She considered that as she bit into a fat crab cake, and tilted her head when she smiled at him. The curve of her lips was a wicked temptation. "Well, there are definitely times when it pays to be bad."

He nearly choked on his food, and stood up to get another bottle of water from the fridge. The conversation had taken a wrong turn, and it wasn't one he wanted to follow, not now. There was bad in Mackenzie's world, and then there wasbad .

"Are you okay?" she said, scrambling out of her chair and laying a hand on his back.

"Fine." He kissed her forehead, then her nose, and finally her mouth, lingering as he tasted her. Her arms snaked around his waist, her soft b.r.e.a.s.t.s pressed against him, and he had to resist the urge to slide everything, food and all, off the table and take her right there.

Before it was too late. Before it was over.

"Hey," she said when he finally broke the kiss. "I forgot-I bought wine, too. Let me get it."

f.u.c.k.He sat down as she withdrew a bottle of chenin blanc from a brown paper bag. "c.r.a.p," she muttered, opening a drawer beneath the counter. "I forgot this meant I'd have to find my corkscrew."

He focused on his food, squirting lemon juice over his crab cakes. What the h.e.l.l was he going to say? And why hadn't he thought about it before now? People who were dating were known to have a few drinks. So were people who were just sleeping together, or whatever it was he and Mackenzie were doing.

"Leo? You sure you didn't swallow your tongue?"

She was teasing, but he could see the question in her eyes when he glanced at her.

"Yeah." Oh, good. Monosyllabic answers were sure to convince her everything was fine.

"Triumph!" she cried a moment later, holding up a corkscrew and carrying it and the bottle to the table. "You want to do the honors while I dig up some gla.s.ses?"

Here's your chance, he told himself. "Just one gla.s.s, babe," he said, keeping his tone light.

"You don't like wine." Her shoulders slumped. "I should have asked. I can run out and get some beer, if you like. And I think I have some vodka in the cupboard..."

She was rummaging again, her back turned, and he closed his eyes in defeat. "No, it's not that."Just say it, you coward. You had to in AA meetings. Can't forget that. "I'm...I don't drink, Mackenzie. Not...ever."

There was a moment of electric silence, weighted with all the things he hadn't said, and she didn't turn around to face him immediately. When she did, her expression was carefully neutral, compa.s.sionate.

G.o.d, she had no idea how much he didn't deserve that.

"I didn't know," she said softly. She bit her bottom lip. "Obviously. I'm sorry."

Now she was apologizing. He didn't think it was possible to feel any worse. "It's my fault. I should have said something."

"Why?" She sat down and reached for his hand across the table, her slender fingers a whisper against his skin. "It's not like telling someone your name. It's not required. I just wish I hadn't made you feel uncomfortable."

If only she understood. He was uncomfortable because she was. He'd put her in a bad position, and when she finally insisted on hearing everything else he'd carefully left unsaid, it was going to be downright awkward.

h.e.l.l, "awkward" didn't even begin to cover it.

"You didn't," he rea.s.sured her. "It's my issue." Then, because he wanted to feel her against him and because he definitely didn't want to talk about it anymore, he reached over and grabbed her up, hauling her onto his lap for a long, deep kiss.

She returned it, brushing her palms over his skull, wriggling until her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were crushed against him, warm and giving, and he was glad. Because while kissing her accomplished both of the things he'd wanted, it also meant that he could avoid the questions in those deep brown eyes of hers for a little while longer.

Seven.

If Mackenzie had thought Leo was gorgeous in his jeans and sweaty T-shirts, she should have considered what he would look like in a well-cut suit.

Strange that the gray pin-striped affair looked so absolutely perfect on him, and all she wanted to do was rip it off his body.

"Stop staring," he said, running a finger around the inside of his stiff collar. "I feel weird enough as it is. I haven't worn this in a while." He'd shaved, although a dark shadow of stubble was already present along his jaw, and he'd taken out his silver stud. She kind of missed it.

