The MacGregor Brides

  "Fine. The first time I want to try my luck with some hot babe, I'll let you know." Deliberately he wiped his fingers on a paper napkin.

  "And the first time you decide to try yours with some slick-faced guy in a tux… Well, I'll have to hurt him." The fact that her pulse took a little bump of pleasure infuriated her. "That's exactly the sort of attitude that doesn't work."

  "Works for me. I get the gist here, Jules. You want respect. I respect you—your mind and your integrity. I understand you well enough. You're used to getting your own way, and you like to run the show. You're pretty good at it. And I like you well enough, some of the time. There's your foundation. Now let me add some of the trim."

  He topped off their glasses again, sat back with his. "If you want to make deals and contracts, try it on someone like that Tod you booted out the other night. This isn't business, and neither of us is going to be able to plan our way through the stages of it. We want each other. Maybe after tonight we won't want each other anymore, and that'll be that."

  "And if one does, and one doesn't?"

  "That'll be damn bad luck for somebody." He rose and, taking her hand, pulled her to her feet. "Let's find out." She wasn't finished yet, not nearly, but he had already wrestled the controls out of her hands. His mouth was firm, possessive, and gave hers no choice but to open to his on a moan of the purest pleasure.

  She'd wanted to light the candles, to drive him slowly mad until he agreed to everything. But the need sprang free inside her, primal and raw.

  Seduction on either side would have to wait.

  Her hands streaked under his sweater, gripping the hard ridge of muscle up his back. His strength tantalized her, fascinated her. She hiked the sweater up, dragging it over his head, tossing it carelessly aside. And was desperate for more.

  "I really love your body," she managed.

  He tugged the shoulders of the snug suit down, latched his mouth on her throat. "Same goes." He grabbed the hook of her belt and sent it rattling to the floor.

  His hands roamed over the slick material, tormenting them both, then onto flesh, a rough scrape of callus against pampered skin. Their mouths met again, hotly, wetly, with a tangle of tongues and a scrape of teeth and echoing groans of need. Her breath caught when he swept her up. For a moment, she felt utterly helpless, overpowered, conquered. Panicked excitement prickled along her skin. Then he was laying her on the thick duvet, and his eyes were on hers as he peeled away the suit. The quick shudder surprised her. She'd prepared herself for him, she'd known the evening would end in just this way. But she hadn't known, couldn't have known, that a long, searing look from those intense green eyes could sever the knots of her control so quickly. With a sound of greed, she reared up, arms and legs snaking around him, mouth fusing with his. She was as erotic as any temptress, as dangerous as any siren. The blood raced through his veins, with the flavor of her spiking it like a drug. He was rough, couldn't help himself. She'd already snapped his tenuous connection with the civilized. His fingers dug into her hips, would leave bruises. His mouth crushed down on hers until she whimpered in dazed delight. Then, dragging her head back by her hair, he savaged her throat.

  Her skin was already damp from the heat when he pushed her back, when his mouth and hands possessed her breasts. The air was too thick to breathe, and each gulp of it made her head reel. There were flames inside her, heating her system beyond bearing. As desperate as he to touch, to taste, to take, she rolled with him over the bed.

  Their legs tangled as she dragged at his jeans. Every second was delicious torture, every movement a wild thrill. He felt his own muscles quivering as his slick skin slid over hers. There had never been anything or anyone he craved as he craved her. Every inch of her, every curve, every tremble, every moan. The need for her was like edgy fingers gripping at his throat, his heart, his loins.

  He drove himself into her, blindly, fiercely, felt her clamp around him like a hot fist. Triumph, heady and sweet, streaked through him when she cried out. Then those long, limber legs wrapped around him.

  Her hands fisted on the bedcover as the first violent orgasm ripped through her. The pressure inside her tore free, then built again, forcing her to sob in air. Mindlessly she scraped her nails down his back, arched against him, and met the next crest head-on. He fought back the mists that blurred his vision. He wanted to see her, had to see her, as their bodies plunged toward the edge. Her face was flushed and damp, her eyes were closed, her lips trembling, her hair a wild tangle of fire over the rumpled bedclothes. Something struggled for freedom inside him, something more complex and more demanding than lust. He fought it back, let himself ride on the towering wave of sensation.

  But it was her name that broke from his lips as he emptied himself into her.

  They didn't speak. Julia wondered if her vocal cords had been singed by the heat they generated together. She'd never felt like this before, so sated and weak, so sinuously female. She was content to drop off into sleep just like this, sprawled naked on the bed, with Cullum's body pinning hers heavily to the mattress.

