CHAPTER FOUR
It was still raining when Mason rolled to a stop in front of Daisy McGregor’s small house. He sat there for a long moment, feeling strangely nervous about the evening ahead. He wasn’t sure exactly what to make of this woman. She was oddly compelling. He knew she was going to back out of last night’s drunken proposition and figured it would be for the best, but at the same time the little ruse would be a welcome diversion for him, and God knows, Mason needed to get out of his own head for a while.
He rubbed a hand vigorously over his buzz cut, a nervous habit that he’d developed after joining the army, before inhaling deeply and dashing out of the car to the front door.
He shook his head as the dog started up a cacophony just inside the door. He heard Daisy frantically try to shush the animal, but the little puffball only barked louder.
Daisy looked flustered when she opened the door, and he grinned down into her flushed face.
“Hi. I’m sorry. She gets a little carried away . . . Peaches!” The last word emerged as the dog actually made a dash for his ankle.
“Stop that!” Mason made sure his bark was louder and more authoritative than the dog’s, and she backed up in confusion, hiding behind Daisy’s legs when Mason stepped over the threshold and into the small lobby.
“Nice place,” he said after giving the cozy living room a look around. She had a way with colors that made the place seem warm and inviting.
“Thanks.” She hovered awkwardly at the front door, obviously not having expected Mason to come inside. “Would you like a drink or something?”
The question lacked some serious conviction, and he knew that having him in her home, sipping a beverage like some proper fucking gentleman caller, was the last thing she wanted. Perversely it made him feel suddenly very thirsty.
“Yeah. What you got?”
“Coffee, tea, some soda.”
“Coffee, thanks.”
“I only have instant,” she said, and he shrugged, sidestepping her to peruse the wall of framed photos behind her.
“I’m not fussy,” he said absently as he studied a photograph of Daisy and her sisters. They all had the same pretty eyes, the same clear skin, and the exact same smile. Daffodil and Dahlia had sleek brown hair a shade darker than Daisy’s crazy curls, and they were both slender and tall, while their baby sister was significantly shorter with less-fashionable, lush curves. The photograph was at least five years old, and Daisy’s figure had ripened a bit since then, her hair was longer—she looked less like a brown-haired Little Orphan Annie.
He sensed her hovering behind him before she headed to the open-plan kitchen, Peaches trailing anxiously in her wake. Mason kept his eyes on the photos. They told the tale of a happy family, lots of smiles, laughter, family pets, and outings. A life without hardship, a life of privilege and upper-middle-class wealth, a stark contrast to Mason and Spencer’s upbringing.
Their father and mother had been less successful at the parenting thing. The old man had been in and out of jail for petty crimes, and their mother was a functioning alcoholic. While Mason’s parents had cared about their children in their own dysfunctional way, the boys had been left to their own devices much too often. And after their mother’s death, money was scarce, and both Spencer and Mason had been guilty of shoplifting food because there often wasn’t enough money for basics like bread and milk. They were lucky not to be caught; their lives would probably have turned out quite differently if they’d been arrested for shoplifting.
Mason shrugged off the sudden bout of melancholy, tucked his hands into his jean pockets, and turned to face Daisy. She had her back to him as she moved around the kitchen, and he found himself absently checking out her round, lush ass in those slightly-too-tight blue jeans. She was also wearing a simple long-sleeved black top, nowhere near as baggy as the other stuff he’d seen her in so far, and he was surprised to see the distinct nipped-in waist that gave her a full, curvy hourglass figure. She was built like a fifties bombshell—a particular weakness of his—with generous extra padding distributed attractively in the butt, thigh, and boob area.
She turned to face him, and he noted, for the first time, that the front of the top was some kind of V-neck wraparound thing that tied around the waist. It did fabulous things for her cleavage. Man, Daisy McGregor had killer tits, and Mason shifted uncomfortably when his cock went unexpectedly hard at the sight of her plump chest. She had a magnificent body, and he didn’t think Daisy or anybody else really appreciated that fact. He walked toward the island that separated the kitchen from the living room and placed himself behind it, grateful that it was high enough to keep his crotch out of sight. He was stunned by this unexpected development. He liked the woman, but he hadn’t expected to find himself turned on by her. He needed time to process this information and time to get his rampant dick back under control.
“Sugar or milk?”
“Black. Thanks.” Thankfully his voice was passably normal, just a little gruffer than usual. “You look nice.”
“Oh. Thank you.” She blushed, and he was fascinated by the way the color crept up over her chest, into her neck, covering her cheeks and tinting the tops of her ears. A full body blush. He wondered where the rosiness originated from and figured that the only way he’d ever know was if he made her blush while he had her naked and pinned beneath him. He choked a little at the thought, which wasn’t helping his hard-on go down in the slightest.