"You should wear a suit all the time," she said, tilting her head as she examined the elegant cut of the jacket's shoulders. "You look...well, beautiful."

He lifted an eyebrow and stepped closer. He smelled of soap and cool water, and faintly of pine, but the clothes couldn't mask the heat of his body. Ignoring the trembling thrill of l.u.s.t in her belly wasn't going to be easy. She eyed the hallway which led to the bedroom, where the bed was still unmade, waiting patiently for them. They had at least thirty minutes before they had to leave for the wedding, after all...

"Do you want to go now, beat the traffic?" Leo said, fumbling with his tie, which already looked fine.

"Stop that, you're going to ruin it," she said, smacking his hands away and smoothing the front of his jacket. "And what traffic? We have plenty of time."

"Okay." He dropped onto the sofa, his eyes far away, his shoulders rigid with tension.

She bit her bottom lip as she sat down beside him. Maybe this had been a mistake. Bree was a friend, and even though Mackenzie was technically working at this wedding, Bree had been bugging her for at least two months to bring a date.

"You're my friend," she'd said. "I want good pictures, but I want you to be able to enjoy the day, too. You should at least have a little fun."

And nothing had sounded like it fit the bill as much as bringing Leo along. To thank him for all the extra work he'd done in the cottage, to make sure he had an afternoon off with nothing but celebration and good food to enjoy. And, okay, to simply be with him, instead of at a wedding by herself, wielding her camera and trying to remember exactly what you were supposed to do during the Electric Slide.

But Leo hadn't been thrilled when she'd broached the subject. Actually, "not thrilled" was an understatement of nearly epic proportions.

He'd agreed-almost right away, actually-but not before a handful of emotions flickered in his eyes. She hadn't understood any of them-not the shame, not the weariness, and particularly not the fear. It was a wedding, for heaven's sake, not a public execution.

But what had convinced her not to drop the issue was the brief flash of what looked like pride that touched his hard, masculine mouth in a hesitant smile. He was touched that she'd asked him, she would bet on it. Which meant there was no way to rescind the invitation, not that she wanted to, anyway.

She wanted him there. She wanted him everywhere-in her dreams, in her life, in her bed. He was already in her heart, whether she liked it or not.

And days like today, it was hard to be sure. There was so much she didn't know about him, so much he seemed unwilling to share. She wished she could convince him that nothing mattered but the here and now, that she truly believed kicking an addiction to alcohol was courageous, but there was never an opening, never a way to tell him so.

And there were, she had to admit as she studied his sharp profile, all those unsettling unknowns. She knew in her bones that Leo would never hurt her on purpose, but it didn't mean she wouldn't get hurt, period.

He slid his hand into her lap and twined his big fingers around hers. "Sorry," he said. His voice was gruff. "I'm not always real comfortable with a lot of strangers."

Why did she suspect that was a lie? A little one, to be sure, but no matter what, it wasn't the whole truth.

She decided to ignore it, and squeezed his hand. "Stick with me, buddy," she said lightly. "You'll do fine."

Picking at the moist chicken marsala on his plate three hours later, Leo glanced up at Mackenzie, who was across the room taking pictures of the flower girl. The child couldn't have been more than four, a tiny blond thing with a headful of curls and the most enormous blue eyes Leo had ever seen. Her dress was wrinkled, its lavender sash untied and trailing behind her, but she smiled for the camera as if she'd been posing for photos all her life, and he heard Mackenzie's laugh of delight.

"Thank you, Shelby," he heard her say above the chatter and the DJ. "I think that's going to be the best picture of all."

She'd barely taken the time to eat. Beside his, her plate was heaped with food she hadn't touched. But he'd never seen it affect anyone less-she was all over the place, bending down, stretching up on her toes, crouching, catching the wedding party and the guests in pairs and groups, laughing and talking and dancing. She was tireless, and she was good. She'd caught a quiet moment between the bride and groom, seated at their table, the groom running his knuckles over his new wife's cheek as she looked up at him from beneath her lashes. If the couple didn't cherish that picture, they didn't deserve a photographer like Mackenzie.

