Torrid Nights Read Online Free Page A

categorizing me that way, or any other arbitrary way, Brock Hampton. Not while I’m supervisor on this road project. Do we understand each other?”
    “Loud and clear. Let’s continue this pleasant conversation tomorrow morning at seven o’clock, shall we?”
    She smiled coldly. “Make it six, Mr. Hampton. Seven’s a late start for me.”
    “Make it seven,” he ordered. “You’re too damn skinny, and you’ve got dark rings under your eyes. You work too hard.”
    Mackenna glared at him, ready to make an angry retort, but he turned on his heel and marched out of the room, leaving her in a quandary. Shakily, she finished off the coconut milk, her stomach growling for food. She should eat. But Brock Hampton had upset her so much that the idea of food made her ill. Mackenna retired immediately to her bedroom where she undressed and slipped into a light cotton gown. The day had been harsh, and the knowledge that Brock Hampton was here in the same house made her head ache. Tomorrow morning she would have to stand up to him all over again. Well, with a good night’s sleep she would do just that.
    She awoke near three in the morning, hungry. A pale wash of moonlight filtered into the bedroom, lending it a surrealistic starkness. Insects twittered and sang around the elegant, old mansion as she sleepily opened the door and crept down the stairs to the kitchen. The house was quiet, a kind of peaceful quiet that she had missed since Ryan’s death. It didn’t matter whether they’d shared a tent, a shack or a house, Mackenna had loved the quiet hours spent with him. Wrapped up in her memories, she didn’t notice the light beneath the kitchen door until she pushed through it and stood there, blinking.
    “What?”
    Her heart thudded to underscore her surprise. Brock sat at the cook’s table with files and papers spread out around him. He gave her a disgruntled look.
    “I didn’t know you were in here,” she whispered, shading her eyes momentarily from the glare of the bright overhead light.
    He got up and flipped off the main switch. The only other light came from the pale yellow glow of the stovetop lamp. Mackenna sighed, letting her hand drop back to her side. “Thanks,” she murmured.
    “Why aren’t you sleeping?” he demanded gruffly, leaning back against the immaculate drain board.
    “I was hungry,” she confessed, crossing to the refrigerator. Pulling it open, she perused the contents. In his presence, she was losing her appetite rapidly. But for some reason, he didn’t seem as guarded or spiteful as he had before. Maybe it was the hour. Taking a slab of cheese and a papaya, she crossed to the drain board near where he stood.
    “Didn’t you eat dinner?” he wanted to know.
    “No.”
    “Christ, if anybody needs to put on some weight, it’s you.”
    Mackenna ignored the note of concern in his voice, slicing off a thick piece of cheese and halving the papaya. “Want some?” she offered politely.
    He reached over and picked up the other half of the fruit. “Thanks. Why don’t you join me in the sitting room? I’ve been going over your personnel file, and I have some questions.”
    She glanced up at him, suddenly feeling terribly vulnerable and unprotected in her sheer cotton gown. The tenor of his voice was less threatening. Was he trying to be reasonable? She tilted her head, studying him for a long moment. Even with all her years of experience, she found him hard to read.
    “It’s not six o’clock yet,” she murmured.
    “I’ll try to be more diplomatic this time around,” he muttered, walking over to the table and scooping up the papers and files in one economical movement.
    “I don’t fight well this time of the morning,” she protested.
    “I’ll declare a truce, then,” Brock said without rancor.
    Mackenna met his gaze. His eyes were less frosty, more intelligent and probing and perhaps warmer. But then, that was probably her imagination. Warmth was utterly missing from his