“What happened to you?” I step farther into the room.

“Car accident. Broken fibula, sprained wrist, two bruised ribs, and a gash over my eye, if we’re being exact.” He appears to find his list of injuries amusing, but I don’t.

“I’m sorry.” And I am. Whatever animosity has passed between myself and Macon, the idea of him bloody and broken sends a chill through me.

He simply looks me over, his gaze leisurely and irritating. His attention stalls on my lips, and that slanted smile of his reappears. “A lady friend once told me that when a woman wears red lipstick to meet a man, it’s for two possible reasons. Either she wants him to fuck her, or she wants to tell him to fuck off.”

My body seizes on the word fuck and the way it sounds coming out of Macon’s mouth—all carnal and hard. Normally, if a man I was meeting for business used that word in front of me, I’d have turned and left. But this is Macon. We’ve cursed each other out on multiple occasions—although never quite with this undertone.

Heat flushes over my cheeks, and I find myself glaring. “We both know when it comes to you it’s the latter.”

“Considering you’ve arrived alone, I’d rethink that tone, Tot.”

I’m so tempted to snap back that my lips twitch. But he’s pointed out the dreaded truth of the situation. Sam isn’t here. And I’m screwed. But I can’t show weakness.

“The day I offer to have sex with someone to get out of a sticky situation is the day I swim out to sea.”

“I wasn’t asking. Perhaps you should start explaining why you’re here without Sam.” He gestures to the chair in front of the desk. “Have a seat.”

Part of me is still stuck on the fact that I thought he had teased me with the idea of prostituting myself. Unfortunately, to my horror, I picture it anyway—rounding the desk, hiking my skirt up to straddle his thickly muscled thighs. What would he do? Push me off, or pull me close? Would he grip me tight? His hands are wide, his fingers long. My sex clenches with the thought of being penetrated by those fingers, being used by him.

Jesus, Dee. Get a grip. You hate this man.

But I’ve never had hate sex. Hot, sweaty, angry sex. Hate sex with Macon. Hmm . . . I could leave him weak and panting for more, then stride out of the room.

Beneath my top, my breasts grow tender, and I grit my teeth. Thinking about Macon in conjunction with sex is just asking for a drop into the deep end of the swamp. As is falling for his mind games. He always used crude innuendos to get under my skin. He’d laugh his ass off if I made a pass at him. And I’d have to throw myself off a cliff somewhere.

Setting my shoulders back, I cross the room, aware of my clicking heels and swaying hips, aware of Macon watching me. I’m being overtly sexual, but there is power in that. A woman can choose to embrace it when it suits. And it definitely suits me now. If my lipstick is stating, “Fuck off,” my body is saying, “This is what you missed out on, and you haven’t cowed me one bit.”

Petty? Maybe.

Enjoyable? Definitely.

But not advisable. I give myself another mental slap to stop messing around.

His expression gives nothing away as I sit down and cross my legs. “I couldn’t find her,” I say without preamble.

“Clearly.”

“I know it looks bad—”

“Because it is bad.”

“But she’s never . . .” Hell. Never what? Stolen something before? I can’t say that for certain. Never skipped town? I know for a fact she’s done that before. Many times. I feel sick. “It’ll kill my mother if Sam gets arrested.”

Macon’s lips flatten, going white at the edges. “My mother is dead. All I had left of her was that watch.”

Empathy softens my tone. “I know.”

It happened the summer my family moved to California. By the time we received word that Mrs. Saint had died of an aneurism, she’d already been buried. It was the one time I felt truly sorry for Macon, and I willingly signed the card my parents sent.

Faced with Macon’s tight expression, I feel the urge to offer some words of comfort. But he talks before I can open my mouth. “Sam knew that too. It didn’t stop her from stealing it.”

The hole just keeps getting deeper. And here I am without a shovel. “I know. I’m sorry. I really am. But if you could give me more time to—”

“No.” The word is as flat as his stare.

“I’m certain I can eventually—”

“No, Tot. Not even for you.”

I blink. Even for me? When has he ever given me any sort of concession?

Macon gives me a knowing look. “We may have hated each other, but our interactions were always interesting. That has to count for something, considering how boring our town was.”