Torrid Nights by Lindsay McKenna

sound halted at the entrance to the den. Then, suddenly, the lights came on. Mackenna blinked against the blinding brightness as the echoing footsteps approached the couch and halted.
    “You’re supposed to be in bed,” Brock said, moving over to the huge walnut desk. He threw a heavily laden clipboard onto the desktop. Turning around he assessed her keenly.
    Mackenna began to retrieve the papers strewn about her feet. “I had some paperwork to finish,” she responded, her tone cool and neutral. She looked up, her heart contracting. He looked incredibly tired, with dark circles beneath his blue eyes and the shadow of a beard making his cheeks look more gaunt than usual. Strands of dark hair dipped across his lined forehead, giving him a less sinister look. Her coolness evaporated and she stood up, dropping the blanket on the couch. “You look as if you could use some rest yourself,” she said.
    He shrugged heavily and ambled over to the chair behind the desk where he sat down. “Comes with the territory.”
    “You’re probably starved. The cook made some delicious—”
    “You can cut the mothering act.”
    Mackenna froze, stunned. She stared across the expanse that separated them, disbelief etched in her widened eyes. His bitter tone was clearly a response to their earlier argument, she told herself, trying not to take his behavior to heart. She pursed her lips, holding his wearied gaze. “You don’t scare me,” she said. “Save your nasty remarks for some other woman. No matter what you think, I don’t happen to deserve them. Now if you want something to eat, I’ll be happy to get it for you. You look exhausted, and I know how grateful I always am when Herr Vermeer has a meal set aside for me when I get off the road. Now, shall I get you some food?”
    They studied each other across the silence, two adversaries. Mackenna’s face flushed with heat as Brock assessed her critically. Again she had the feeling that he was undressing her with his eyes, his task made easier by the cotton nightgown and robe she wore. “You wouldn’t poison it, would you?” he asked, his eyes betraying a cold glint of humor.
    Mackenna forced herself to remain calm. “No. I’d rather kill you with kindness.”
    He reached for his clipboard, removing the thick sheaf of papers. “I can live with that. Thanks for the offer.”
    Mackenna made her way to the kitchen feeling as if she had won a major battle. As she prepared the meal, warming it in the microwave, a new sense of peace cloaked her. Despite Brock’s sour mood, she suspected that he appreciated her efforts. Finding a lacquered Chinese tray, Mackenna ladled out the fragrant dishes and padded back into the den. Brock sat at the desk, forehead resting in his hand as he busily punched numbers into a calculator. He glanced up, his features set in a dark scowl. Almost immediately his face softened.
    “Come on,” she urged, setting the tray in front of him, “the figures will all be there when you finish eating.” She had leaned close to set down the tray, her hip grazing his well-muscled body. His eyes narrowed. Nervously, she sat back down on the couch.
    “Thanks,” he murmured, digging hungrily into the food. Quiet invaded the den. Mackenna relaxed, finding pleasure in the fact that Brock had put aside his work to eat. A softened smile curved her lips. He reminded her of a starved little boy who had just come in from a hard day of play.
    Brock put down his chopsticks and slid the tray to one side. He looked up at her. “I spent the rest of the evening checking on diesel levels over at the main refueling station. You run a pretty tight ship,” he said, a hint of admiration in his voice. He pulled out a sheet of figures. “I had figured that with a woman in charge of the road, the problems would surface in the equipment area.”
    Mackenna gritted her teeth, withholding an acid comment. “And?”
    He brought out the clipboard, riffling through service records on each