Spell of the Highlander

Page 70

After their intimacy at the airport and the warm camaraderie of their conversation last night, after sleeping drenched in the sinfully sexy man-scent of him, dressed in his clothing, sprawled on top of more of it, after having wickedly erotic dreams about him in which they’d had sex that would have made the author of the Kama Sutra sit up and start taking notes, after waking to find him standing naked over her, staring down at her from his mirror with that incredible rock-hard erection that had made her mouth dry and other parts of her oh-so-not-dry-at-all, she’d expected . . . well, at least a few hot, slippery kisses.
She’d not gotten a single, quick brush of his lips.
Not even a horny comment.
Just a Are you awake?
She’d blinked, unable to tear her gaze away from him. The man had, quite simply, the most amazing package she’d ever seen, and although most of the ones she’d seen had been in pictures, she still considered herself a fair judge. Uh-huh, I’m awake, she’d managed breathlessly. Some parts of her more than others.
Call me out.
She’d obeyed, wetting her lips.
Six and a half feet of muscle-ripped, naked Highlander had separated from the glass and reached toward her . . .
And past her, retrieving his clothing.
He’d dressed, for heaven’s sake—covering up all that magnificent masculine nudity with swift efficiency. Then he scooped up the mirror and loaded it into the back of the SUV. He’d returned, scooped her up as well, and dumped her into the driver’s seat.
As he’d deposited her behind the wheel, he’d pecked her freaking forehead.
When he’d lowered his head, like an idiot, she’d actually puckered, thinking he was finally going to kiss her. She’d smooched air, putting her in a positively foul mood—no matter that the sun was shining and it looked like it was going to be a glorious, unseasonably warm autumn day in the Highlands, and she was alive to see it.
Behaving with all the automated efficiency of a cool, detached Terminator, with steely insides and computer chips dictating his every move, Cian had referenced one of the pamphlets he’d swiped from the airport along with the stack of maps, and directed her to a store called Tiedemann’s, an outdoorsman’s store, specializing in camping equipment and survival gear.
For the past thirty minutes—ever since he’d so unceremoniously “parked” her at the front counter—he’d been oblivious to her, examining everything, asking the salesman he’d ensorcelled dozens of questions, selecting and sending to the counter insulated clothing, sleeping bags, a small gas stove, cooking implements, along with dozens of other things she had no idea what he planned to do with.
We will gather foodstuffs next, he’d informed her brusquely on one of his circuits through the store.
That had cheered her a bit. Her stomach was growling. She was starved. Food would be heaven. A cup of steaming cocoa or coffee with it would be even more heavenly. The skintight Lucky jeans he’d swiped for her days ago weren’t nearly so snug on her waist as they’d been when he’d procured them, and they were in serious need of a washing. She’d slept on the plane in them, she’d slept on the ground in them. She’d been living in them twenty-four/seven for four days now. Same panties too. It had been four days since she’d last had a shower, and if she didn’t get one soon, she might hurt somebody.
Pushing up on her tiptoes, she spied a collection of women’s athletic gear and outdoor clothing just beyond the tent department. The least he could do, she decided peevishly, was Voice her some new clothes. And she wanted a bra, damn it. Even a sports bra would do, and it looked like there were several racks of them. She doubted she’d find panties in this store, but she’d settle for a few bottles of water and some soap to wash them out by hand.
Shoving away from the counter where she’d been dutifully obeying his “wait right here” command, she wended her way through the camping gear to the women’s department. As she approached the sports-bra racks, she saw the sign for the ladies’ rest room and veered off toward it.
Just in case she didn’t get a shower today—and there was no telling how any of her days were going to go in the care, custody, and control of one Cian MacKeltar—she was opting for yet another paper-towel bath to be on the safe, not-quite-so aromatic side.
“You will tell me how many of these gas refills I will require to use such a stove for sixteen days in the wilds. Assume it will be in constant use.” Cian needed to keep Jessica warm and prepare meals for her, but dare not risk the smoke of a wood fire, inside the cave or out. Colorless, odorless, virtually smokeless gas was a welcome discovery.