Spell of the Highlander

Page 51

“They’re not really chicken fingers,” she hastened to explain, not caring for the imagery at all, as she dipped one into a tub of spicy barbecue sauce and snapped off a bite. She was going to stop there, she really was, but her treacherous lips had other ideas. “‘Most remarkable’ what?”
“‘Tis of no import, lass.” He devoured another chicken finger in two bites.
“Then why did you bring it up?” she said stiffly.
“I put it to rest, too, lass.” There went two more fingers.
“No, you didn’t. You left it hanging. Now it’s hanging out there. I hate things hanging out there. Fix it. ‘Remarkable’ what?”
He dipped a potato wedge into ketchup and made short work of it. “Chickens, lass, she had remarkable chickens. What did you think I meant?”
Jessi’s nostrils flared. She glared at him a moment, then looked away. Why did she even care? So, maybe the ninth-century bimbo had had remarkable eyes or legs or something. No way her breasts were better. At that thought, she shrugged her jean-jacket off her shoulders and sat up straighter. And so what, anyway? The bimbo had been dead for eleven centuries. The only thing remarkable about her now was that anyone even remembered her at all.
“Back to the chickens, lass, if they’re not fingers, why are they named thusly?”
“It’s just a catchphrase,” she said irritably, snapping off another bite. “Something some marketing guy came up with to make them more appealing.”
“Your century finds the notion of eating fingers of chickens appealing? What of their toes?”
She took a sip of Coke. The chicken was suddenly dry as sawdust on her tongue. “I don’t think anybody who orders them thinks, for even a minute, about fingers, or toes, any more than they think about little pink chicken nipples when they’re eating chicken breasts—”
She broke off, eyes narrowing. His head was canted down, his hair shielding his face, but she could plainly see his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
The Neanderthal was yanking her chain.
And she’d fallen for every bit of it.
After a moment, she shook her head and snorted. He’d been poking fun not only at her century but himself, in a dry, subtle way. And she’d bought right into the stereotype he’d been feeding her: me-big-and-stupid-archaic-he-man. Her snort became a snicker, her snicker a laugh.
He glanced up sharply, his dark amber gaze fixing on her face. “I hoped to make you laugh,” he said softly. “I’ve not seen much in the way of happiness in your eyes since we’ve crossed paths.”
“No, I don’t suppose you have,” she agreed. “It’s been a bit grim.” They shared a companionable silence for a moment, across the table in Chick-fil-A.
“So was it really her chickens that were remarkable?”
Cian shook his head. “Nay, lass.”
She scowled. “What, then? Come on, you’re the one who brought her up.”
He flashed her a devilish grin. “There was no wench in the stables, Jessica. I but wondered if you’d care.”
Two could push for information, she thought mulishly a short time later as they hastened over soggy, slippery autumn leaves on their brisk walk across the parking lot toward her car. The October breeze ruffling her short dark hair held the promise of the long, cold midwestern winter to come. The chilly drizzle that had been falling steadily since they’d left Chicago had eased to a mist, but the sky was still leaden with thunderheads, threatening worse rain ahead. She fluffed her short curls back from her face and tugged her jean-jacket closer. In contrast to the cool clime, her temper was hot; she was steamed and humiliated that he’d gotten a rise out of her. She hardly knew the man, and she’d felt a vicious stab of jealousy over him. Twice. In a matter of hours. That wasn’t like her at all. And the fact that she hardly knew the man was really beginning to bother her. She’d accepted that she was going to have to entrust herself to him to survive, but, by God, she wanted to know more about the man that she was entrusting herself to.
Who and what was Cian MacKeltar? And who and what was this Lucan Trevayne person who wanted her dead just because she’d seen his blasted artifact? They were both clearly more than mere men.
As they approached the car, Jessi stopped at the driver’s-side door and scowled across the roof at him.
He arched an inquiring brow.
“I’m not going any farther until you answer a few of my questions.”
“Jessica—”
“Don’t ‘Jessica’ me,” she said peevishly. “Five minutes is all I’m asking for. Surely five minutes won’t get us killed. What are you, Cian?”