Concern etched his perfect features as he cupped her face and tilted it up to his, looking intently into her eyes. His hands were so big and warm, commanding yet infinitely gentle. Maggie fought the urge to lean into him; it would have been so easy. Instead she concentrated on trying to keep her trembling legs beneath her.
“Why do you say that?” he asked, staring first into one eye, then switching to the other.
Because the hottest, sexiest man I’ve ever seen is in my kitchen making breakfast. She read about something like this in a romance novel once. The man ended up lifting the woman onto the table and having her for breakfast. She shook her head – slightly – trying to dispel that lovely image.
“Because you’re here.”
Chapter Six
Michael couldn’t help the grin that simply appeared on his face as she allowed him to lead her over to the table. Did she have any idea how absolutely adorable she looked, standing there in an oversized man’s shirt (his shirt), only the tips of her fingers visible, with her tousled curls and her flushed cheeks? Not even the dark purple bruise extending from her right temple to her jaw could detract from her beauty. It was strangely exotic, while at the same time, evoking a powerful and protective instinct within him.
Michael pressed down gently on her shoulders, guiding her into the chair. Her eyes were much clearer than they had been the night before, as sharp and multi-faceted as finely cut crystal. One was at least partially open, the other wide and regarding him with genuine puzzlement and a touch of suspicion.
“Seriously, why are you here?”
That was an excellent question. Too bad he didn’t have an acceptable answer for it yet. ‘I didn’t want to leave’, while true enough, seemed neither appropriate nor adequate at this stage. So he tried a little misdirection instead. It had always worked for his younger brother Ian.
“You weren’t exactly honest with me,” he chided. “You led me to believe there was someone here who would take care of you last night.”
“I said I didn’t live alone,” she corrected as he pulled a chair up close to hers, nudging his large body against the inside of her knees. Her breath caught audibly when he leaned in and looked deeply into her eyes. “That’s not quite the same thing.”
*
All that man, all that heat between her thighs made her heart race faster. He’s a doctor, she told herself repeatedly. Looking at you as nothing more than a patient. Get a grip. Yet no part of her rational mind could explain away the scorching chills his closeness seemed to generate.
She really had to stop reading those Salienne Dulcette novels.
“Hmmm,” he hummed, and she immediately felt like a naughty child who had just been caught telling a fib. The tips of his fingers skillfully examined the side of her head and face as she clamped her lips shut, determined not to let the sigh escape. His touch was gentle, and sent thousands of little electrical impulses down her neck, searing through to the tips of her breasts, and right to the juncture at her thighs. It took a lot of effort to keep her breathing controlled and even, especially when her heart was pounding against the inner walls of her chest so hard she was certain he could hear it.
Why did he have to be so freaking good looking? Weren’t doctors supposed to be old and pudgy with glasses and the personality of a dishrag? And weren’t they supposed to smell like antiseptic and latex, not like peppermint and coffee and warm spice and male musk?
Hell. This man was not like any doctor she’d ever seen. He was far too gorgeous and aromatic to be in her kitchen, sitting on her chair, examining her.
She caught her breath when his index and middle fingers paused at the pulse point just under the side of her jaw where it pounded furiously. His expression stilled for a moment as his eyes sought out hers questioningly, then he looked away, the hint of a knowing smile pulling at those delicious-looking lips.
Damn it. He knew exactly what he was doing to her. What was it about him that made her lose control? Maggie Flynn was an intelligent, capable woman. There was absolutely no reason she should be responding to him like a star-struck teenager, and it irritated her enough to be able to focus on the situation at hand again.
Did he feel sorry for her? Was that it? She rejected that idea almost immediately. Michael wasn’t the pitying type. How she knew that with such certainty, she wasn’t sure, but she did. He was caring and kind and would be the first one to help, but never out of pity.
Maggie couldn’t fault him for that. No, if she was perturbed with anyone it was herself for being the one to put him in this situation. Worse, she hated that there was some small part of her that secretly hoped Michael had stayed out of something more than a sense of professional duty. That small part was currently being bludgeoned by her much stronger practical, rational side; the realist within her that said she was a fool for even considering it.
And, it logically pointed out, even if he had stayed out of something more than a professional interest, it was Magdalena he was attracted to, not Maggie.
“You still didn’t answer my question. Why are you here?”