Free Cara O'Shea's Return by Mackenzie Crowne Page A

little girl.”
    The insult stung like a cold slap. Wow! That hurt. Okay, she’d just given him his last damn swipe.
    The bastard.
    She met his angry gaze with the lift of her chin. “Maybe you’re right.” She turned away and walked out onto the porch before she gave in to the urge to belt him. “Thanks for the tour, Finnegan.”
    She was half way down the steps when he growled. “I’ll be there at eight on Monday morning.”
    She wished she could laugh at his capitulation—her esteem for Maive’s predictive abilities shooting up several points—but she was still smarting from his cutting remark. So, instead of grinning and claiming victory, she kept right on walking, without looking back.
    “I’ll expect you at seven. Don’t be late.”
    ****
    The three inch heels of her sexy sandals clacked against the flagstone walkway like rifle shots, but her angry stride did nothing to mar the seductive view. Above the mile of tanned, gut-wrenching legs, her shapely ass swished beneath the denim excuse for a skirt she wore. He frowned, unable to tear his gaze away until she climbed into her vehicle. The woman was driving him crazy.
    Uttering a raw curse, he slammed the door with a thud. She had placed him in the same cheating husband category as her father, and though he understood how she could have come to that conclusion, he didn’t deserve her disdain.
    When she threw her infuriating accusation in his face, it had been all he could do not to shake her, he’d been so angry. He’d been faithful to Andrea, damn it, even when their long-troubled marriage started to go to shit.
    His ex-wife’s calm announcement, that he had lost his appeal once his pro career ended, ripped at his pride, leaving what little was left in tatters. The memory still had the ability to make him fume.
    He spent the last four years burning his way through a series of utterly forgettable women, proving his ex-wife wrong, but the victory had been hollow. When it came to women, he’d been living life in the fast lane. Hell, more like the sexual equivalent of the autobahn. After racing down that road for so long, he red-lined, and finally, spun out.
    Ultimately, none of the women, no matter how beautiful, were able to heal the shards of desperation piercing his soul. His failure to hold Andrea’s interest was always at the back of his mind, and none of the beauties sharing his bed had been important enough to allow him to overcome his failure. After four years, he’d lost all interest in trying.
    His physical awareness of Cara O’Shea was the first tickle of real attraction he had experienced for a woman in months, and she seemed to be the only person on the planet who didn’t know the facts surrounding his divorce.
    Well, she knew now. The question was, would it make any difference? She’d said she wasn’t interested, when the truth of the matter was, she didn’t want to be. Because she thought he was like her father? Would that change now that she knew the truth, or was there some other reason for her apprehension whenever he was around?
    Instant guilt had slashed through him at the hurt flashing in her eyes when he blasted her with that frightened little girl insult, but she’d pissed him off, damn it. And a frightened little girl was exactly what she resembled when she ran back inside her studio.
    He all but imploded during that heated embrace, despite it being obvious she didn’t have a clue what she was doing in the kissing department. How the hell did a woman who looked the way she did have little to no experience kissing a man? Despite her bunny-of-the-month body, the average high school girl had more experience than Cara O’Shea.
    Not that her lack of knowledge mattered a bit at the time. The moment he held her flush against him, his mind ceased to function. If she hadn’t gone stiff in his arms, he didn’t know what would have happened. Dragging her down onto the lawn and not letting her up until they both lost all reason, and