  When he shifted a little, she sighed, and wondered if it was the only sound she'd be capable of making for the next decade or so. She looked… smug, Cullum thought as he managed to lift his head to study her face. As his mind cleared, he'd worried that he'd hurt her. He knew his hands were big and rough, and though he doubted he'd be considered a gentle lover, he'd never been quite so unrestrained. He was afraid he'd come perilously close to brutal.

  But judging by that contented-cat expression on her face, it didn't appear apologies were in order. He was grateful. He hated apologizing.

  Then her eyes fluttered open and met his. Her lips curved wider. "Mmm…" she said.

  "At the very least." It surprised him that he wanted to—needed to—trace a fingertip along her jawline. Her skin was soft there, despite the arrogance of the shape. Giving in to the urge, he lowered his head and brushed his lips just under her chin. The gesture made her heart flutter. She told herself it was a foolish reaction, even a dangerous one. Her heart had to maintain a safe distance. Despite the warmth of his body, she shivered.

  "Cold?" He wanted to bundle her up, to keep her warm. To keep her. And that wayward thought tied an uneasy knot in his stomach. The shiver had had nothing to do with the cold, but she latched on to the excuse. "A bit." She couldn't stop herself from lifting a hand, running it through the tousled length of his hair. "I guess we could use another log on the fire."

  "I'll get it." He leaned down, intending to kiss her lightly, casually. And lingered over it until they were both clinging. Desire built again, too quickly for either of them to build a defense. Together, they reached out, draped the duvet over themselves, and yielded to it.

  Chapter 28

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  November, Julia decided, was the most interesting month of the year. It was so transitional, with the air both smoky and bracing. Hints of winter blew on the wind, with all the adventures and surprises that accompanied the holiday season. She was almost sorry to see it end. She'd never spent a more fascinating or exciting month. She believed she and Cullum were being very discreet. They kept a professional distance during working hours. For the most part, Julia acknowledged, remembering a brief and torrid encounter in the remodeled pantry. And that, she had to admit, had been her doing. There had just been something about the way he stood in that tidy, homey area, his tool belt slung on his hips, his skin smelling of sawdust, that fried her circuits enough to have her pushing him up against the door and attacking him. Not that he'd put up much of a fight.

  The basic truth was, they had a hard time keeping their hands off each other. Struggling to do so for the best part of eight hours a day, five days a week, added quite a bit of desperation to their after-hours meetings.

  Hen bedroom and the pantry weren't the only rooms they'd enjoyed. She thought of how they'd ended up rolling around on the drop cloths in the half-finished library, laughing like loons and fighting with button
s and zippers. They didn't seem even close to getting enough of each other.

  "You certainly look… content," Laura commented. Both she and Gwen had set aside the first Saturday afternoon in December to help Julia decorate her tree. Though each had their own home now, none of them had forgotten the years they'd lived together, or the bond they had formed.

  "Why shouldn't I be?" Julia searched for the perfect spot to hang the carved wooden Santa riding his sleigh over a crescent moon. "The house is nearly finished, and it's coming together exactly as I wanted."

  With her hands on her hips now, she turned to study the completed living room. The space streamed with sunlight that gilded the highly polished pine floor. A fire crackled in the stone hearth. The wood trim was dark and glossy, curved softly over doorways and windows. The plasterwork was stunning.

  Gone were the two dark little rooms. And in their place was a huge, airy space where she'd arranged favorite pieces of furniture. The curved-backed settee with brocade seats, the long, deep sofa, perfect for midday napping. Two of her brother's original watercolors of Boston hung on the wall over an occasional table where one of her mother's pieces, a wide, shallow dish in swimming pastels, rested. An antique doll's cradle held magazines. Two lofty ficus trees flanked the archway that joined the rooms. Every piece, every detail, was very personally hers.

  "It's a terrific room," Gwen told her.

  "I knew it would be, but it's better than I imagined. I'm glad Cullum talked me into a wide archway instead of straight open space. It adds character."

  Gwen and Laura exchanged a look behind her back, pointing at each other, shaking their heads, rolling their eyes. Laura finally gave an exaggerated shrug of agreement.

  "So…" Laura chose a tiny silver bell for a branch. "I guess he'll be finished in a couple of weeks."

  "Should be. According to his flowchart, we're coming down to punch-out work."

  "Is that what you two do—study flowcharts in bed?"

  "Sometimes, but—" Blinking, Julia turned back. "What?"

  "Julia, for heaven's sake. It's obvious the two of you are involved." Gwen walked over to pour more hot chocolate out of a china pot shaped like a grinning elephant.

  "It is?"

  "Every time we drop by, we have to go home and defuse." With a laugh, Laura hung a gauzy angel. "The air around here sizzles. Okay, we're nosy." She turned around. "But we're also concerned. We always talked about this sort of thing, but with Cullum you've been uncharacteristically mute."

