Free Revenge by Lisa Jackson

fluttering, bouncing against the hot glass, drawn irresistibly to the incandescence and certain death. “It doesn’t matter, Max,” she said, refusing to see herself in the futile actions of the flying creature. “I left and that was it. End of story.”
    â€œI don’t think so.” He approached her with the determination of a predator, and though she shuddered inside, she stood her ground, refusing to give even an inch. “A lot happened before you left that I didn’t know about.”
    Did he know about his father—all the underhanded deals?
    Max stopped when he was close enough for her to smell the scents of soap and leather, musk and beer. His eyes had darkened to the color of a storm-tossed sea, his dark brows drawn into a single line. He looked ranch tough and there wasn’t a trace of the younger man she’d known. With a face all angles and blades and an I-don’t-give-a-damn attitude that seemed to radiate from him, he was purely business.
    â€œWhat was this all about?” he whispered as he drew a faded sheet of paper from the inner pocket of his jacket.
    â€œWhat—?”
    â€œDon’t you remember?”
    Her heart caught as she recognized her own handwriting on the page, and a small sound of protest formed deep in her throat. Why was he bringing all this up now?
    â€œThe letter.”
    His smile was as cold as death. “Ah, so you do remember.”
    â€œIt’s been seven years.”
    â€œThis,” he said, crumpling the sheet of paper in his fist and holding it under her nose, “doesn’t explain much.”
    He wasn’t making any sense. “I said all I could.”
    â€œAnd then ran away.”
    â€œI didn’t run. You knew where I was. If you wanted—”
    â€œI wanted, Doctor,” he cut in. “I wanted very much. That was the problem. I thought you wanted, too.”
    Something was wrong here. Very, very wrong. Aside from the fact that his angry breath was a hot stream against the base of her throat and that his eyes were flashing with the fury of a lightning bolt, something far deeper than simple irritation was being expressed.
    â€œI don’t know what you’re getting at.”
    â€œDon’t you?” One side of his mouth curled up into a cruel little smile.
    â€œMax—”
    He moved closer and she couldn’t resist. She backed up a step and her rear brushed up against the door. Over her head, the moth battered helplessly against the bulb.
    â€œYou’re a liar, Dr. Donahue,” he said, placing a hand on either side of her head. “A beautiful, manipulative liar.”
    â€œI never lied.”
    â€œDidn’t you?”
    Oh, God, she could barely breathe. She was a doctor, for crying out loud, an independent woman—she didn’t want or need a man, especially a man named McKee, messing with her mind. “Why’d you come here, Max?”
    His jaw clenched tightly and a muscle worked frantically near his temple. “I’d like to lie to you and tell you that I stopped by to check on the lease, or look for my brother, or some other lamebrain excuse. But the truth of the matter, after I found the letter and saw you again, is that I couldn’t stay away.”
    â€œYou don’t expect me to believe that after seven years—”
    â€œBelieve what you want, Doctor. I don’t really give a damn.” He stared deep into her eyes, and in that instant she knew with a certainty that what she feared would soon prove her undoing. He was going to kiss her.
    Again she stepped back, but her shoulders only pressed against the unmoving siding of the porch. As his head lowered to hers, she swore she’d put up a fight, that she’d slap him across his arrogant McKee cheek, that she’d kick his shin or knee him in the groin to avoid letting his lips touch hers again.
    But she didn’t. When his mouth found hers, she remained still