Vision In White

Chapter ELEVEN


HAD SHE BEEN KISSED LIKE THIS BEFORE? SO THAT THE MEETING of lips, of tongues vibrated through her entire body? Had she ever been seduced so completely, as much by words as by that single, dazzling kiss?

How had the tables turned on her? She’d thought to seduce him, to tease him upstairs, and into bed. She’d thought to keep it light and easy, as the evening had been—for the simple and basic purpose of releasing the ball of lust that gathered inside her when she was around him.

It should be simple, basic.

But it wasn’t.

He touched his lips to her cheeks, her brow, then those quiet blue eyes watched her as he unbuttoned her shirt. He barely touched her, and still the breath backed up in her lungs. He barely touched her, and still the control passed from her hands to his.

Standing in that quiet light, his eyes on hers, she didn’t care.

With the shirt open, he trailed a fingertip along her collar-bone, then down over the swell of her breasts. Just a whisper, barely a graze. But it set her skin to humming.

“Are you cold?” he asked when she trembled.

“No.”

And he smiled. “Then . . .” Slowly he nudged the shirt off her shoulders, let it slide to the floor. “Pretty,” he murmured, skimming his thumbs over the lacy cups of her bra.

Her breath released, hitched, caught again. “Carter, you make me weak.”

“I love your eyes. Magic seas.” He traced his fingers down her torso, up again, down, leaving little paths of shimmering sensation in their wake. “I’ve wanted to watch them when I touch you. Like this.”

Patient, steady, he explored. Swells and dips, curves and angles. While her body quivered in response, he flipped open the button at her waistband, eased down the zipper.

Once again he ran his hands down the sides of her body, inch by inch. Her pants slipped down her hips, her legs.

“Here.” He took her hand. “Step out.”

She obeyed like a woman in a trance, and felt her pulse scramble as he ran his gaze down her as he had his hands. Slowly. His lips curved. “I like your boots.”

She looked down, saw the thin-heeled ankle boots she now wore with only her bra and panties. “It’s a look.”

Smiling, he hooked his fingertip in the waist of the panties. She managed an “Oh, God” as he tugged to bring her body to his again.

This time, his mouth met hers like a fever, a flashpoint of heat. Even as she melted in it, he turned her, drawing her back against him. His teeth nibbled at the curve of her throat as her head fell back.

He let his free hand roam, over smooth skin, angles and curves, while he undid his own shirt. When they were skin to skin, her arm hooked around his neck, and her body began to move sinuously against him.

Not too fast, he reminded himself. He wanted to savor every moment, every touch, every breath. He had Mackensie in his arms.

Her heart hammered under his hand, and he thought that alone a miracle. She was with him, she felt him, wanted him. And tonight, at last, the dreams of the boy, the longings of the man would both be eclipsed by the reality of the woman.

He toed off his shoes, indulging himself with the taste and texture of the back of her neck. He caught the strap of her bra in his teeth, nudging it aside so he could free the lovely, lovely curve of her shoulders.

She arched back against him, shuddered.

Pleasure, he thought, so much here to give and to take. He wanted to please her, to saturate her with sensation, and to watch her rise and ride. While his own needs hammered inside him, he unhooked her bra as his hand all but floated over the narrow vee of her panties. He traced her inner thigh, teased, just barely teased a fingertip under the lace.

“Carter.” Her hand pressed down on his, urging him on. But he retreated, and once again turned her to face him.

“Sorry. I’m not finished.”

Those magic eyes were full of storms now, the porcelain skin flushed with passion. For him, he thought. Another miracle. She reached for him, and her mouth took his in a desperate kiss.

Wait, he thought, as his blood pounded. Wait, there’s more.

He nudged her onto the bed, eased down with her.

“The boots,” she began.

“I like them.” And he lowered his head to take her breast.

Her body shuddered and shone, it ached and sighed. Her mind simply emptied of all else but him and what he brought to her.

Slow hands, skilled lips swamped her body with sensations, layer after gossamer layer until they lay so thick she couldn’t find air through them.

“I can’t. I can’t.”

“It’s all right.” He slid a finger down, gliding over her, into her.

The veils ripped away with a blast of release.

As her body quaked through it, he ran his lips down and used his mouth to destroy her. She rose and fell. So fast, so fast. So much, as sensation poured over sensation until all blurred into shadow and light and mad movement. A sea of feeling swamped her, with a storm rolling through, pitching her toward desperation until she broke over the next swell.

When at last he slipped inside her, they moaned together.