  "I don't know what to say. I suppose we realized a lot of the antagonism between us was just sexual tension. When we started working closely together…" Julia shrugged her shoulders. "It just happened."

  Her smile broke through as she looked at her two cousins. "It's wonderful. He's wonderful. I had no idea we'd have such fun together—and not just in bed. We drove out to the Cape last weekend, had a picnic on the beach. It was freezing." She laughed. "It was great. And the man actually likes to go antiquing. Can you imagine? He finds terrific stuff, and bargains like a champ. Look." She dashed over to the recessed shelves and snagged something off one. "He got this for me a couple of weeks ago. The dealer practically gave it to him by the time Murdoch was done with him."

  Gwen's brows drew together as she studied the metal knob and mechanism attached to a square of old wood. "What is it?"

  "It's an old telegraph key." Julia turned it around to show it off, unaware that her heart was in her eyes. "I love things like this. I hadn't expected him to notice. And he makes incredible pasta. Who'd have thought someone like him would cook? He's helping me pick out the things for the playroom I'm putting together for little Daniel and all the other nieces and nephews that are going to come along. We're looking at old pinball machines. He's handy with mechanics and stuff, so he thought it might be fun to rebuild one. And I—" Her breath began to hitch, and she had to press a hand to her heart. "Oh, God. Oh, no." Her legs trembling, she sank into a chair and stared at her cousins in horror. "What have I done?"

  "Fallen head over heels, from the look and sound of it." Gwen poured another cup of chocolate and brought it to Julia. "Take your time, catch your breath."

  "This wasn't the plan, this wasn't the idea. This wasn't the agreement," she finished, as her voice upped an octave in pitch.

  "Let me be the first to tell you, you can't plan it."

  "But I don't even like him." She closed her eyes as Gwen smiled at her. "Well, I didn't. I thought I didn't."

  "If it helps, I think you're perfect for each other."

  "It doesn't help." Julia took the cup in both hands and drank deeply. "It doesn't help at all. What am I going to do? He'd be furious—or hysterical—if he knew."

  Laura sat on the arm of the chair. "You ask me, a man who cooks you pasta, buys you weird gifts and wants to rehab a pinball machine for you is as over his head as you are."

  "No, he's not. Do you think? No." Disgusted with herself, she sprang up. "Oh, how did this happen to me? Ten minutes ago I was on top of the world. He's going to be here in a couple hours. He's going to rewire this art deco lamp we found last night."

  "He's rewiring lamps," Gwen said with a sigh. "That's so sweet."

  "It's not sweet, it's impossible. I don't want to be in love with him."

  "Why?" Laura cocked her head.

  "Because it's… Because he's…"

  "I see the witness is having trouble answering the question," Laura said soberly. "Let me rephrase—Oh, shoot," she added as the sounds of a fussing baby sounded through the intercom. "Court will take a brief recess. Be right back."

  "Julia…" Gwen began as Laura raced upstairs. "I'd like to say something."

  "Go ahead."

  "You've never looked happier than you did when you were talking about Cullum and all the time you've been spending together. And I've been around here enough to notice the way he looks at you. The way he watches you. I don't think you're any more in love with him than he is with you."

  "If that's true…" Julia took three deep and careful breaths. "It could work. Don't you think?"

  "I've never known you to back off from something you wanted. I know it's scary. Sometimes what I feel for Branson, and now the baby…" she murmured touching a hand to her stomach. "It's so huge, it still scares me. But I wouldn't want it any other way."

  "So, I need to convince him that he's madly in love with me."

  "I'd say it's more you have to persuade him to admit it, the way you just have."

  "Out loud." She nearly laughed again as Laura brought Daniel back into the room. "I can't imagine Murdoch saying it out loud." She gnawed at her lip as she considered. "Unless I trick it out of him."

  "Same old Julia," Laura commented. She sat in the bentwood rocker, unbuttoned her blouse to nurse the baby.

  "I don't mean trick, exactly. More like… drag it out of him."

  She was ready for him. Julia opened the door for Cullum with a warm smile, then, sliding her arms around his neck, presented him with a long, deep kiss.

  "Nice to see you, too." He backed her into the house, kicked the door closed to keep out the cold and the thin fall of snow. "What mood is this you're in, MacGregor?"

  "Happy." She nibbled down along his jaw. "Affectionate. What mood is this you're in, Murdoch?"

  "Appreciative."

  "You haven't seen anything yet." She eased back to smile up at him. "I cooked dinner."

  "Isn't that dangerous?"

  "I happen to be a very competent cook." Nearly, she amended silently. "How do you feel about stuffed pork chops and mashed potatoes?"

  "Very friendly."