She placed a mug on the marble countertop in front of him, and he sat down on one of the high barstools, still careful to keep his lower body out of sight. She had fixed herself a cup of tea and stood awkwardly on the other side of the island, fiddling with the infuser.
“I like your hair like that,” Mason observed and was delighted when the comment caused another one of those all-over blushes. He did think her hair looked pretty. How did women achieve that effect? It wasn’t up, it wasn’t down, but it was somehow both. It was a mystery to him, but it looked good on her, and the wispy tendrils that framed her face and trailed down her neck suited her.
“Thanks.”
There was a long, awkward silence while he sipped his hot coffee and she continued to nervously dip the infuser in and out of the hot water in her mug. She didn’t seem to know what else to do with her hands, and she had her gaze fixed on that tea as if her very life depended on it.
Mason kept his attention on her downbent head and wondered what it would take to get back the relaxed, charming Daisy of last night.
“You going to drink that?” he asked after a few more moments, when it became apparent that she wasn’t going to be the one to break the silence. His voice startled her into dropping the infuser, and they both watched it plonk into the hot water, chain and all.
“Damn it,” she whispered and sighed deeply before raising her wary eyes to meet his.
Here it comes. Mason braced himself for the words he could practically see forming in her head.
“This is not a good idea.”
“We’d better get going,” he said, ignoring her statement and keeping his voice jovial as he handed the coffee mug to her. “I made reservations.”
“You did?” She seemed flummoxed by his words, but he didn’t give her time to think about it, and before she knew it he had her bundled into her coat with her handbag over her shoulder. Mason waited by the front door while she settled Peaches. He had swiped an umbrella from the stand in her foyer and courteously escorted her to the sleek and sexy BMW i8 crouched like a waiting leopard in the driveway behind her Renault.
“Is this your car?” she asked as she took in the dark interior of the car while he buckled himself in.
“Yes. I like to use it for special occasions.” He loved this car and grabbed every opportunity he could to drive it. Not that he often did. It seemed ostentatious to speed around their tiny town in this electric beauty, and he couldn’t exactly take it on his off-road adventures, so he had driven it a mere handful of times since he’d indulgently purchased it just a year ago.
“This isn’t exactly a special occasion.” Her negativity was starting to get on his nerves, and he gritted his teeth before responding.
“Allow me to decide for myself which occasions I think are special,” he just barely refrained from snapping at her, and she was silent for so long, he wondered if some of the impatience he was feeling had managed to creep into his voice after all.
“Are we going to MJ’s?” she asked, and he gave her a quick look, trying to read her expression in the dim light.
“Yep.”
“You don’t need a reservation for MJ’s.”
Aaahh. Mason felt his lips stretch into a grin.
“I was wondering when you’d pick up on that.”
“Why’d you say you had reservations?”
“I’m hungry and wasn’t in the mood to stand there having yet another ridiculous discussion with you about whether we’re doing this or not.”
Daisy didn’t respond to that, averting her gaze out of the passenger window instead. The roads and sidewalks gleamed wetly beneath the pale streetlights as rain continued to torrent down. She tried not to think about how good Mason smelled, how she was completely enveloped by his scent, how she wanted to lean closer and just inhale him all in. Okay . . . so maybe that last one was a little creepy, but heck, the guy smelled amazing. And he looked absolutely breathtaking too. He was wearing faded jeans and a gray Henley under an open black, waist-length down coat, with a furred hood. He wore his clothes with an ease that Daisy kind of envied. He gave ordinary clothes a sexy, chic masculine appeal that she hadn’t ever seen any other man achieve. She felt positively frumpy next to his splendor.
He parked as close to MJ’s as he could on a Saturday night, which, despite the wet weather, was still about five doors away. He reached for the umbrella and told her to wait, while he leaped out of the car and dashed around to her side to open the door for her.
Daisy wasn’t used to such chivalry from the opposite sex. They usually dove to assist her sisters, leaving Daisy to open her own doors and carry her own shopping. This was a complete novelty. He raised the umbrella above her head and made sure she received the lion’s share of the protection it offered. The left side of his body was wet when they reached the restaurant entrance. He held the door open for her with one hand while he shook the umbrella vigorously with the other.
MJ’s was jam-packed as usual, and Daisy’s wet glasses fogged up the second the hot air hit them, making it hard for her to see. She reached up to remove them, while Mason took a light hold of her elbow and followed one of the staff who led them to an empty table in the middle of the floor and informed them that their waitress would be right with them.
He dragged a chair out for Daisy, and feeling both self-conscious and flattered, she slid into it. She wiped her glasses, and by the time she had them back on, he was already seated opposite her. A quick glance around the room confirmed that there were a lot familiar faces around and that some of them were quite openly staring at her and Mason.
