Kate Cross - Touch of Steel

That was a lie. If put to the test, she could probably recall every damn one.

Her knees trembled, but she’d be tarred and feathered if she’d touch that bed again. Slowly, she made her way to the desk. The room was large for one on a ship, but still small enough that there was a place for everything and everything in its place. The ship hit a pocket of wind and bucked, tossing Evie into the captain’s chair with graceless ease. Thank God it was bolted to the floor.

No sooner had she righted herself than the door opened. No knock, no inquiry as to her state of decency. There was only one person it could be. She drew a deep breath.

Please let him be fat and pockmarked. And bald. His hair had always been his vanity.

God was obviously not in a mind to favor her today. The door swung open to reveal shoulders almost the same width as the frame in a cream linen shirt and narrow hips in snug brown trousers. She was on eye level with his crotch—not that she minded, but it wasn’t very dignified.

She raised her gaze and wished she hadn’t. The last few years had been kind to Gavin MacRae. He was a tall man with long legs. His back was as straight and proud as ever. His stubbled jaw was just as firm, and his chin still had that shallow cleft. His mouth was wide and slim, bracketed by smile lines. They fanned out from the corners of his eyes, too, like faint scars in the tan of his face. Only, those eyes didn’t sparkle at the sight of her as they’d once done.

She dropped her gaze, chest pinching. It had to be because of the current still tormenting her body. His nose . . .

“Did you break that poor thing again?” she blurted.

He didn’t have to ask. His hand went immediately to the center of his face. Even his hands were as she remembered—long and strong.

“No,” he replied, quickly dropping his hand. “Someone else did it for me.”

His mouth was as smart as ever as well. And he still possessed that drawl of a voice that sounded almost completely without atelze="ccent except for a little Texas with a hint of Scotland—he’d grown up in both places and considered them equally as his home.

Or at least he had at one time.

Bloody hell but it was good to see him. Painful, too, like pressing on a bruise. He seemed healthy and hale—the lawless life obviously suited him. At least he was alive, which meant he’d survived a lot longer than she ever expected.

“You look good,” he said, nodding his head in her direction as he crossed his arms over the width of his chest. His shirt strained at the shoulders.

Evelyn looked down at herself. Her clothes were dirty and she’d been wearing them for almost a full twenty-four hours, she calculated, given the look of the sky outside. If he thought this was good, then his taste certainly hadn’t improved.

“So do you.” How calm she sounded—like they were having tea. Like she hadn’t broken his heart and her own in the process. “What Nell told me about Jock—was it true?”

His features tightened. “Yeah. It’s true. We lost him two years ago.”

Just a year after she’d walked out on him. “That must have been hard for you.”

“Been through worse.” The edge in his usually smooth voice said more than any words ever could. She hadn’t been forgiven. Odd then that he’d had her brought aboard his ship unconscious.

“What’s this all about, Mac?” she asked wearily. Despite a forced nap, she was tired. Exhausted even.

“Tired after your night of unbridled rutting?”

Under different circumstances she would have smiled at his jealousy. He rarely ever used coarse language in front of her. “Rutting” was as rude as he was going to get. She didn’t smile, however; she rubbed her forehead and hoped the look she gave him was more disinterested than remorseful.

“If you wanted to talk, you could have come to my hotel. There was no need to grab me off the street.” Wait. Was that her luggage in the corner by the armoire?

He flashed that smirk she remembered so well and leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, arms still folded over his chest. “Talk? I don’t want to talk. Darlin’, this is an abduction. Consider yourself my prisoner.”

Perhaps he could have made the statement a little less gothic novel–style and a little more desperate, but Mac wasn’t exactly in the frame of mind to give a damn how he sounded—especially not to Evelyn Stone.

She did look good, despite a little grime. More striking than he remembered. That was fate’s way of buggering him good and hard. Long black hair spilled down her back in glossy waves, pins sticking out of it. Large whiskey and chocolate eyes framed by long sooty lashes glared at him. And that mouth . . .

If he wanted to talk . Christ on a rudder, did she think so much of her own appeal? “You’re here because of your skills as a surgeon, not because I care for your company,” he told her roughly. A little too ro lider, did sughly to sound sincere, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her shoulders pulled back as her spine snapped defiantly straight. She had strong shoulders for a woman. Her entire body was strong. He remembered times with her legs and arms around him, holding him to her like she’d never, ever let him go. He’d always admired the long, defined musculature beneath her soft café au lait skin. Always admired her.

And then she did let him go.

“Are you in need of some sort of . . . procedure?” she inquired, as though the thought of cutting into him gave her perverse pleasure. Obviously ripping out his heart three years ago hadn’t been enough.

“Sorry to disappoint, Doc, but I’m not your patient.”

“Pity. I warn you, I don’t support piracy and I have no intention of stitching a pirate back together.”

Yes, she despised pirates and all they stood for—it was part of the reason he’d taken on the profession. Every country in Europe that touched open water had heard of ballsy Captain Mac and his wily crew. “It’s not a pirate, either.” That was all he planned to tell her. “Get cleaned up and meet me on deck in fifteen minutes.”

She arched a gently angled brow. “And if I don’t?”

“It’s a long way to the ground.” It was an empty threat. He needed her too badly to let her go.

“Surely this wreck of a ship has swallows on board?”

Every smart captain made sure his flying girl had the small flying machines in case of emergency or necessity. “None that will be available to you. This isn’t up for negotiating. Do what needs to be done and I’ll deliver you safe and sound back to the Wardens’ front door.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Don’t challenge me, Evie. And don’t think for a minute our past makes one lick of difference. Twelve minutes.” With that, he turned and closed the door behind him. He didn’t lock it. At several thousand feet in the sky, it didn’t seem necessary.

Plus, Evie wouldn’t try to escape. She’d do what needed to be done and then try to kill him in his sleep, or give a detailed report to W.O.R. when he dropped her off. Regardless, she’d remain on board if for no other reason than to make his life miserable. She was good at that.

His right hand splayed over his chest. His fingers didn’t have to search for the faint ridge of scar tissue; they went there instinctively. Evie might have saved his life, but she’d marked him forever with that cut, though the wound to his pride had cut much deeper. His heart was still raw and inflamed—the memory of her was like an infection that refused to respond to treatment.

And Mac tried to find “treatment” in the arms of every obliging woman he could.

He reached the end of the narrow corridor and the stairs where he could climb up or descend to the lower levels where the galley, hold and crew quarters were. This floor had his rooms, Nell’s, and two cabins for passengers. Easiest money ever made was squiring people back and forth betwixt destinations they wanted to keep secret.