridor. Here, cream and pale gold melded on squishy cushioned sofas, carpets and curtains. What wood there was in the room had been limed to fade unobtrusively against walls the color of thick, rich cream straight from the milking shed. In contrast, his and Maggie’s reflections drifted over a night-dark sea and sky. And behind the sheen of glass, the scene shifted and changed as car headlights traveled the Harbour Bridge and merged with the carpet of small, unwinking stars on the North Shore.

It made his own small apartment seem dead. Like comparing poor-boy minimalist with rich-man lush. For the first time that night Max questioned the urge that had chased him all the way down Hobson Street and around Viaduct Quay.

“Well, Maggie. No one can say you haven’t got style.”

“My father had style, or rather his designer did, but it’s not mine. On a sunny day it’s like living in a white-out. I hardly use this place. In fact, this is the first time I’ve stayed here since my father…”

“Crashed his plane?”

“Yes, round about then.” For a split second he thought her face would crumple, but she ducked her head, hiding her expression, before he could be sure. When she did return his gaze her shoulders had squared and a fraction of a smile shaped her full lips. “Would you care for a drink?”

Max nodded, marveling at her self-control. She’d got it down pat, compared to her behavior the day Frank Kovacs’s plane had taken a nosedive into the sea.

“Good, I could use one myself, but I hate to drink alone.”

So his visit wasn’t to be limited to a few minutes, after all. Max took that as a sign of encouragement.

Maggie padded around him on bare feet. Swathed all in green, with her hair straight back and her face natural and free of makeup, she might be mistaken by some for a woodland sprite. Not by him. He liked the play of light on the silky robe, changing its color from light into dark over the curve of her lush little butt, as it swayed to a rhythm all its own.

Maggie didn’t have a stitch on under that thing. Max tugged at his tie, loosening it some more. He needed something to kill the heat spreading from his loins. He needed Maggie, or at a pinch, air.

Opening one door of a long, hand-carved sideboard on the far wall, Maggie hunkered down to look into the wine rack. The robe pooled on the carpet and bloused around her middle. “What do you prefer, red or white wine?”

“Whichever you pick’s fine by me. You’re the expert,” Max replied, following her, drawn by a need to be closer. He leaned one elbow on top of the sideboard as she pulled one bottle after another from the rack and examined the labels. Her clean, fresh scent wafting up to him was more intoxicating than anything she could find in the wine rack. Now if only they could bottle Maggie Kovacs…

Someone ought to shut him away for staring down the gaping neckline of her robe. He wouldn’t mind for a minute as long as they locked Maggie up with him. She had the most perfect breasts he had seen in all his life. Mounds of smooth olive satin—not too big, not too small—hand-size and tipped with sweet, tight, treacle-brown nipples that had him craving for a taste. Man! If he caught anyone else trying this—

What had gotten into him? Possessiveness? Get a hold of yourself, Max!

“This is an excellent one, a six-year-old shiraz. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

“Looks good to me,” he said, fastening his jacket as he straightened, to prevent Maggie from getting an eyeful of the bulge distorting his zipper. As she got to her knees, Max held out his hand, and she drifted up to him until he couldn’t tell who needed steadying, her or him. Her night-dark gaze held his till her eyelids fluttered and severed visual contact, though her hand still seared his palm.

“There are glasses in the other cupboard. Can you get two out while I open this?” Did her voice sound as shaky as it felt? Having Max this close made her limbs feel like Jell-O. There was just so much of him, and all of it male. If she licked her lips she would probably taste testosterone.

Maggie lifted the gold wine steward’s knife and wondered that it didn’t melt in the heat of her hand. Her stomach clenched and her hips bucked slightly. If only she could rid herself of the picture she’d created in the shower, of Max’s hands on her breasts. It seemed her brain and her hormones were at odds. So far she felt brainless and out for the count, with three rounds to go. No wonder she’d asked him to stay for a drink, when all she’d meant to do was have a little conversation and show him the door.

She gripped the bottle like a lifeline. With the knife open, she ran the razor-sharp edge around the cap. Two clicks in quick succession told her Max had placed the wineglasses near her elbow. She flicked the seal up, catching it between her thumb and the knife, and began to peel it back, revealing the cork. The buzzing in her ears started about two seconds before the stars came out in front of her eyes, and the bottle tilted, sliding on its edge across the tray. Somewhere on the edge of her peripheral vision lay a sight she wanted to deny.

“Whoa, there!” Max’s arms came around her, catching the bottle with one hand and relieving her limp fingers of the knife with the other.

In the midst of all the heat radiating from Max’s body, Maggie shivered. He’d returned the bottle and knife to the sideboard, and he supported her with his strong, tightly muscled arms, pulling her shoulders back against his hard chest.

“You okay?” he asked gruffly, bending his mouth to her ear as he gathered her closer. “You went white as a sheet. I thought you were going to pass out.”

Tiny balloons burst in her brain, letting all her common sense escape and float away. Oh, she thought. She could get used to this, someone who’d be there when she needed him. Maggie let herself lean back into his strength. Gave temptation its head for a second and luxuriated in the male scents, the solid bulk of his chest that could almost make her believe she could rely on him. If just for a second.

