License to Thrill

Melanie released a long, silent sigh, the words a vivid reminder of exactly why she couldn’t talk to her mother.

“He’s not the marrying kind, you know. More little boy than man. You’d only be miserable.”

Melanie nodded, hating her mother’s words but agreeing with them nonetheless. She was beginning to suspect that the only thing worse than being without Marc McCoy was being with him.

“Mom?” The shortening of the word mother should have sounded foreign, but oddly enough it didn’t. “Did you love Dad?”

For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why she had asked that. Her father had died when she was three, right after Joanie was born. What did ancient history—especially her mother’s ancient history—have to do with what was happening now?

“Never mind. Forget I just asked that question.” Melanie got up and collected her shoes.

“Melanie?”

She stopped midway toward the door. “Yes?”

“I…” Wilhemenia’s voice trailed off. “I just wanted to tell you that all I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy.”

Some of Melanie’s tension melted away. “Marrying Craig will make me happy, Mom. Thanks.” She gestured vaguely, though her mother couldn’t see her. “Thanks for putting everything back into perspective.”

Clutching her shoes in one hand, she opened the outer door. She skidded to a dead stop, finding herself nose-to-chin with a whole different barrier.

Marc McCoy.

Melanie’s breath gusted from her.

That can’t be right. This was her rehearsal dinner. Marc shouldn’t be anywhere near the inn or the rest rooms, much less her, right now. Yet there he was, big as life and twice as tantalizing. She stumbled backward.

“Wrong way. You want to come out.” Marc folded his fingers around her wrist and tugged her the rest of the way into the hall. Melanie’s knees felt about as substantial as baby food. She had no choice but to lean into him, causing a wave of longing to flow through her body. Suddenly, three months seemed like a very short period of time, indeed.

“What’s going—”

“Shh.” Marc laid a finger against her mouth. The simple action was maddeningly sensual. Her gaze was glued to his lips. But rather than kissing her, he set her purposefully away from him, confounding her even more. She moved her hand to the side of her throat, feeling her pulse thrumming wildly, her skin searingly hot.

“Interesting conversation you and your mother were having in there,” he said.

Melanie avoided his gaze. “You heard?”

She didn’t realize what he was doing until he slid a mop handle through the door handle, securely barring her mother inside the ladies’ room.

A hysterical laugh tickled Melanie’s throat. She couldn’t count the times she would have loved to lock her mother in a room. But wishful thinking was one thing; willful doing was quite another. She battled the irresponsible emotion.

“Let’s go,” Marc said, taking her hand.

Let’s go? Had he actually just said, “Let’s go”?

Melanie dug in her heels as best she could, considering she wore no shoes. Her stocking feet slid across the tile as Marc hauled her toward the parking lot. She swatted at him with the lethal shoes in her free hand.

“Hold on a minute, McCoy. Just where do you think you’re taking me?”

He stopped. “Why, out of here, of course.”

Melanie stared at the man who had the power to overturn every one of her well-laid plans. Her stomach pitched as she realized he intended to do just that.

Then he had the nerve to grin. Grin! Okay, he was rubbing the spot where her spike heel had nicely connected, but otherwise there was no evidence she had done anything more than blow a strand of his rich brown hair out of place.

“Hello, Mel. Miss me?”

Miss him? About as much as a bad sunburn. But her heart started to murmur something else. Melanie ignored it.

“What are you doing here? You weren’t on the guest list. I know because I drew it up.”

“I penciled myself in.” Marc’s reflective sunglasses prevented her from seeing his brown eyes, but his smile told her more than she wanted to know. His head tilted forward as he took a languid look over the tight-fitting silk of her dress, then up to where the sleek material hugged her waist and breasts. “Put on some weight, haven’t you, Mel?”

Scorching heat spilled over her cheeks again as she fought the desire to cover her stomach. He doesn’t know, she reminded herself.

“Looks good on you.”

While her physical dimensions had altered a bit since she last saw Marc, he hadn’t changed a bit. At six foot two, he was two hundred pounds of raw, muscled male. His military background was evident only in his tall posture. The easygoing grin and lazy casualness were pure Marc, as were his black T-shirt, jeans and the suede vest she knew concealed the 9mm revolver he always carried.

The mop handle rattled against the door. “Melanie?”

Oh, God. Mother. “You know, it’s not very nice to go around locking people in bathrooms.” Melanie tugged her hand, but he only tightened his hold. “Marc!”

“What?”

“Let me go.” She considered whacking him with her shoe again. He finally released her.

“Aw, now is that any way to treat an old boyfriend?”

A handsome grimace creased Marc’s face. A face she had tried to forget. A face chock-full of remarkable features she sometimes found herself wishing her child would inherit. Their child. Melanie swallowed hard.

“Ex-partner, then,” he said quietly. “Surely you have a few minutes for your ex-partner.”

Partners. Yes, they had been at least that. Although not in any permanent sense of the word, despite her present condition. Their partnership had been more professional than personal, and she had been dumb to forget that even for a second. As special agents for the Treasury Department’s Secret Service Division, they had worked together for two years. Up until Melanie decided it was time to get out.

Wrong choice of words. She hadn’t decided anything. The decision had been made for her. By a fellow agent who had turned his gun on her…and by a doctor’s innocent words.

“Ex-partners do not lie in wait when all they want to do is catch up,” she said softly. “What do you want?”

Marc had always been good at his job. When he wanted, he could be formidable. His physical appearance alone was enough to scare off any number of fanatics hoping for a shot at stardom by targeting a political candidate. But in his downtime, Melanie knew him to be an irresistibly handsome, rambunctious little boy who usually took nothing and no one seriously. Which gave her a definite advantage over him.

Melanie bit her lip. She didn’t want to think like an agent anymore. In fact, she hadn’t thought about her previous career for at least—well, half a day. Hooker had called her from jail that morning, after a two-month silence, despite court orders for him not to do so. Hearing his voice before she broke the connection had rattled her as much as his previous calls, not to mention the countless letters he’d sent her, which she had returned unopened. Out of the need to feel safe, she’d strapped her firearm on. An irrational act, considering Hooker was in custody.

“Yoo-hoo. Melanie, there’s something blocking the door. Could you open it, please?” There were rattling sounds as her mother tried to open it herself. “Melanie?”

Melanie swallowed hard, feeling Marc’s gaze hone in on her despite the sunglasses. She suppressed a shiver.

“You’re going to have to call off the wedding, Mel.”