“Man, I haven’t been to MJ’s in years,” Mason was saying. “I think the last time I set foot in this place was as a dishwasher.”
Mason used to bus and wash dishes here. He must have been close to eighteen at the time. And while she would never admit to it now, a fourteen-year-old Daisy used to come to MJ’s hoping to catch a glimpse of him. He hadn’t noticed her, though. In fact, he hadn’t really paid attention to any of the girls who had tried to flirt with him back then.
“It hasn’t changed at all,” he said, shaking his head ruefully. “It’s like it’s still stuck in the early twenty-ohs.”
“Nothing much changes in Riversend,” Daisy said, and his eyes smiled into hers, sending her tummy aflutter again.
“Yeah, I noticed. I was gone, what? Twelve, thirteen, years? And everything is exactly the same. I mean Mr. Kane is still the principal of the high school, for God’s sake.”
“How do you even know that?” she asked.
“Spencer. He’s often invited to give motivational talks to the kids. Can you believe that? Old Man Kane hated us, and now he’s asking Spencer to talk to the students? Apparently he wants me to speak to them too.”
“And will you?”
“I don’t know. It’s not my scene. What do I have to say to a bunch of teens?” He looked uncomfortable and more than a little embarrassed at the thought.
“You’ve done really well for yourself, Mason,” she said. “And you came from such humble beginnings. A lot of the students come from similar backgrounds. You and your brother could inspire them to do more with their lives.”
“It wasn’t anything special. We worked hard. I had three jobs, and I saved every cent I earned so that I could afford the airfare out of here. That meant no dates, no social life during my entire adolescence . . . no kid wants to hear that.”
“They might not want to hear it, but it’s exactly what some of them need to hear.”
He cleared his throat and fiddled with the salt and pepper shakers, before reaching for the menu.
Their young waitress drifted over to their table.
“Oh, hey, Dr. Daisy,” she greeted when she saw Daisy and then stared at Mason with open curiosity. “Do you want your usual drink?”
“Hello, Thandiwe,” Daisy greeted the teenager with a friendly smile. “I think I’ll have a glass of your house red tonight.”
“Make that a bottle of your best Pinotage,” Mason said, and the girl nodded, her riot of beaded braids bouncing pertly. She was a pretty girl, with a warm smile, and one of those troubled teens Daisy had just been talking about.
“Okay, I’ll be back in a few minutes with your wine and to take your order,” Thandiwe said, and Daisy nodded.
“So what’s your ‘usual’ drink?”
“I’d rather not say; it’s embarrassing.”
“As embarrassing as the chicken dance?”
She snorted and shook her head. “Nowhere near as bad as that.”
“So come on, tell me.”
“Virgin piña colada,” she confessed, keeping her eyes on the red-checkered tablecloth and wincing when he laughed.
“A little rum never hurt anybody,” he said.
“‘A little rum’ leads to a lot of rum leads to the chicken dance.”
“Seriously?”
“Don’t ever watch my parents’ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary DVD. It’s . . . epically awful.”
“Hell, you shouldn’t have told me that,” he said, an element of unholy glee in his voice.
“I doubt you’ll ever get to know them well enough to see the horribly embarrassing family DVD collection, so I think I’m safe enough,” she said smugly.
“Challenge accepted.”
“It wasn’t a challenge.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“Mason . . .”
“Your wine,” Thandiwe said, interrupting what was proving to be the most frustrating and entertaining conversation Daisy had had in a long time. The girl popped the cork on the wine with a flourish and decanted a portion for Mason, who took a sip before nodding at her to go ahead and pour.
“Are you ready to order?” Thandiwe asked, reaching into the kangaroo pouch in the front of her black apron and pulling out her notebook.
“Not quite yet,” Mason told her with a smile, and she nodded.
“Just call when you need me,” the girl said before flouncing off to a neighboring table.
“So was I mistaken or did the lovely Thandiwe call you Dr. Daisy earlier?” Mason took another appreciative sip of his wine and stared at her with those beautiful and unsettlingly penetrating eyes of his.
“I’m a vet,” she said, trying to remain unaffected by that all-seeing gaze of his.
“No shit? That’s great. Just like your dad, huh?”
“Yes, I can’t remember ever wanting to be or do anything else. I spent my childhood tagging along behind my dad as often as he’d let me, and when I was a teen, I helped out in reception. I’ve only been a qualified veterinarian for a year now and in partnership with my father.”
“And? Is it everything you thought it would be?”
“It’s hard work and often gut-wrenching, but it can heartwarming and rewarding as well. I started a free clinic at Inkululeko about six months ago, and it’s my favorite part of the week. I feel like we’re really making a difference with that clinic. We run it on Wednesdays and half days on Saturdays. We’re always slammed on Saturdays, but I love it.”
