The MacGregor Grooms by Nora Roberts Page A

him.
    His shoulders all but filled the opening.
    “Hello.” She smiled and tried not to squirm. He was staring at her so intensely. “Are you still working?”
    He hesitated, knowing if he said yes, she’d politely go back the way she’d come. They didn’t tread on each other’s working hours. “No, come on up.”
    She had a key. That was something else he suddenly realized had happened without either of them planning it. Like a man who’d just managed to reach the surface of a dream, he dragged his hands through his hair, rubbed them over his face.
    He walked out to the head of the stairs just as she came in the door below. They stood, staring at each other.
    God, I want you,
was all he could think.
When is this going to stop?
    “I took a chance you’d be home and not busy.” Her palms had gone damp and made her want to shift the bag from hand to hand. “I was just going to drop this off for you.”
    Oh help!
her mind screamed.
I
don’t know what to do about you.
    “What is it?”
    “A new bedspread.” She worked to perk up her smile. “Very simple, and masculine enough not to disturb the general ambiance of Army Surplus meets the East Village.”
    He lifted his brows. She’d already taken to ordering the place. It didn’t bother him. He didn’t mind living with tidy, as long as he wasn’t required to do the tidying. “That’s domestic of you. Bring it on up.”
    “It was on sale,” she said, stiffly now. “If you don’t care for it, you can use it for a drop cloth. Either way, it’s better than that rag you’ve been using—though of course you never bother to make the bed.”
    When she reached the top of the steps, she shoved the bag at his chest. “You’re welcome.”
    “I haven’t thanked you yet. I would have if you hadn’t been so busy lecturing me.”
    “That wasn’t a lecture, it was a comment.”
    He dropped the bag and grabbed her hand before she could turn and march back down the steps. “Where are you going?”
    “Home. And the next time I have an impulse to do you a favor, believe me, I’ll resist it.”
    “No one asked you to buy me bed linens or wash my dishes or pick up fresh fruit at the market.”
    Fury and embarrassment waged a quick and bitter war, with fury edging out on top. “Point taken,” she said with deadly calm. “And I’ll be sure not to do so again. Or to drop by without calling, as I’m obviously unwelcome unless you’re ready to jump into bed.”
    His eyes flamed. Temper clawed so viciously at his gut that he forced himself to take a step back. “This isn’t about sex.” Unable to trust himself, he turned on his heel and stalked back into his studio.
    “Oh, isn’t it?” The hurt and anger were huge, pushing her forward and over the threshold of an area of his life where she’d yet to be invited. “What then?” she demanded, striding into the studio behind him.
    “I don’t know what then.” He rounded on her, ready to fight, then found himself staring at her as he’d stared at her portrait a short time before. “I don’t know,” he said with a sigh, then turned back to the window. “You walked in on a mood, Layna.” Wanting to clear his head, he braced his hands on the sill and leaned out. “I have a lot of them.”
    And this one, she thought, had suddenly shifted from irritable to unhappy. She resented the fact that she wanted to walk to him and soothe. It wasn’t her job to soothe him, nor to tolerate his capricious tempers.
    She told herself to go, to walk out and cross the last few weeks off her list as a learning experience. But instead she turned slowly and looked around the room.
    He was everywhere in it, she thought. From the canvases leaning against the walls, to the absurd disorder of paints and brushes and jars. The scents in here were sharp—foreign and familiar. His scent—that combination of male animal and soap. Others that were turpentine and mixers and fresh paints.
    It was a large room, filled with light.