The pressure of his steely hardness against her hip felt like a rod to her back the same moment the thought No wonder Jo is keen on this guy, crossed her mind.

Jo! Her best friend!

What was she doing?

Moving in on her best friend’s man!

Maggie clutched the edge of the sideboard with both hands.

An old Mae West joke raised its feeble head, but Maggie was absolutely certain he wasn’t packing a gun. Which only went to show how jittery she was, a case of jangling nerves with a bit of mild hysteria thrown in for good measure. “I guess I stood up too quick, but I’m all right now,” she said to excuse her behavior. Forgiving herself for being carried away by the nearness of Jo’s man would take a bit longer. No matter how much Maggie was tempted, only hurt could result from ignoring the signals her friend had been putting out at the pub.

As for Max’s part in the incident, he was a man. She’d heard it was a mechanical reaction.

A heavy sigh tore from his throat and he stepped away from her. “Yeah, you look better, more color in your cheeks. Though for both our sakes it’d be best if you got dressed and I took care of the wine. When I first arrived, I suspected you might be naked under that robe, but now…”

Maggie turned to face him, her hands crossed defensively on her chest. She felt a flash fire of color race from her cheeks to the roots of her hair. Max reached out and stroked her skin where the cuff slid back from her wrist, setting her heart pounding erratically.

“Now I’m positive,” he said, trailing one finger—only one—against the shadowy blue veins where her pulse did bumps and grinds from this simplest of contacts.

“Maybe you should just go.”

“No. I’m not done here. But don’t worry. All I want for now is to talk. You go get some clothes on. We can sit over there with a sofa apiece and the table between us. What could be safer?”

By the time Maggie came back, Max wasn’t so sure he’d put the right handle on the situation. Dressed in the black miniskirt and high-necked sweater she’d worn earlier, she sat down opposite him, and Max decided she’d proved the less-is-more theory in reverse. Covered in black from the toes of her tights to the turtleneck collar under her chin, Maggie settled against the deep cushions of the sofa with her knees glued primly together and swung to one side so her toes just touched the floor. The contrast of dark wool with honey-gold skin, and her protective position, made her look fragile. Compared with him, she was. Probably only five-ten to his six-five.

Yeah, getting Maggie to put some clothes on had only added to his problem. Her sweater clung to every curve, but more than her curves affected him, though he couldn’t put a name to exactly what. Basically, in his eyes, Maggie Kovacs was sexy as hell.

The oversoft sofa cushions looked good as he sank down into them, but his overactive libido made getting comfortable a lost cause. He watched Maggie raise the glass of red wine to her lips, saw the dewy film it left behind, knowing if he kissed her she’d taste of wild blackberries and sunshine, and her lips would feel as soft, full and earthy as the wine they sipped.

Maggie took another mouthful then lifted her brows while she asked, “What was it you wanted to talk about?”

Max blinked and tried to bring his mind back to the present. Rescue came in the form of Maggie’s silk scarf. He dug into his pocket and pulled it out, letting the opaque leopard-skin print coil sinuously onto the glass table separating them. “This for starters. You dropped it on the floor at the pub.”

“You should have given it to Jo. She’d have taken care of it.”

“Yeah, so she said, but I wanted to do it myself.”

“So, what’s so important it dragged you up here at this time of night?”

“Can’t you guess?”

“I’m not a mind read—” Maggie stopped midsentence, and his eyes mocked her slip of the tongue. Her first guess had been correct. “Jo blabbed, didn’t she? Well, I’m sorry, Max, you’ve had a wasted journey. No matter what Jo told you, I have no intention of discussing it with you. I’ve learned my lesson!” Boy, had she learned it. Gorman had left her wrung out and hung up to dry.

“That’s not why I’m here. In fact, I refused to listen to Jo and I have no interest in any dreams you might have had, past, present or future. I don’t believe in that garbage.” The air between them parted like the Red Sea as he thrust his wineglass onto the table. Bottle in one hand, glass in the other, he filled it with wine, then remembered his manners. “Would you like a refill?”

Strike one! It looked like she’d been second-guessing, after all. Saying nothing, she held out her glass and let him top it up. Looking him straight in the eye, she said, “I get it—you’ve come to warn me off.”

“Wrong! You’ll get no warning.”

“Come off it, Max. You know, and now I know. You want me to keep away from Jo. Hell, it’s not catching. I won’t contaminate your lady friend.”

“My lady friend?”

“You and Jo.” Maggie held up her hand and crossed the first two fingers. “You’re a couple. A blind man could see it. She lit up as soon as you came in to the bar. But don’t worry, she wouldn’t help me. Actually, she tried to palm me off onto you, but I told her no way.” Maggie knew she shouldn’t tease him, but she’d had just enough wine on an empty stomach to make the attempt. He looked so serious, so grim with his jaw clenched tight. “I knew you wouldn’t want to hear about my dreams.” She leaned forward, concealing her true intent with a lazy droop of her eyelids, and tilted her head to one side. “Maybe I really am a mind reader. Would you care to cross my palm with silver?”