Mac didn’t argue. Clearly his sunny attitude had changed since the day before. Something was driving this man hard. Plenty of time to find out what when he stopped moving.
As it was, it took her full concentration to keep up with his wide long-legged stride while she walked double-time in her heels.
They stepped into the first available elevator, occupied by several men and women who greeted Oliver by name.
He gave them a general chin-up greeting but didn’t speak. The blue-eyed thunder of his eyes shut down the inclination anyone might have to become chatty.
Mac assumed they’d be headed down to the lobby, maybe the bar. He radiated the jittery intensity of someone in need of a good stiff drink. Instead the elevator rose, taking them toward the room floors.
He had his key out and all but burst through the doors on the fourth floor as they parted, only glancing back at her so that she would know that she was to follow him.
She heard the chuckles that accompanied a man’s voice saying, “Somebody’s about to be a lucky girl.”
Macayla shook it off. Oliver was moving at high speed and she couldn’t change an impression of someone who didn’t matter.
The moment they were inside a room at the end of the hall, he whipped out his phone, pressed a number, and began stalking across the room as he waited for someone to answer. When that someone did, he didn’t start with hello.
“I can’t do this. I won’t do this. Call it the fuck off.”
He punched the END CALL button and slipped the phone back into his rear pocket before he stalked over the windows and shoved open the curtains on French doors.
The room was suddenly flooded with the clear hard light of warm-water shores. The sky was metallic blue streaked with thin clouds. The water below was a deeper shade of blue, curling into foam on a powdery beach that looked like white sugar.
Uncertain if she was still welcome, Mac remained by door. But she helped herself to the sight of him.
Against that backdrop of sea and sky, Oliver reminded her again of Thor: strong, majestic, his thick mane swirled around his shoulders like some ancient mantle of authority. His beard a striking emblem of maleness. But there was wariness in the tension holding his body taut as a guitar string. He was a man, after all. A worried, angry man.
Her gaze strayed across his shoulders to where his sage-gray polo shirt pulled tight over the contours of his back, swelled by toned muscle. She remembered how his body looked under that shirt. The compact swells of muscle over his stomach and ribs. As for his ass in those knee-length patrol shorts, well. For the first time in a long time she really wanted to reach out and touch.
As he swung around, having suddenly remembered she was in the room—had he heard her panting?—Mac jerked her gaze up to his face.
He stared at her with an expression that could have meant anything. It wasn’t just his injured eye, less swollen but still turning blue, that made her sigh. The happy-go-lucky Aussie she’d spent the morning with the day before was gone. In his place was a man who looked mad and bad, and just a little dangerous.
“What can I do for you, Macayla?”
Good question. She wished she had a good answer. I just wanted to see you again sounded lame. Every other thought in her head was too racy for the situation. The situation, that is, where she wanted to touch and go on touching. Good grief. Once released, her hormones were trampling good sense. She needed to get out of here and regroup.
“You know, this doesn’t seem like a good time. I can come back later…” She turned to leave.
“No. Stay.”
It sounded more like a command to a canine but she decided to ignore his tone and hear that he wanted her company. She turned around, allowing him to see the questioning in her expression.
He swung out an arm. “Come in and get comfortable. I’ll be right back.”
He walked over to a door that led to the bathroom.
Mac glanced at the bed that filled the second half of the open area suite. Had he really meant to gesture toward it?
Oh my god. Did he assume, just like the guys in the elevator, that because she’d come to his room it was as good as an invitation into her pants?
Jackeroo bounded out of the bathroom and launched a wiggling body at his alpha.
A smile broke over Oliver’s face as he squatted down and let Jack do a happy dance all around him, repeatedly leaping up to lick his handler’s face. “Sorry to lock you up, Jack old boy. But you will nip at the maids’ heels.”
After a few more gyrations around Oliver, Jackeroo took off across the room to greet Mac. Surprisingly, he didn’t bark in greeting. But he nosed up under the hand that hung freely by her side, giving her permission to pet him.
Mac went down on a knee and scratched him behind first one ear and then the other. “Hello, Jackeroo. What a good boy.”
Jackeroo appeared pleased by her greeting and sneaked in under her arm to lick her chin. He got a good bit of her mouth with that lick, too.
Reaching up to wipe her mouth free of doggy kisses, she looked across at Oliver, who watched them interact. “Why didn’t Jackeroo bark in greeting when you entered? He had to know it was you.”
“He’s trained not to bark in unfamiliar surroundings until I signal that it’s okay. We’ve been in some places where a barking dog is like a beacon, sometimes to the wrong people.” He frowned. “Why are you still over by the door?”
She decided not to give the real answer but rose to her feet. “Can you do that? Teach a dog not to bark even when alone?”
He raised an eyebrow at her. Right. She’d just been witness to a demonstration of his abilities. Speaking of which, “You could have told me you weren’t a stripper.”
A half-wattage smile appeared on his mouth. Even 50 percent was enough for her to feel the burn of being the center of his attention. “It was more fun letting you think I was a man slut. You seemed to get really worked up about the idea.”
She was not worked up. Okay, maybe a little. “I just don’t like to see anyone waste their lives. Men or women.”
She saw his expression sharpen with interest. “Not every stripper is a loser. I have a friend who danced her way through college and came out debt-free.”
“And did she have a problem being taken seriously later?”
He frowned slightly in memory. “Fair point.”
“I take it you were practicing your speech just now in the ballroom.”
“No.” He looked away from her. “I’m not giving a bloody speech.”
The anger in his voice took her by surprise, as did the strangely troubled look he redirected her way. Everything about him, from the slightly widened gaze to the sudden movements and excessive energy, hinted at anxiety. She’d learned most of what she knew about animal behavior by helping out Saturdays at an animal shelter from the time she was ten years old. And, later, a vet’s office. In her experience, the symptoms and signs of stress in animals could be found in humans too. Those signs in animals were due to protective instincts and could lead to aggression if not handled correctly. Not that she expected Oliver to be dangerous. Only that he probably wasn’t going to share with her what was wrong.
Like most men, he didn’t seem to have any trouble getting in touch with his inner gladiator. But he wasn’t going to open up just because she was here.
If you wanted an animal’s trust, you first had to make certain the animal felt safe. That’s what all the sniffing and retreating and re-approaching between dogs was all about. Do I know you? Are you safe? Will you hurt me? Can we be friends?
She wasn’t certain what she and Oliver were. A few intense hours together didn’t exactly qualify as a fast friendship. But the grip he’d had on her elbow as he’d all but dragged her up here with him was proof enough that, at the moment, she was the port in a storm he needed.
Macayla smiled. She shouldn’t be so happy about that but, for now, she let herself feel the warm cozy feeling that came with being needed by this supremely capable man.
That didn’t mean she wasn’t going to meekly follow his lead. She was done with taking orders. And she was never going to find out what was wrong as long as he was in combat mode.
She dropped her purse on the credenza by the door, then walked over and pulled out the chair from in front of the desk and swiveled it around. “Sit down.” She, too, had a handler’s voice.
He stood there, looking wary. “Why?”
“Do you care? Or are you afraid of me?” She bent both arms to make a muscle in each biceps, though they were hidden by the loose sleeves of her shirt.
Again his half-wattage smile had the power to make her tummy dance.
He sat down but glanced at her over his shoulder as he did so. “Just don’t braid my hair.”
“Shit. I wanted to practice my Dutch braid technique.”
He snorted and leaned back.