A Man in a Million. Jessica Bird
I didn’t mean to…” Her voice drifted off.
“You didn’t mean to what?”
“Offend you. I’ve just never seen eyes like yours before.”
He shrugged. “I know they’re weird, but, whatever, nothing I can do about it.’ Night, Madeline.”
He put his coffee cup into the kitchen sink and then went down the hallway to the guest room. When he stepped through the door and glanced around, he expected to find her stuff all over the place. It wasn’t. There were no errant hairbrushes or perfume bottles or clothes or shoes dotting the dresser or the desk or the chaise lounge in the corner. All he saw was a black duffel bag at the foot of the bed on the left.
A sailor’s neatness, he thought, wondering what her life must be like.
He took a quick shower and then hunted around the vanity for one of the spare toothbrushes he knew was in there. As he put a high gloss on his teeth, he wasn’t looking forward to getting back into the clothes he’d worn all day long, but he’d left his stuff in his car.
And like naked was even an option in the hypothetical? Not a chance.
Spike went still. On the other side of the door, he could hear her moving around in the guest room. She was probably getting into bed right at this moment.
And wouldn’t that be a picture. Her lithe body bending down to pull the blankets back. Those long legs sliding between cool sheets. Her hair spilling over the pillowcase in waves of deep brown and dark red.
Cursing, he rinsed his mouth out, stepped into his boxers and then pulled on his shirt. While he buttoned the thing up, he eyed his pants. Throwing those on seemed a little much so he folded them and left them on the edge of the tub.
As he swung open the door, he expected to find Mad propped up in one of the queen-size beds, reading and looking wonderful.
Instead, the lights were off. In the glow from the bathroom, he could see her curled on her side with the covers pulled up to her cheeks. And yes, her hair did spill over the pillowcase beautifully.
As he stared at her, he wondered what the auburn waves felt like. Soft, he thought. They would be soft and they would smell like the herbal shampoo she’d left in the shower.
For the first time since his life had changed twelve years ago, he truly mourned the normalcy he no longer had and would never find again.
He thought about the one time he’d tried to have a relationship with a woman. About two years after he’d rejoined real life, he’d found someone he liked enough to want to get to know better. Things had gone well until he’d sat her down and told her about what had happened. She’d said all the right things at the time and he’d hoped they might go on from there. But then she’d stopped returning his phone calls.
He’d understood and let her go.
Ever since then he’d kept himself apart, although he hadn’t been celibate. He’d just done the one-night stand thing when he’d wanted a little company.
Madeline Maguire was not a one-nighter. She was the real deal. A smart, beautiful woman from a high-class family that had a Brinks truck worth of money in the bank. So even if she’d been attracted to him, and she wasn’t, there was no way someone like her would want to be…well, with an ex-con like him.
Spike went over to the bed on the right and got in it. After arranging the pillows the way he liked them, he tried to convince his skin of two things. One, the fact that he was wearing boxers and a shirt to bed was no big deal even though he usually slept in the nude. And two, Madeline Maguire’s hands would in fact not feel like heaven if they were applied liberally over every inch of his body.
He failed. Particularly at the latter.
And goodnight-in-hell, everything was an irritant. He shifted this way and that on the bed. Couldn’t find any comfortable way to lay.
Ten minutes later, he sat up, unbuttoned the shirt and tossed it on the floor. As he slid back down, he heard a soft chuckle from the other bed.
“Was that the shirt or the boxers? Or both?” she asked.
He froze, wondering just how long he’d stood at the foot of her bed and stared at her. Did she know he’d done that? “I thought you said you could sleep through anything.”
There was a pause. “I guess I was wrong.”
Her sigh as she burrowed back into her pillow burned through him.
Spike closed his eyes, hoping that the “fake it till you make it” theory worked with sleep.
It didn’t. He was wide awake. Just staring at the insides of his eyelids.
Happy place. He needed to go to his happy place. Okay…right. Happy place.
Didn’t have one.
God, how much BS was that? Everyone had one. He just needed to picture somewhere he wanted to be.
So how about the bed next door? the gorilla inside him suggested.
“Spike?”
His lids flipped open. “Yeah?”
“I don’t think your eyes are weird. I think they’re the color of sunshine on the waves in the early morning. They have that same hypnotic, shimmering quality, too.” She cleared her throat. “Anyway, just wanted you to know.”
His breath left him in a silent stream.
Shimmering. Color of sunshine.
He wanted to tell her that he was glad she thought of his eyes like that. And point out that anytime she wanted to get hypnotized, he’d kill to be her swami of choice.
“Thanks,” he said, turning his head so he could see her. “My dad’s were the same. Or so my mom told me.”
Mad rolled over toward him, tucking her hands under her chin. God, she looked adorable like that.
“What nationality was your father?”
“Don’t know. I never met him and I never asked her. Probably some European flavor.”
“Why didn’t you…”
“Know him?”
“I’m sorry if I’m getting too personal.”
“Nah, it’s fine. Mom said he didn’t stay long, but she loved him like no other. And everything worked out eventually. Right after I was born, she met a guy who she ended up marrying. He was good to her, good to me. Plus I got a half sister, Jaynie, out of the deal.”
“Have you ever wanted to find your father?”
“Wouldn’t know where to start and my life’s okay the way it is. So, no. Besides, Mom’s lived in the same town all her life. If the guy wanted to find her or me, he could.”
Spike frowned, wondering how long it had been since he’d spoken about his family to anyone.
He shifted so he was laying on his stomach and couldn’t see her. She didn’t say anything further. Neither did he.
But it was a long, long while before he could fall asleep.
Chapter Three
When Mad woke up around six-thirty, the first thing she did was turn her head and look at the man in the bed next to hers.
Her breath caught.
Spike was on his stomach, facing away from her, and he’d kicked the blankets off of himself. All that covered him was a thin sheet that was threaded through his legs.
So she finally got to see his tattoos.
He had two of them on his strong back—well, one really, with two halves. It looked like medieval scrollwork; the design running up his spine until it split to go over his shoulder blades and around to the front of him. The tail