He'd brought his own camera, a small digital, since he'd figured it would be cool for Mackenzie to have some pictures of herself with her friends. He'd caught a couple of her with the bride and groom, and one of her and Bree and their friend Susannah, but she'd been so busy otherwise, he'd only had a view of her back.

A moment later she sat down next to him, placing her camera in the empty seat on the other side of her, and sighed happily. "Almost over," she said, laying a hand on his knee. "Why aren't you eating?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

"I'm saving room for cake," she said with a smile, leaning toward him to b.u.mp shoulders.

So casual, so familiar. As if they'd known each other forever. As if their lives were entwined for good.

G.o.d, how he wished.

He was an addict, that was the problem. After years of not dating, barely even looking, he'd fallen off the wagon with a deafening crash when it came to Mackenzie Pruitt. And just one taste of her had been his undoing. He wanted her nonstop, not just her body-though that was pretty f.u.c.king wonderful-but her. All the time, every day, forever.

Forever. G.o.d, it had been almost that long since he'd even let himself think about a relationship. And now he was poised to be with the one woman he wanted, and the one woman who would run the other way when she discovered what and who he was.

At least no one at the wedding had recognized him. Yet. He'd caught a few questioning glances, but there was no way to know if Mackenzie's friends were curious about her choice of a date, or the kind of sharp-eyed people he'd been avoiding all these years.

Beside him, Mackenzie idly forked up a piece of chicken as she watched the guests on the dance floor. The DJ was decent-he'd kept the music going, picking lighter, softer songs during the meal, and the bouncier, really danceable stuff now that the party was in full swing. And without, thank G.o.d, resorting to the Electric Slide or the Chicken Dance.

Suddenly the bride was beside them in a cloud of billowing white satin, her cheeks flushed with exertion. "Did you get pictures of the cake?" she asked Mackenzie.

"You bet," Mackenzie replied. "It's gorgeous, too."

"Well, good," Bree said, taking her hand and smiling at Leo. "You're off duty until the whole cutting and feeding portion of this program. You two need to dance, have a little fun."

She tugged Mackenzie to her feet despite her protests, and leveled him with a dictatorial gaze. "Come on, buddy, get your b.u.t.t on the dance floor and show my very good friend a good time."

There was no arguing with that, however much he wanted to. He stood and tipped an imaginary hat at the bride, who beamed, and took Mackenzie's arm, leading her through the swaying bodies to an empty spot on the polished parquet floor.

"At least this way I get to have my hands on you," he murmured in her ear.

"I'm all for that," she whispered back, leaving a kiss on his jawbone just before the music started.

But it wasn't a slow-dancing kind of song. It was the Commodores' old hit, "Brick House." He watched in horror as the groom's mother began gyrating, her silk-clad bulk jiggling as the song funked up.

Mackenzie bit her bottom lip to restrain a giggle and steered him backwards, moving her shoulders in time to the music. "Loosen up, Leo," she shouted over the music. "Show me your moves."

"I'll show you all kinds of moves later," he replied, turning and nudging her toward the hallway to the restrooms and the kitchen. The music throbbed around them, and Mackenzie kept bouncing in time until he pushed her against the wall and leaned down for a kiss.

She tasted good, as always, and beneath her simple, hot-pink linen sheath, her body was warm and mobile, grinding against him as his tongue swept inside her mouth.

After a moment, her arms twined around his neck, and he growled in appreciation when her b.r.e.a.s.t.s pressed against him. Stupid suit coat. He wanted it gone, wanted her body bare and open against his.