  "Good." She linked her arm through his and, with stars in her eyes, walked with him to the kitchen. She had the table set with colorful dishes and candles. Music played low through the hidden speakers and a bottle of champagne was chilling in an antique bucket.

  Puzzled, he shook his head. "Are we celebrating something?"

  "Nope. Just a home-cooked meal, MacGregor-style. Why don't you o
pen the bottle now? Dinner will be about twenty more minutes."

  "Smells terrific." He applied himself to the bottle and wondered what the hell she was up to. If this wasn't a stage set by a woman who was after something, he'd be very surprised. "Do you want me to tear out a wall I've just rebuilt? Change your mind about the tile in the guest room suite?"

  "No. I just felt like cooking. Must be the holidays coming up. Oh, I should have showed you. We got the tree up today."

  "I saw it through the window when I drove up. Looks great."

  "We can have dessert in the living room later and enjoy it."

  Wary now, he poured the wine into two slim flutes. "You made dessert."

  "Cream puffs. Old family recipe." She took her glass from him and smiled. "I had a great time making them." Three times, she thought, and suppressed a sigh. The first two attempts were buried in the garbage. "So how was your day?"

  "Productive. I've nearly finished the wooden train set I'm building for my nieces."

  "I'd love to see it. I could help you paint it. I'm no Shelby or D. C. MacGregor, but I'm not too bad."

  "Sure." He searched her face. "That'd be great."

  "Well, I'm going to check on the chops and toss the salad."

  "I'll give you a hand."

  "No, this is my production. Just sit down and relax."

  When she put on an apron, he decided sitting down was a fine idea. What the hell had gotten into her? he wondered. She was bright, solicitous, all but subservient, and she was wearing an apron.

  This was not his Julia.

  His Julia? He took a deep gulp of wine as the ramifications of that exploded in his head. Since when had he been thinking of her as his?

  Since… forever, he realized. Since always. He'd wanted her for years, covered up the want with sarcasm and annoyance. But it had been there, buried deep and growing roots. Now that they were lovers, it was impossible to deny that he was in love with her. And even if he managed to get his tongue around those words and tell her, he'd be out the door before the sentence was complete. Well, damn it, he thought as she continued to bustle around the kitchen and chatter, he was in love with her. He'd see to it that she fell in love with him. And she'd be the one to say it first.

  Setting his glass aside, he rose and moved behind her. His arms slid around her waist, his lips brushed the nape of her neck. "You smell even better than dinner."

  Her knees melted away. "Do I?"

  "And I'm becoming more interested in nibbling on you." He reached over, turned the stove and burners down to warm.

  "I'm becoming more interested in being nibbled on."

  She was smiling as he turned her around. But the smile faded and nerves kicked in as he stared and stared as if absorbing her. "What is it?"

  "Sometimes," he said slowly, as this new realization of love flooded him, "you're so beautiful. This is one of those times." He'd never told her she was beautiful, never cupped her face gently in his hands and kissed her with such slow, such deep, concentration. Every emotion inside her swam to the surface, shimmered in her heart, in her eyes. "Cullum."

  "Why are we always in such a hurry?" he murmured against her mouth. Why hadn't he savored this, drawn this out to forever?

  "I don't know." But she knew she didn't want him to stop kissing her just like this, touching her just this way.

  "Let's not be this time." He picked her up. "And see what happens."

  Chapter 29

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  Something was wrong with her, Cullum decided. She wasn't acting like herself, and hadn't been for days. The woman was smiling all the time. She was asking his opinion and advice on everything from lamp shades to andirons. And she wasn't making a single sarcastic or dissenting remark.

  She'd baked him a cake.

  He'd known he was sunk when he actually forced himself to eat two pieces. Whatever she used to frost it had tasted distressingly like carpenter's glue. He was beginning to wonder if some alien life-form had taken over Julia's body. He was playing along, Cullum mused as he pulled up in front of the shop after closing time. What else could he do? How could a man argue with a woman who agreed with everything he said?

  He missed arguing with her.

  He saw that his father's pickup was still parked beside the entrance. With everyone else gone for the day, they'd have a chance to catch up on the status of jobs under way, discuss holiday schedules. Then Cullum decided he'd catch a quick shower before heading to Julia's for another home-cooked meal.

  He rubbed his uneasy stomach. God help him.

  As soon as he charmed her into confessing she was in love with him, he'd tell her they were getting married. Timing was everything. He'd have the advantage, get a ring on her finger and sweep her along before she had the chance to figure out he'd planned it. The minute they were married, he'd find a tactful way of banishing her from the kitchen for the next fifty years. Meanwhile, risking a little food poisoning wasn't such a big price to pay. Not when Julia was the prize. And she was a prize, he thought as he climbed out of the truck into a frigid wind. It might have taken him close to five years to figure out she was