Guarding Raine Part 46

Wandering through the scantily furnished rooms, she looked around for

hints Of the man who lived there.

There were few to be found.

Nothing hung on the walls; there were no plants to soften the austerity

of the bare essential furniture.

Three photographs stood atop a television set, and she crossed the room to study them.

One showed Mac with an older couple, who she guessed were his

parents.

She thought she recognized the same hints of stubbornness lurking around both men's jaws.

Another picture showed the couple together, and yet another~ was of the

woman alone.

And that was all there was.

She peeked into the kitchen, but it was as bare as the rest of the

rooms.

It was like being in a stranger's home, a stranger who put nothing of himself on display.

She didn't know why the Spartan-like apartment should surprise her.

Mac gave little of himself away at any time.

But she had expected there would be something of him in his home.

The fact that it was as expressionless as he usually appeared made her

want to cry.

Did he spend so little time here that he didn't think't orth while to make it more comfortable, more of a home?

Or was the emptiness of the apartment supposed to be a mirror of the

man?

She didn't want to believe that, although she guessed that l~e did~ There were enough times when she'd caught the bleakness in Mac's eyes to know he was capable of feeling far more emotion than he gave himself credit for.

Maybe that was the whole problem.

For.

some reason Macauley O'Neill had decided he didn't deserve any positive

emotions.

Whatever it was that rode him so hard at times wouldn't let him forget for long enough to experience anything besides guilt.

She wondered if it ever would.

Mac Stepped into the room and stopped as if he'd hit an invisible

wall.

He'd been tortured the whole time he dressed by teasing fantasies of what it would have been like to dress with Raine in the same room.

There would have been something inherently s.e.xy in watching her ready

herself.

He'd driven himself crazy with images 'of her struggling into her dress, asking him to clasp a necklace at the nape of her neck.

He'd even fantasized watching her spray herself with a delicate scent

of perfume.

Except that she wasn't wearing a dress.

His eyes traveled over her small form slowly, taking in the turquoise

jumpsuit with the wide silver belt.

It was not figure-hugging, but the cut of the fabric draped softly over her fragile curves.

It was very nearly backless, with the kind of defiance for gravity that

drove a man crazy wondering just what kept it on.

She turned then to face him, and he saw that the silver was repeated in a design across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Dainty silver sandals were on her feet, and she carried a matching

purse.

He dragged the direction of his eyes to her face and said the first thing he could think of.

"You did something to your hair."

He almost grimaced at the inane comment that had slipped out in an effort to cover what he'd really been thinking.

But it was true.

Her hair was a ma.s.s of curls on top, and added to the picture of utter femininity.

"So did you,"

she said teasingly.

Very little, but he'd at least made an attempt to brush the waves

back.

They still glistened wetly from his attempt.

He'd shaved, and she was peculiarly touched by this variation in his

usual routine.

His smooth jaw tantalized her, tempted her to drag the tip of her tongue across it.

His suit was dark, his shirt cream and his tie muted.

He looked even more dangerous than he had the first time she'd seen

him, and no less uncivilized.

"Do you keep that suit as a disguise?"

she joked in a shaky voice.

"It's my bank suit,"

he explained disgruntledly.

"Trey insists we dress like this when we have an appointment with the