Spell of the Highlander

Page 46

She began to push herself up from where she’d been sitting, cross-legged, on the bed, as far back against the wall as possible, so she could pretend the lump on the floor wasn’t there. Suddenly, he was standing beside her.
Before she could so much as squeak a protest, he cupped her shoulders, dragged her against his body, and kissed her hard, fast, and deep, before dropping her back onto the bed.
He looked at her a moment, then he plucked her back up and did it again.
This time he drew her into his arms, one arm around her waist, the other hand palming the back of her head, and kissed her so deeply and passionately that she could have sworn she was throwing off steam, sizzling like an iron on the High Mist/Steam setting.
She clung to him, taking all he was giving. Sinking into his body, absorbing the steel and heat of the man.
When he released her this time, she plopped back down on the bed, kissed breathless.
She felt infinitely better than she had moments ago, as if some of his formidable strength had seeped into her through their kiss. God knew the man had strength enough to spare.
He stared down at her, his whisky gaze narrowed with desire and something else, something she simply couldn’t quite define; an emotion that eluded her. It almost seemed like regret, but that made no sense to her. What could he possibly be regretting?
When he lifted his hand and traced the backs of his knuckles up her cheek, slipping his fingers into the short dark curls at her temple, she dismissed the odd thought from her mind. He threaded his fingers through her hair slowly, as if savoring the silky texture of each curl.
It gave her a tiny chill, the lightness of his touch.
The man was a walking dichotomy. Those powerful neck-snapping, knife-throwing hands that did murder without pause were equally capable of tenderness and delicacy.
“Lock the door behind me when I leave, lass. I will be but a short time. Doona open it for anyone but me. Will you obey me?”
She opened her mouth to ask why, and what he was going to do, and just how he thought they were going to get out of the mess they were in, but he pressed the tip of his finger to her lips.
“Time is truly of the essence,” he said softly. “I never ken how long I’ll have. ’Tis action that will serve us best here, not words. Will you obey me for the now, Jessica?”
She blew out a pent breath and nodded.
“Good lass.”
She stuck her tongue out and mimed panting like a dog, grasping for any shred of levity she could find.
He gave her a faint, approving smile. “Keep your laughter, Jessica. ’Tis a saving grace.”
Her thoughts exactly.
He turned, scooped up the comforter with its bloody burden, and stalked from the room, closing the door behind him.
“Lock it,” came the soft, low command from the other side.
Jessi slid the bolt and flipped the latch. Only then did his footfalls fade down the hall.
Forty minutes later, Jessi and Cian stepped in tandem from the elevator.
He was holding her hand, and although she’d never considered herself much of a hand-holder, she thoroughly liked the feel of her small hand in Cian’s big, strong one, and the snug interlacing of their fingers. She felt dainty, girly—actually, more like consummately womanly—beside this man.
She glanced up at him and inhaled a swift, shallow breath. He was devastatingly attractive. He was wearing faded jeans and a much-washed black Ironman T-shirt. His kilt was tossed over a shoulder, and his knife sheath was strapped blatantly around his thigh, the lethal blade now cleaned and returned to its protective casing. She’d tried telling him he couldn’t wear it that way, that he’d get them arrested. He’d replied that she could save her breath because Cian MacKeltar obeyed no laws but his own.
She’d not found that particularly surprising.
His muscular body rippled beneath the thin cotton fabric. With those crimson-and-black tattoos licking up his neck and encircling both powerful biceps, those wicked-looking wrist cuffs, his long braids, and his imposing height and brawn, he looked downright dangerous.
Considering that the clothing fit him, she wondered how he’d gotten it off of whomever he’d gotten it off of. It must have been one heck of a fight.
Then there was the matter of the clothing he’d brought her . . . smelling of another woman’s perfume. She had on hip-hugging Lucky jeans (with the cheeky words Lucky You stamped on the inside of her fly) that were X-treme Low Ride—as in, she sure wouldn’t be sitting down with her backside facing a roomful of people anytime soon—and a white, V-necked sweater so snug that it would have revealed every line of her bra.