“You worked today?”
“Yes. That’s why I was stuck walking Peaches at such an impractical time.”
“And what do you do for fun, Daisy McGregor?” he asked with a smile, and Daisy’s breath caught when she noticed the sexy dimple winking at her from his left cheek.
“Uh . . .” She lost her train of thought, distracted by the dimple. And she tried to gather her thoughts as she fought to regain her composure. “Nothing much, really. Work takes up a lot of my time right now, what with us still trying to get the clinic properly running and funded. When I do have a moment to spare, I bake.”
His eyes flared with interest.
“Yeah? Like cakes and stuff?”
“All kinds of cakes, biscuits, pies . . .”
“I happen to like pies,” he said without subtlety, and Daisy laughed.
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
“I’m partial to cakes and biscuits too.”
“I’m sure you are.” She giggled, and he returned her smile.
Daisy McGregor might not be the cute one or the pretty one, but she sure as hell was the adorable one. How nobody else could see that was beyond Mason. He wanted to keep that wide, gorgeous smile on her face, but it was already fading to be replaced by her more habitual earnestness.
He saw their waitress, Thandiwe, approaching and shook his head slightly to indicate to her that they weren’t ready yet, before lifting the menu.
“All this talk of confectionaries has made me hungry,” he confessed as he perused the menu. His eyes widened as he stared at the all-too-familiar items listed on the laminated paper. “This menu is still exactly the same.”
“I know.”
“Exactly the same, Daisy,” he repeated, waving the plastic card in front of her face. “Seriously, and I don’t just mean the content. I’m almost sure this is one of the actual menus they had when I was working here. See this water stain?” He pointed to the blotch beside the M in MJ’s. It was on the paper that was sandwiched between the thin sheets of plastic and had to have been there before the menu was laminated. “I know I’ve seen it before. How have all of you not died of boredom yet?”
“Most of the younger people leave as soon as they’re old enough. They move to Knysna, Plettenberg Bay, Port Elizabeth, or sometimes further afield to Durban or Cape Town. Or in certain extreme cases . . . the UK.” The last was said with a pointed glance over the top of the menu, and he grinned again.
“And why didn’t you leave?” Especially since the people in this town were so set in their ways, they hadn’t even noticed that she was a captivating woman in her own right who didn’t deserve to be forever unfavorably compared to her sisters.
“I went to university in Pretoria, but I always wanted to come back here and join my dad’s practice. Still, that taste of independence was what led me to move out of my parents’ house and buy my own place. My sisters are so content living there, and I get so—” She stopped talking abruptly, and he wondered if she felt guilty about whatever she’d been about to say. She did seem fiercely loyal to her family. She put down her menu and folded her hands over the piece of plastic. “I already know what I want to order.”
It was a pointed change of subject, and he allowed it only because he really was famished, and he didn’t want to push her in case she clammed up. As it was he was just grateful she hadn’t again started talking about how going ahead with her plan was a bad idea.
He waved Thandiwe over, and they placed their orders—pasta arrabbiata for Daisy and a rare steak with baked potato for him—before he turned his attention back to his dinner companion. Her hair was starting to slip out of that knot and beginning to resemble a soft cloud around her face. The heat from the place added a becoming flush to her cheeks.
“What about you?” she asked, and he blinked, startled out of his perusal of her pretty face.
“What do you mean?”
“What do you do for fun? Especially now that you’re back in our boring little town. I can’t imagine you’d find it that interesting being back.”
“You’d be surprised,” he muttered under his breath. He was finding her more and more fascinating with every passing moment, but he didn’t think she was quite ready to hear or believe that. “I haven’t been in town long enough to get bored yet. I’ve been on the go for the last year. I like camping, hiking, off-roading, parasailing, and I do a bit of surfing when it’s not fucking freezing.” He paused and then winced. “Sorry, all those years in the military with a bunch of crude guys didn’t do much for the vocabulary.”
“And what are your plans now that you’re home? Do you intend to settle down here? Stay permanently?”
He fiddled with the stem of his glass as he considered the question.
“Not entirely sure, really.”
His answer surprised Daisy. Mason Carlisle struck her as a man who always knew what he wanted and when he wanted it. The indecisiveness seemed out of character. “After selling my half of the company, I thought I’d try something I’ve always wanted to do.”
“Which is?” she asked, lifting her glass for a sip of wine.
“Nothing.”
She choked on her drink and squinted at him.
“What?”
“I’ve always dreamt of being rich enough to do absolutely nothing,” he elaborated with a sheepish grin. “Granted, I was about seventeen and working those aforementioned three jobs when I wished for this, but I thought I’d give it a go.”
“And how’s it working out for you? Doing absolutely nothing, that is?”