She bowed up, nearly snapping his thinning leash of control. He stared into her eyes, gone dark, gone glassy while he drove them both mad with long, slow strokes. He felt her climb, watched her climb, steeped himself in her.

“Mackensie,” he said, just “Mackensie,” as he let himself fall into her eyes, into her body, and drown.


SHE FELT DRUNK AND DRUGGED. EVEN HER TOES FELT HEAVY, Mac thought. Air went in and out of her lungs again, and that was good. She was pretty sure she’d stopped breathing a number of times while Carter had . . .

Annihilated her, she decided.

Even now, when he was splayed over her like a man suffering from blunt force trauma, and their heartbeats knocked together like a couple of manic tennis balls, he touched his lips gently to the side of her throat.

“Okay?” he asked.

Okay? Was he out of his mind? You were okay when you slipped on the ice and caught yourself before you fell and broke an ankle. You were okay when you sank into a nice warm bath after a tough day.

You were not okay when your system had been turned inside out and right side in again.

“Yeah.” What could she say? “You?”

“Mmm. Mackensie’s naked in bed with me. I’m really okay.”

“I’m still wearing my boots.”

“Yeah. Even better. Sorry, I must be heavy.” He rolled off to tuck her up against him.

“Carter, you’re nearly as skinny as I am. You’re not heavy.”

“I know—about the skinny part, I mean. Nothing seems to change it. Cor—somebody talked me into working with a personal trainer once. But who has time for all that? Buff isn’t in my DNA.”

“You have an appealingly lanky body. Don’t let anyone tell you different. Besides, you use it like a stevedore.”

“I’ve been saving up.” He grinned, studied her face. “You’re so beautiful.”

“I’m not. I know this because I’m a professional. I have an interesting face, and can play up its assets. I have a skinny build as well, which is reasonably toned from—well, thinking about working out as much as actually. It’s like a coat hanger. Clothes look pretty good on it. Otherwise it’s just wire.”

“You’re beautiful. Don’t let anyone tell you different . . . ly. Sorry, can’t help it. It’s differently.”

She laughed and snuggled in. “Yes, Professor. And aren’t we both being post-coital—ly—complimentary.”

“You’ve always been beautiful. You have red hair and sea-witch eyes. And dimples.” He thought if he had another fifteen minutes or so, he could lap her up like ice cream and watch her rise again.

She tipped up her head to smile at him. His eyes were closed, his face utterly relaxed. He’d look like that when he slept, she thought. If she woke up before him, she’d see him just like this.

Lazily, she traced her finger under his jaw. “And what’s this intriguing little scar here?”

“From a fencing mishap.”

“You fence—like Captain Jack Sparrow?”

“If only. I bet you have a thing for Johnny Depp.”

“I am alive. I am female. Next question.”

“He transcends generations. It’s interesting. Grown women find him compelling, sexually, as do the teenage girls I teach.”

“I saw him first. But I’m actually finding another man compelling, sexually, at the moment. Fencing mishap,” she prompted as he grinned.

“Oh, that. I was running from a couple of kids who wanted to entertain themselves by pounding on me. I had to climb a fence, and in my usually nimble and graceful way, which unfortunately doesn’t resemble pirates or the actors who play them, managed to slip. Gashed myself on the wire.”

“Ouch. When was this?”

“Just last week.”

Chuckling, she rolled on top of him. “Brutal little midgets.”

“They were. I was ten, but they were brutal little midgets.”

“Did you get away?”

“That time.”

He tugged the short ends of her hair to bring her down for a kiss. Sighing with it, she nestled her head in the curve of his shoulder.

It felt so good, she thought, cuddled up like this. Skin to skin, with the twin beats of hearts quieting, and every square inch of her body perfectly tended by a man she found ridiculously appealing on every possible level.

She could stay like this, exactly like this, for hours. Days. All sleepy and warm and tangled up with the delicious Carter Maguire. And in the morning, they could . . .

Her eyes flashed open. What was she thinking? What was she doing? The morning? Hours and days? The quick kick of panic had her jolting upright.

“What’s wrong?”

“What? Oh, nothing. Nothing. What could be wrong?”

He sat up with her, all kinds of rumpled and sexy until her heart and hormones threatened rampage.

She had to get out. Get out now. Back to reality. Back to sanity before she did something stupid like fall in love.

“I just . . . God, look at the time! I have to go.”

“Go? But—”

“This was great. Everything . . . really great.” Jesus, Jesus, she was wearing nothing but boots. “I really lost track of the time. It’s late.”

