could handle sex, a fling, even a temporary affair—provided there was an end in sight—but her lifestyle, and career, made that difficult. Most of the men she met were backpackers and travelers, and she understood that, for them, hooking up while traveling was a major part of the “experience.” Apart from the icky diseases factor, she really didn’t want to be another in their long line of sexual conquests. And sleeping with her coworkers was out... As a result, she’d been celibate for more years than she’d care to count.
Linc, damn him, made her remember exactly how long it had been. Why did he have to be such a sexy, sexy guy? He made her remember what being uncomfortably horny felt like. That had to be why she felt like she wanted to jump out of her own skin whenever he was around.
“Can’t sleep?”
Tate screeched and hurtled up from her chair, knocking over her glass of milk. She tried to grab the glass, but it rolled away from her, off the table and smashed on the tiles below. Tate swore and, as she put her foot down, she felt a shard of glass pierce her heel. She groaned and dropped her butt onto the chair, hoisting her heel up onto her knee to look at her wound.
Tate blinked when the kitchen filled with light and turned her head to look at Linc, who was walking toward her. She started to apologize for breaking the glass, but her words, and the moisture in her mouth, disappeared when she saw that he was dressed in nothing more than athletic shorts and shoes. Earlier, dressed in his suit, he’d looked urbane and sophisticated, but this Linc—perspiration glinting on his bare skin, bulging muscles, a defined six-pack and muscled thighs—was pure masculine power.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” Linc said, walking over to her and bending his head to look at her heel. He winced at the shard of glass in her heel. “Can you pull it out?”
Tate quickly removed the sliver and dropped her heel.
“Careful,” Linc warned. “There’s glass everywhere.”
“Sorry,” Tate said. “I’ll replace the glass.”
Linc frowned. “It’s a glass, Tate, not a Picasso. Relax. And sit down. I’ll clean up.”
“But—”
“I’m wearing shoes. You are not,” Linc said and turned to walk into the expansive utility room behind the kitchen, returning with a broom and dustpan. Within minutes he’d swept up the glass, mopped up the milk and was chugging down a bottle of water he’d pulled from the fridge.
“Do you normally work out at midnight?” Tate asked, trying to break the heavy silence between them.
Linc lifted a big, broad shoulder, and Tate wondered how it would feel to run her hand through his light sprinkling of chest hair. “I work out daily. Sometimes I have crazy days, and that means that my workout happens at crazy hours.” Linc lowered his water bottle and nodded at the baby monitor on the table in front of her. “Did she go down easily?”
Tate shook her head. “Not really. I had to rock her to sleep.” She made herself meet his hard eyes. “She’s probably missing Kari.”
Linc bent down and rested his forearms on the granite island of the kitchen, his expression broody. “So, have you decided what you’re going to do?”
“About Ellie?” Tate clarified and waited for his nod before continuing. “I’m still thinking it through. My plan is still to get legal advice and go from there.”
“Are you going to talk to my PI?” Linc leaned his butt against the kitchen counter and crossed his ankles. His hands gripped the granite countertop behind him, and his muscles bulged and tightened. Raised veins—a fine indication that he was super fit, in case she didn’t catch a clue from his zero-fat, all-muscle body—snaked over his forearms and biceps.
Concentrate, Harper!
Tate squirmed under his hard, penetrating stare, sensing that he was frustrated by her lack of decisiveness. He wanted answers, an immediate plan of action. It was the CEO way, she decided.
But this wasn’t his company; it was her and Ellie’s lives. She’d take all the time she needed to make a decision she felt comfortable with. Besides, he would be free of them in the morning, so what did he care?
But he’d been kind enough to let her stay here tonight, so she thought she might, maybe, owe him a brief explanation.
“I’m conflicted and feeling a lot overwhelmed, Linc. I need time to process what’s happened,” Tate admitted, she jumped up from her seat at the table and walked toward him.
So much for a brief explanation, she thought, as words rolled off her tongue. “I know I can’t look after a baby, and I don’t want the responsibility of making decisions for Ellie. I have two months before I go back on the road and can’t take a baby with me! Ellie is her daughter, not mine. I mean, God, she’s cute and sweet and pretty damn easygoing but I’m not mommy material!”
How could she be? Lane, Kari, even her aunt Lauren, had been—were—shockingly bad mothers, and there was no reason to think she’d be any different.
Having a baby was the ultimate commitment, so keeping Ellie was out of the question. Besides, conventional wisdom stated that the child was always better off with their mother so restoring Ellie to Kari was her ultimate goal.
“Along with your killer body and gorgeous hair, that seems to be a trait you share with your sister,” Linc said, his voice flat.
His words were an acid-tipped arrow straight to her heart. She wanted to lash back, to tell him that she wasn’t anything like Kari, that she wasn’t irresponsible and selfish and so very screwed up. But the suspicion in his eyes told her that, no matter what she said, he wouldn’t believe her.
But she had to try. For some crazy reason she didn’t want him to judge her by her family name. She was better than he thought. “I’m not my sister, Linc.”
Linc didn’t acknowledge her words. He just held her indignant look, and she watched as his eyes turned from granite to a smoke gray. Oh, God, she recognized that hot, masculine look of appreciation, and it had nothing to do with liking her mind or her personality and everything to do with liking the way she filled out a T-shirt.
He was as attracted to her as she was to him. Oh, Lord, what was she supposed to do with that thought, how was she supposed to process it?
The smart reaction would be to walk away, to turn her back on him and hightail it out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Tate wanted to be smart, she really did. But more than that, she wanted to taste him, to press her breasts into his bare chest, to feel that hard, sweaty skin under her hands. She wanted to inhale him, devour him, climb inside him...
An unintelligible curse erupted from Linc’s mouth, and his hand shot out to grab her wrist. With a hard yank, he pulled her into him, and her hips slammed against his erection—ooh, nice—and he ducked his head to cover her mouth with his.
He didn’t bother to sip or suckle, he didn’t tease or taunt; Linc just slid his tongue into her mouth to tangle with hers, challenging her to give as good as she got. Tate responded by twisting her tongue around his, answering his silent dare.
Something hot and hard arced between them. Tate felt heat zinging through her as Linc’s big hand slipped between the fabric of her shirt to cup her, his hand easily covering her small breast. His thumb swiped her nipple, and she made a guttural sound in the back of her throat, rising on her toes to align her mound with his erection, wanting more heat, more hardness.
Her hands, by their own volition, skated up his rib cage, across his chest, flirted with the ridges of his stomach. Linc responded by placing his arm under her butt and lifting her off her toes. It made sense for her thighs to grip his waist, to hook her ankles behind his back, to rub her long-neglected core against his hot-and-hard-as-hell length. She wanted this man. She wanted him in the worst possible way.
She wanted no fabric between them, she wanted them slick and hot...battling to breathe and crazy with need.