“Honestly?” he asked, dipping his head and looking up at her through those gorgeous eyelashes of his. She found the almost shy gesture incredibly appealing and fought back another one of her embarrassing blushes.
“Yep.”
“It’s boring as hell. I’ve always had something to do, and all this leisure time is driving me crazy.”
“Well, you’ve kept yourself busy with the hiking and climbing and stuff, so you haven’t been completely idle.”
“But that was fun and unproductive, and for someone like me, it’s damned near decadent to be able to do anything I want, without any sort of regimen. I’ve lived my entire life according to a schedule, sometimes mine, mostly someone else’s—so this just feels”—he stopped as he searched for the correct word—“wrong. It feels wrong. And I feel selfish.”
“You’ve spent your life helping others, Mason. Cut yourself some slack.” She would have continued if Thandiwe hadn’t chosen that moment to bring their food. Mason looked a little relieved by the interruption, and once their bubbly server had left, he very determinedly changed the subject.
“Ah, now this is one thing I’m happy remained the same,” he said with an appreciative sigh, after giving his steak a long and lusty look. “The food at MJ’s has always been awesome, despite the lack of variation in the menu.”
“Or maybe because of it,” Daisy suggested. “Why change something that’s working perfectly fine in the first place?”
“Touché,” he said, before slicing off a sizable chunk of the—much-too-rare-for-Daisy’s-liking—meat and shoving it into his mouth. He groaned, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes as he chewed on his meat. He looked incredibly sexy and—quite uncharacteristically—Daisy found herself wondering if he showed this much enthusiasm and sensual appreciation during sex. She would assume so. Mason Carlisle just seemed like the type of man who did nothing by half measures. He enjoyed every sensual, physical, and cerebral aspect of life. The type of man who took action and went after the things he wanted, rather than standing on the sidelines watching all the important experiences in life pass him by.
He opened his eyes and caught her staring, her fork halfway to her open mouth, and Daisy quickly averted her eyes, despite knowing that it was already much too late to pretend she wasn’t completely riveted by him.
“Sorry, I appreciate good food a little too much sometimes. Bad table manners, I know.” He was smiling as he spoke, inviting her to share his self-deprecating humor. She forced an answering feeble smile in return, but her expression froze at his next words. “I’ll be on my best behavior at your sister’s wedding, though. I promise not to act like a starving man at a banquet and embarrass you.”
Embarrass her? A man of Mason Carlisle’s caliber couldn’t even begin to grasp the concept of embarrassment. But, that aside, it was time to address the elephant in the room, and Daisy sighed as she placed her fork neatly on the side of her plate.
“Mason, I really appreciate the fact that you were—are—willing to help me out like this, but the inherent dishonesty of it is making me feel really uncomfortable, and I don’t think I can, or even want to, go through with it.”
He said nothing, kept his focus on his plate as he sliced off another piece of steak and speared some steaming potato along the way as well. He shoveled the contents of the overburdened fork into his mouth and watched her closely while he chewed. He ate like a man, no delicacy or artifice about him. He washed the food down with some wine and sucked at his teeth before finally making a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat. It sounded like a lion’s purr and unsettled Daisy more than she was willing to let on.
“So you’re uninviting me?”
“Well, I mean, it wasn’t like it was an official . . .”
“Daisy? I thought that was you!” The loud, overly sweet voice had the same effect on Daisy as fingernails on a chalkboard, and she girded herself to face the owner of that voice.
“Hey, Shar,” she greeted with more of a grimace than a smile, but Shar had already dismissed Daisy and her laser-like focus was pinned entirely on Mason.
“And look who you have with you. Mason, how wonderful to see you again!” She leaned over, probably giving Mason a generous eyeful of her exposed cleavage, and kissed the air on either side of his face. “It’s been years! I thought I saw you last night, but I was out celebrating my friend’s hen night, you know.”
She then, to Daisy’s annoyance, dragged up a chair and sat down at their table, turning her body toward Mason and completely excluding Daisy from their exchange. Mason casually continued to eat, saying nothing, but staring at her in interest, occasionally allowing his eyes to stray down to her breasts and then back up to her lovely face. His expression was inscrutable, making it hard for Daisy to figure out what he was thinking.
“What have you been up to? Are you home for good? What brings you to MJ’s tonight?”
Mason’s eyes, for the very briefest of moments, slid over to Daisy, and he cleared his throat before putting his knife and fork down. He leaned back in his chair, draping one arm over the back and angling his body toward Shar’s. The woman leaned forward, anticipating his reply, since—with the shift in his body language—she now had his entire focus. Feeling hurt and slighted, Daisy cringed—wishing she could just sink into the floor and disappear. Anything to avoid this.
“Date.” The word was concise and didn’t exactly invite further conversation. Shar’s eyebrows rose, and she laughed delicately.