He deepened the kiss, losing himself in the taste of her mouth and the soft curves of her hips as he slid his hands over them. On the dance floor, most of the guests were singing along, shouting, "Brick!House! " during the chorus, and, he hoped, oblivious to what he and Mackenzie were up to just a dozen feet away.

The waitstaff, however, was a different story. "Oh, excuse me," a young girl in a white shirt and black bow tie exclaimed when she backed into the hall a moment later, b.u.mping into him, a huge tray of discarded dinner plates wobbling in her hands.

Mackenzie blushed a deep rose and nudged him away from her, managing a sheepish smile for the girl. "Our fault. Sorry. Come on, Leo."

She grabbed his hand just as the song ended, leading him back to the dance floor, but he froze as the DJ cued up the next tune.

There was no mistaking that familiar ba.s.s beat, the raunchy growl of the guitar. Two solid CDs and a spectacular crash-and-burn later, and "Making Time" by Joe's Garage was still in heavy rotation, not quite a one-hit wonder, but close.

He swallowed hard, dropping Mackenzie's hand. "I have to go to the men's room. I'll be...back in a minute."

He didn't even wait to gauge her reaction, just took off, brushing past a waiter with another tray, nearly stumbling into the men's room and into a stall, slamming the door shut behind him.

d.a.m.n it! No matter what he did, that song at least was going to follow him till the day he died. He couldn't even complain, not really, since royalties still came in on a regular basis. It was one of the reasons he'd been able to keep Dawson Carpentry small, picking and choosing his clients from the limited population of the Wilmington suburbs and Wrightsville Beach. The G.o.dd.a.m.n song had paid for rehab, for G.o.d's sake.

But every time he heard it, he knew that someone with a sharp eye would do a double take and figure out that, yup, he was the former guitarist for Joe's Garage, nineties wonder band gone wrong. He was the guy the tabloids had loved to gossip about, between the booze and the women and the parties. He was the guy who had self-destructed when his band mate had OD'd. He was the guy who had disappeared from the face of the planet, holed up somewhere no one would look for him...

He slammed his fist against the stall in frustration. Just because no one was looking didn't mean he'd never be found. He'd known that five years ago, and he knew it now. And every time a "where are they now" program ran, every time someone wrote an article on rock-star excess and fallen idols, he waited for the phone to ring. He didn't want any part of it. He wasn't that man anymore.

The song was ending-he could hear the last chorus, Mike's voice rasping, "'Making time for us to share, making time's become so rare...'" The music vibrated through the walls, a clatter of drums and his own sliding guitar riff, and then it was over.

He took a deep breath and reached for the stall door when he heard footsteps. Two men, it sounded like, over by the urinals. There was a metallic hiss as a zipper slid down.

"He looks familiar, doesn't he?" one of the men said. "And so...Well, he's not exactly Mackenzie's type, you know?"

Hand on the door's metal lock, Leo froze.

"Yeah, Bree said he's working for her, building a photography studio or something." Another zipper, the telltale sound of urine splashing against tile. Bree's new husband, Mark. It had to be. "She usually goes for the white-collar types."

"I wish she'd go for me," the other man said over the sound of flushing. "She's so freaking cute. That a.s.s, man. But she gives pretty stern cold shoulder, you know?"

A flame of rage, hot and dangerous, licked through Leo. Hera.s.s? White-collar types? He restrained the urge to burst out of the stall and shove the guy's words back down his throat, with his fists.

Like he needed any extra attention now. Already, the a.s.shole who'd been ogling Mackenzie had p.r.o.nounced him "familiar."

He had to get out of here. As soon as they cut the cake and Mackenzie took the requisite photos, he was taking her home.

And then he was taking her to bed. Before she started asking questions, and he would be forced to say good-bye.

Eight.

Leo drove home like a man possessed. Strapped into the pa.s.senger seat of his truck, Mackenzie eyed him warily as he gunned across the causeway. The windows were open, and the sultry night air on her face felt good. Or it would if it wasn't rushing by quite so fast.