Obviously baffled, he looked at the clock. “Not especially. Don’t—”

“School night,” she said, trying desperately to keep it light while she hunted for her underwear and panic galloped inside her like wild mustangs.

Where was her bra, where was her bra?

The hell with the bra.

“I’ve got a million things left to do. I have to get started really early tomorrow.”

“I’ll set the alarm. I’m up by six anyway. Stay, Mackensie.”

“I really wish I could. Really.” How many times could she say really in five minutes? She was about to beat the standing record. “But, well, duty calls. No, don’t get up.”

Please, please don’t get up, she thought as he got out of bed.

“Stay,” he said, and touched her cheek as she dragged on her shirt. “I want to sleep with you.”

“We checked that one off the list, big-time.” She added a big, bright smile.

“Sleep.”

“Oh, that’s really sweet, Carter. I’d love that—another time.

Three events, presentation. Busy, busy.” She gave him a quick kiss. “Gotta run. Thanks for everything. I’ll call you.”

And fled.


OH, SHE WAS A TERRIBLE PERSON. A CRAZY PERSON, MAC thought as she drove home. She was probably going to hell, too. She deserved it. But she’d done the right thing, the only thing. For herself, and for Carter.

Absolutely for Carter, she told herself.

Going to hell? Ridiculous. She should get a medal—they should erect a damn statue for her, for doing the right thing.

She’d done the right thing, and that was all there was to it. Now everything would be fine. Everything would be okay.

Perfect, in fact.

She saw the lights on in the main house and thought: Thank God. Parker and Laurel would agree with her. They’d support her actions. That’s what she needed, she decided as she squealed to a stop in front of the house. Just a little affirmation from friends so her stomach would untwist.

She rushed into the house, tore up the stairs, shouting for Parker.

“We’re all up here.” Parker came into the hallway. “God, what’s the matter? Was there an accident?”

“No, it was all on purpose. Or maybe not. There was a list.”

“Okay. You’re obviously not hurt. We’re in my parlor, just going over some last details since we were all up.”

“Emma, too?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, good, that’s even better.”

She dashed by Parker and into the parlor where Laurel and Emma sat with cookies, tea, and files.

“Hey. We figured you for the walk of shame in the morning.” Laurel tossed down a pencil. “We were thinking of setting up a video camera.”

“How was dinner?” Emma asked her.

“I left. I just left.” Eyes a little wild, Mac dragged off her coat. “You’d have done the same.”

“That good, huh?” Laurel picked up the plate. “So, have a cookie.”

“No, no. He had a rehearsal on Tuesday. Can you imagine that? And tonight this wonderful meal with candles and wine reductions.”

“Wine reductions.” With a little hum, Parker took a seat. “Thank God you got out alive. We should call the police.”

“Okay, wait, you’re not seeing the whole picture.” Trying to steady herself, Mac took a few careful breaths. It didn’t seem to help. “He went to so much trouble, and it was, well, lovely. And fun. Bob made a list.”

“Who the hell is Bob?” Laurel demanded.

“Doesn’t matter, but Carter was so embarrassed. It’s so cute. The tips of his ears blush.”

“Aww,” Emma said.

“I know. What can you do? I’m all stirred up. I had to go to bed with him.”

“I know when a guy’s ears blush, I start tearing my clothes off.” Since Mac didn’t appear to want one, Laurel helped herself to another cookie. “So you had sex.”

“We didn’t have sex. We had the most amazing, world-bending, melt-your-brain-cells sex in the history of the planet.”

“Now it’s getting interesting.” Crossing her legs, Parker settled in. “Would that be tender, soft-focus, angels-weeping sex, or jungle-drums, swinging-from-the-chandelier sex?”

“It was . . . No one’s ever made me feel that way, or felt that way about me.” She sat on the arm of Parker’s chair, staring into the fire as she tried to find the words. “It’s like knowing you’re the focus, the only thing he sees. Nothing else but you. And it’s tender and hot, it’s terrifying and amazing. There’s this person who doesn’t see anyone but you. When he touches you, there’s no one but him.”

There were three humming sighs, and a moment of reverent silence.

“Why aren’t you snuggled up in bed with him?” Emma asked.

“Well, Jesus!” Mac’s head snapped around so she could stare at Emma. “Haven’t you been listening?”

“Listening, imagining, envying.”

“I had to leave. I wanted to stay so I had to leave.” Gesturing wildly, Mac pushed back to her feet. “I wanted to stay curled up there with him. I wanted to live in that damn bed, so I had to get out.”