“A date?” She glanced around the restaurant as if expecting to see someone appear, before she allowed her eyes to rest on Daisy. “You mean with our little Daisy? Well, that’s new. Daisy doesn’t date, do you, sweetie? Too busy with her cows and chickens to bother with men. But bless you for getting her out and about. We don’t see enough of you around town, Daisy.” She raised her voice in that condescending way ignorant people had when they spoke to deaf or mentally challenged people. Daisy gritted her teeth, knowing from experience that responding would only delay the unpleasant encounter and invite further bitchiness. “I’ve been telling your sisters you should get out more. Get a little more exercise, you know? Good for the body and soul.”
“Lady—forgive me, I’m not exactly sure what your name is—but I’m trying to sweet-talk Daisy into a second date, and you’re kind of ruining the moment,” Mason said, plastering an amiable grin on his face while he kept his voice soft and pleasant. “I’m a patient guy—sometimes I’m even a nice guy—but I can’t say I appreciate the interruption. Now if you don’t mind? Daisy and I have some acquainting to get back to.”
Shar gaped at him in visible shock, her mouth opening and closing unattractively as his words sank in. Daisy had clapped her hand over her own mouth in disbelief halfway through his charming little put-down. Nobody dismissed Sharlotte Bridges like that. Daisy’s eyes swiveled to Shar to see how she was taking it, and she could see that Shar’s shock was wearing off and her eyes had gone cold with malice.
“I guess you can take the man out of the ghetto but—no matter what his achievements—you can never entirely eradicate the stink of his origins from him,” she hissed.
“Wow, really?” Mason’s grin disappeared, and his eyes went frighteningly icy. He looked so dangerous in that moment that even Daisy felt a little uneasy. “You’re going to pull this elitist bullshit? In this day and age? Don’t be ridiculous. This is getting tiresome, lady. Why don’t you shove off back to wherever the hell you came from and leave us to enjoy our evening?” He dismissed her with a careless wave and refocused his attention on Daisy, who was having a hard time keeping the mixture of awe and horror she was feeling from showing on her face.
Shar was too concerned with her image to create a huge scene, and she aimed a fulminating glare at the wide-eyed Daisy before turning and stalking back to her table, where a few of her usual toadying minions sat eagerly awaiting her return.
Mason shook his head and went back to his meal as if the interruption hadn’t occurred.
“That was . . .” Daisy’s voice petered. There was really nothing she could think of to say about what had just happened, and Mason shrugged.
“That chick’s a bitch; why did you allow her to muscle in on your territory like that?”
“What do you mean my territory? The table?”
“No, Daisy, I mean me,” he growled. “We’re obviously here together, and you allowed her to force her unwelcome way into our conversation.”
“Well, I didn’t know if you wanted to speak with her or not. I don’t have any rights over you or any control over with whom you choose to speak.”
“Hmm.” He shrugged. “You were irritated by the interruption. I could see it in your eyes. So why did you let her walk all over you like that?”
“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head hopelessly. “Habit, I guess.”
“You always let her treat you like that? Like you don’t matter? What the fuck? Why?”
“I don’t know,” Daisy repeated and swallowed back a lump in her throat as she considered his words.
“And she’ll be at the wedding?”
“She’s one of the bridesmaids.”
“Are the rest of them like that too?”
“Some of them, yes.”
“Why is your sister even friends with a viper like that?”
“It’s a small town, and Shar is very influential.”
“I don’t give a fuck if she’s the pope’s daughter; she was always a bitch, even back in high school, and I never could figure out why people allowed her to have so much power and sway over them.”
“So you do know who she is?”
“Of course I do, but do you think I’d give her the satisfaction of knowing that? I never liked her.”
“She’s very beautiful.”
“So’s a blue-ringed octopus, but it can still kill the hell out of you.”
“A blue-ringed octopus?” She couldn’t quite contain her giggle. “I don’t think she’d appreciate being compared to an octopus.”
“Daisy,” he said, his voice serious and his eyes level, and she put her elbows on the table and leaned forward in interest. She was shaken when his eyes dipped to her cleavage for a long—wholly appreciative—moment. When his gaze came back up to meet hers, it had a smolder in it that made Daisy feel hot all over. His voice had roughened slightly, and it made his next words sound way sexier than he probably intended. “I’m not allowing you to uninvite me from that wedding. We’re going. Together. Got that?”
“Yes.”
“Great.” An awkward silence descended over the table, and she could hear Shar’s voice from across the room. Horrible words like “human trash” and “ignorant, uneducated jocks” drifted over the general hum of conversation clearly meant for them to hear, and Daisy winced in embarrassment.
“I’m sorry about Shar. The things she said were . . .”
“Why?” he interrupted. “Why be sorry? You’re not the one who said them. I’ve met loads of chicks like her in my lifetime. Spoilt bitches who want to ‘slum’ it with the soldier or the bodyguard but would never been caught dead with them in public. Hell, I’ve even fucked—sorry—my fair share of them. I know exactly what they’re all about.”
“Still—”
“Don’t ever apologize for other people, Daisy. Unless”—a fleeting expression of doubt crossed his face before it settled into handsome impassivity—“unless that’s why you changed your mind about the wedding. Because you think I’m not good enough.”
“What?” Daisy laughed outright at that. “Seriously? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. You’re a great guy, Mason. A nice man. Attractive and interesting. You—”
“Let me stop you right there.” He held up a hand and shook his head. “I’m not nice, Daisy. If I was nice, if I was halfway decent, I’d let you back out of this wingman scheme.”
“So . . . so why don’t you?” She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer to that question but couldn’t prevent the halting question from slipping out.
“Because I’m a selfish asshole.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re the nice one, Daisy. Sweet, kind, fun, entertaining. I like hanging out with you. But after the newness wears off, you won’t like hanging out with me, and that’s why I should have let you call this thing off. But that’s not going to happen, because I’m enjoying myself, and regardless of whether this is the best thing for you, it’s what I want. And when I want something, very little can stop me from getting it.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“You will.” The words were said in such a grim voice that they sent a shudder down her spine. “Now eat up and then tell me everything I need to know to make Operation Wingman succeed.”
Mason watched as Daisy nibbled her lower lip while she considered his words. She sighed softly—her lovely chest rising and falling gently in the process—and removed her glasses to pinch the bridge of her nose. He had tried his utmost to keep his eyes above chest level this evening, but he knew she had caught him looking a couple of times. He was trying to maintain a calm and friendly demeanor, but the truth was, his body had been on a low simmer for most of dinner, and he was finding it hard to focus on what she was saying when all he wanted to do was taste those full, soft-looking lips and slip his hand inside the low V of that top.
She replaced her glasses and lifted those gorgeous gray eyes to meet his.
“There’s not much to know except that people are going to have a hard time believing this charade,” she grumbled, and he hit her with the sweetest smile in his arsenal—the “panty dropper” as his army mates called it—and reached across the table to lay one of his hands over one of hers.
“Trust me,” he crooned, lifting her surprisingly delicate hand and turning it palm up to trace the lines with his index finger. Her breath caught, and his smile widened even further as he slathered on the charm. “They’ll believe it.”
He dropped a kiss into the center of her palm and folded her fingers down until they were curled over the spot he had marked with his lips. Her skin was incredibly soft, and damned if his lips weren’t actually tingling after the brief brush against her soft, fragrant flesh. Tingling, for God’s sake. What kind of bloke would ever confess to feeling tingly? And yet here he sat, with tiny starbursts of sensation popping and fizzing all over his lips.
Her breath came in ragged gasps, and he was fighting to keep his own breathing under control after the unanticipated impact of that brief, intimate caress. He had to be very careful here. This wasn’t a reaction he had foreseen at all. Take her to the wedding, make her feel special, treat her like a princess, and job done, conscience assuaged. He liked her, wanted to spend time with her and enjoy her company, but sexual attraction shouldn’t have factored into the equation at all.
“See?” he muttered, resisting the urge to clear his throat, knowing that doing so would only draw unwanted attention to the hoarseness of his voice. “I can lay on the charm as convincingly as the next guy.”
Too convincingly. Daisy surreptitiously dragged her hand beneath the table and rubbed her palm against her jeans, hoping the roughness of the denim would eradicate the lingering sensation of his warm lips from her flesh. If they were going to do this she had to remember that this was all pretend, that Mason Carlisle’s overwhelming charm—no matter how convincing—was not real. It would be so easy to forget that fact, so easy to buy into their little deception and become the victim of her own dumb plan.
“So, are we doing this thing?” he asked, refilling their wineglasses. His hand seemed a little unsteady, and his voice sounded thicker than usual. Daisy briefly wondered about that before shrugging the tremor off as Mason readjusted his grip on the bottle and dismissing the gruffness she had heard in his voice as her imagination. Especially since he sounded perfectly normal when he prompted her again moments later, “Are we?”
Daisy took a fortifying sip of her wine before inhaling deeply. She thought back to all those other family events, Lia’s engagement party, Shar’s behavior just minutes before, and considered the impotent anger, frustration, and resentment she’d felt with every well-meaning auntie patronizingly informing her that her parents were so lucky to have her to look after them in their old age. Showing up with Mason Carlisle on her arm would definitely make them pause for thought. A smile tilted her lips as Daisy imagined the looks on their faces. Then there was Shar and her ilk . . . Mason had been a wonderful balm on her bruised ego earlier, and while Daisy knew she had to fight her own battles, Lia’s wedding probably wasn’t the place to start doing so. She briefly considered his strange warning that he wasn’t nice, not quite sure what to make of it. She scrutinized his face carefully, but no trace of that earlier broodiness remained. His current expression seemed aloof, but his eyes were warm and gently encouraging.