“You panicked,” Parker prompted.

“Of course I panicked. Who wouldn’t? He’s all sweet and sleepy and satisfied, and with that little fencing scar.”

“Carter fences?” Emma demanded.

“No, never mind. Off topic. I’m telling you, it was like I was hypnotized, or drugged. I had to get out of there. And . . . oh, God, I acted like a guy.” As it replayed in her head, Mac covered her face with her hands. “The kind of guy who rolls off you after, gets up and says, ‘That was great, babe. Got an early day tomorrow. I’ll call you.’ ”

“Oh, Mac, you didn’t.”

Mac jabbed a finger at Emma. “I had to. It was self-preservation. And Carter-preservation, too. I was supposed to de-lust after we had sex. Not go all gooey. It’s too much for me, that’s all. He’s too much for me. He’s sweet and funny, he’s smart and genuinely kind. He’s sexy and he’s got those glasses. He’s got the ear-blush thing happening. He loves teaching. I watched him lead a class, and it’s . . . It gets everything stuck right here.” She rubbed a hand between her breasts. “All this feeling and need clogged up.”

She picked up the nearest cup of tea and downed it. “He pays attention. He listens, and he thinks about what I say. He makes me think.”

“Clearly he must be stopped.” Laurel shook her head. “Mac, honey? You’re in love with him.”

“That’s just not an option. Why do you think I left the way I did? It’s like being sucked into quicksand. Only really soft, warm, pretty quicksand. I’m not built for this. I don’t believe in this kind of thing. It doesn’t last. It’s the moment, or the series of moments until it goes south, or it erodes, fades. God, how many weddings have we done that are the second time around? Hell, we’ve done a few where for at least one of the parties involved, it was the third go. Who needs that? I know what it’s like when it falls apart. It can’t be worth it.”

“Let’s whittle this down,” Laurel suggested. “You’re afraid to be in love with a man you’ve just described as the Mary Poppins of men. Practically perfect in every way,” she explained when she got blank looks all around. “You panicked and ran after you had what appears to be sex as a religious experience, with this guy you respect and admire and have the hots for, because your mother’s a big ho.”

“Laurel!”

“No.” Mac shook her head at Emma. “That’s fair. My mother is a big ho. But she doesn’t see herself that way, which is part of my point. She sees herself as eternally searching for love. It’s more about money, status, and security, but she’d swear it was all about love. My father strolled away from her, for which I can’t blame him, and from me—for which I damn well can—because it just wasn’t worth the effort.”

“They’re not you, Mac,” Parker said quietly.

“No. I know. And maybe it’s cynical to believe they’re not so much the exception as par. But that’s how it strikes me. And I like the way my life’s working out, I’m comfortable with the direction of it.”

A little calmer, she sat again. “Carter’s a serious man. Under it all he’s a serious man with a traditional mind-set. He’s got a major crush on me, that’s what it is. A crush that’s been flickering in there for years. If I let this escalate, he’s going to start thinking about hiring us for the event. He’s going to end up asking Parker where he should buy the ring. I can’t do that to him. I was right to leave. It’s better to cut it off now than to—”

“Risk being happy with someone who’s crazy about you?” Emma suggested.

“Okay, when you put it like that . . . yes. From where I’m standing that’s about right.”

“Can I have him?”

Mac glared at Laurel. “That’s not funny.”

“No, it’s really not.”

“You know what it’s about right from where you’re standing?” Emma studied Mac with her big, dark eyes. “Because nobody’s ever been crazy about you before, not in a way that matters, that’s solid and real. And you’ve never felt it for anyone. That’s what I know because I’m in the same place—I’d say all of us are. The difference is, with me, I’m always hoping it’ll happen.”

“Hence, the serial dating.”

“Knock it off, Laurel,” Parker told her.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m being a smart-ass because I’m jealous. Right down to my bones. Nobody’s ever seen only me.”

“But he’s seeing me through the filter of an old crush.”

“I don’t know him as well as you, in the biblical sense or otherwise, but he strikes me as smarter than that.”

“Love and smart don’t go hand in hand.”

“No, they don’t.” Laurel lifted her arms toward Mac. “And here stands living proof of that. You’re stupid in love with the guy.”

“You’re not helping. Parker?”

“You’re afraid you’ll crush him. That because he is, at the core, a nice guy, you’ll walk all over him on the way to breaking his heart and leaving him shattered.”

“That’s a little dramatic, but yes. Basically.”

“And you’re determined to believe yourself incapable of sustaining a mature, committed relationship. Of not only seeing yourself as not worthy of love, but doubting you’ve got the backbone and balls to work at maintaining it.”

“That’s a little harsh, but—”

“I think you underestimate him, and yourself.” She rose, walked to the mantel for a photograph framed in silver. “Remember this?”

Mac took the photo of Parker’s parents, caught in a laughing hug, their eyes full of delight, of life, of each other. “Of course, I do.”

“You took that, just a few months before they died. Of all the pictures I have of them, this is my favorite. You know why?”

It made Mac’s eyes sting to look at it. It always did.

“You can see how much they loved each other,” Parker continued. “How happy they made each other. They fought, and they argued, and I imagine there were times they each got thoroughly sick of each other. But they loved anyway. For half their lives, they made it work. You captured that in this picture. Because you saw that. You recognized that.”

“They were exceptional.”

“So are you. I don’t waste my time on friends who aren’t exceptional.” She took the photo, set it back on the mantel. “Take a breath, Mac. Love’s scary, and sometimes it’s transient. But it’s worth the risks and the nerves. It’s even worth the pain.”


SHE WASN’T SURE. HOW COULD ANYONE BE SURE? BUT MAC knew the single thing she could do, had to do, was put it all aside for work. Her partners, her business, their clients depended on her doing her part. So she had to settle down and respect priorities.

A good night’s sleep, she determined, an early start. And a complete and professional focus on her clients’ needs.

She spent a restless night arguing with herself, then thought—bitterly—that she hadn’t lost a night’s sleep over a man since she’d been sixteen.

She brewed coffee so strong it all but stood up and howled. But it smothered fatigue under a buzz of caffeine. Because the box of Pop-Tarts seemed to indicate she had the appetite and the emotional stability of a six-year-old, she prepared what she thought of as an adult breakfast of yogurt, fresh fruit, and a muffin she’d stolen from Laurel’s stash.

Dishes dutifully washed, she reviewed her notes for the day’s event, checked her equipment. A relatively small event, she mused as she selected what she needed. A single attendant serving as MOH. The client wanted intimacy, simplicity.

The bride, she knew, had opted to wear a tea length gown in blue, and a very smart hat in lieu of veil and headdress. She’d carry a trio of white gardenias, the stems wrapped in satin ribbon.

Good choices all, in Mac’s opinion, as this was a second marriage for both.

See?

“Don’t get started on that,” she muttered.

FOB would walk the bride down the aisle, but they were skipping the “giving away” part. Because, hello, already did that once before.

With her gear, the event schedule, and her notes in place, she checked the time. Plenty of it left to do a quick check on e-mail.

She toggled over, scanned and homed in instantly on an unopened from MaguireC101. She pushed away from her work station, paced around the studio.

She stalked back to the kitchen for another cup of brutal coffee.

She didn’t have to open the e-mail now. In fact she shouldn’t open it now. She had to keep her mind on work, didn’t she? That was the responsible thing to do. The grown-up thing, like yogurt and fresh fruit.

It couldn’t be urgent. He’d have called if there was anything important to tell her. Or to discuss.

Like, why did you blow me off after I got you off?

Not that he’d ever say anything so crude.

The thing to do was go upstairs, shower, dress, then go over to the main house for the review and setup. She didn’t have time for any personal . . .

“Oh, please, who are you kidding?”

She walked back to the computer, clicked open Carter’s e-mail.

Mackensie,


I got this address from your business card. I hope it’s all right to contact you this way. Knowing how busy you’d be today, I didn’t want to call and disturb you.


I wanted to say, first, how much I enjoyed last night. Every minute with you. My house seems brighter and fuller today because you’ve been in it.

“Oh God. Carter.”

Also, on behalf of Bob, his wife, and their unborn child, I should express my relief that I won’t be required to murder him. He owes you.


Lastly, in case you’ve been looking for it, I found one of your gloves on the floor of the closet. It must’ve fallen out when you got your coat. Initially, I thought to ask if I might keep it as a token, such as women in medieval times bestowed on their knights. However, on reflection that seemed a little scary, even for me.


I’ll get it back to you.


Meanwhile, I hope your event today goes well. Best wishes to the happy couple.


Carter

“Oh, man.”

Thinking Carter Maguire was like a drug in her system, she read the entire e-mail through again. Then, feeling foolish, she printed it out. She took it upstairs, tucked it away in a drawer.