“Yes. Let’s do it,” she decided with a firm nod, and Mason’s lips stretched into a wonderful grin, one that showcased his dimple beautifully.
“No more wishy-washy bullshit, Daisy. No more changing your mind. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, giving him a little salute, and he shook his head.
“That was the worst salute I’ve ever seen in my life,” he chastised.
“How do you do it in the British navy, then?”
“Army,” he corrected.
“Sorry, army.”
“Easy, palm facing outward, index finger just on the brow. See?” he demonstrated with a smart and snappy salute that impressed her more than it should have.
“You must have looked really handsome in your uniform,” she breathed appreciatively, and he chuckled.
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those women who goes sappy at the sight of a guy in uniform?” Not any guy, just Mason. Daisy figured she’d melt into a puddle of unrequited lust if she ever saw the man in uniform. But she wasn’t about to tell him that.
“The navy uniform is kind of sexy,” she admitted with a grin, and his brow furrowed.
“I was in the army,” he reminded, with that inborn male arrogance that told her he assumed that she must have made a mistake.
“Yes, so you said. Pity. You would probably have looked quite nice in navy whites.”
He winced and then laughed.
“I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”
“Totally.”
“You don’t often see them in whites, you know? They usually muck around in something less glamorous.”
“Ssh.” Without thinking, she lifted her hand and placed her fingers over his lips. Then self-consciously snatched them back when she realized what she had done. Damn it! Just when she was getting over that kiss too. Her gesture had effectively silenced him, and she watched in fascination when the tip of his tongue ran over the same spot her fingers had just been. As if he were sampling her taste.
She shook herself, a little irritated to be thinking such ridiculous thoughts, and focused on their conversation.
“Don’t destroy the fantasy,” she admonished, embarrassed by the unfamiliar throatiness of her voice. A tiny smile kicked up one corner of his mouth, and his eyes narrowed.
“What fantasy?”
“The, uh . . . the navy thing. You know?” Shut up, Daisy, her inner voice shrieked, shut up!
“What does this navy fantasy guy wind up doing to you exactly?”
“Nothing.” She shifted uncomfortably.
“So he just stands around doing nothing? Lame.”
“I just think it’s a flattering uniform, that’s all,” she said, trying to insert some firmness into her voice and take command of this crazy conversation.
“I could borrow a buddy’s navy whites,” he suggested with a wicked grin. “And wear them for you. But I’ll probably do a hell of a lot more than merely stand around modeling it.”
Don’t ask!
“Like what?” Crap!
“I’ll probably start with a sloooooow strip tease.” Daisy was captivated by his eyes; they were staring into hers with scorching intensity, and she was finding it hard to breathe. Her mouth was bone dry, and she took another desperate gulp from her glass.
“I’m surprised you’d know how to do that,” she croaked. Why wasn’t she putting a stop to this conversation? It was unlike any other discussion she had ever had in her life, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted it to continue or end.
“What? A striptease? I’ve seen it done enough times. It seems pretty easy. Put on some sexy music, do a hip-swaying, raunchy dance, and strip. But make it last, build anticipation . . . reveal only a tiny”—his hand drifted to the top button of his Henley and popped it—“sliver”—another button.
Daisy’s eyes were fixed on the smooth, tanned skin peeking through the tiny V he had created at the base of his throat, and she swallowed heavily. Her breath came in rapid pants while her entire body felt as if it was on fire.
“Of skin”—another button. How could a man’s throat be so sexy? Oh God, she could see his clavicles now. She wanted to run her tongue over them. They looked so strong and masculine. What was happening to her?
“At a time”—a fourth button slid free of its hole to reveal the tiniest portion of his chest. She could see the slightest sprinkle of light-brown hair, and she absolutely ached to run her hand over the silky-looking stuff, to feel the velvety texture of his glorious skin beneath the palm of his hand. She ran her tongue over her dry lips and swallowed again.
“You okay, Daisy? You’re looking a bit flushed.” His hands dropped back to the table, and Daisy stifled a groan when she realized that the impromptu little demo was over. She glared at him; he had done that deliberately, the bastard. He had known exactly how he was affecting her and had teased her mercilessly nonetheless. Daisy didn’t know what game he was playing with her, but she didn’t like it.
“It’s a little hot in here, that’s all,” she lied, and he allowed the untruth to go unchallenged, merely nodded his acceptance.
“It is a bit uncomfortable,” he said agreeably.