The Immortal Highlander

Page 7

And “royal” was certainly a good word for him, er . . . it. Its profile was sheer majesty. Chiseled features, high cheekbones, strong jaw, aquiline nose, all covered with that luscious gold-velvet fairy skin. She narrowed her eyes, absorbing details. Unshaven jaw sculpted by five-o’clock shadow. Full mouth. Lower lip decadently full. Sinfully so, really. (Gabby, quit thinking that!)
She inhaled slowly, exhaled softly, holding utterly still, one hand on the roof of her car, the other clutching her keys.
It exuded immense sexuality: base, raw, scorching. From this distance she should not have been able to feel the heat from its body, but she could. She should not have gotten a bit dizzy from its exotic scent, but she had. As if it were twenty times more potent than any she’d encountered before; a veritable powerhouse of a fairy.
She was never going to be able to walk past it. Just wasn’t happening. Not today. There was only so much she was capable of in a given day, and Gabby O’Callaghan had exceeded her limits.
Still . . . it hadn’t moved. In fact, it seemed utterly oblivious to its surroundings. It couldn’t hurt to look a little longer. . . .
Besides, she reminded herself, she had a duty to surreptitiously observe as much as possible about any unknown fairy specimen. In such fashion did the O’Callaghan women protect themselves and the future of their children—by learning about their enemy. By passing down stories. By adding new information, with sketches when possible, to the multivolume Books of the Fae, thereby providing future generations greater odds of escaping detection.
This one didn’t have the sleekly muscled body of most fairy males, she noted; this one had the body of a warrior. Shoulders much too wide to squeeze onto the bench. Arms bunched with muscle, thick forearms, strong wrists. Cut abdomen rippling beneath the fabric of its T-shirt each time it shifted position. Powerful thighs caressed by soft, faded denim.
No, not a warrior, she mused, that wasn’t quite it. A shadowy image was dancing in the dark recesses of her mind and she struggled to bring it into focus.
More like . . . ah, she had it! Like one of those blacksmiths of yore who’d spent their days pounding steel at a scorching forge, metal clanging, sparks flying. Possessing massive brawn, yet also capable of the delicacy necessary to craft intricately embellished blades, combining pure power with exquisite control.
There wasn’t a spare ounce of flesh on it, just rock-hard male body. It had a finely honed, brutal strength that, coupled with its height and breadth, could feel overwhelming to a woman. Especially if it were stretching all that rippling muscle on top of—
Stop that, O’Callaghan! Wiping tiny beads of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, she drew a shaky breath, struggling desperately for objectivity. She felt as hot as the forge she could imagine him bending over, hard body glistening, pounding . . . pounding . . .
Go, Gabby, a faint inner voice warned. Go now. Hurry.
But her inner alarm went off too late. At that precise moment it turned its head and glanced her way.
She should have looked away. She tried to look away. She couldn’t.
Its face, full-on, was a work of impossible masculine beauty—exquisite symmetry brushed by a touch of savagery—but it was the eyes that got her all tangled up. They were ancient eyes, immortal eyes, eyes that had seen more than she could ever dream of seeing in a thousand lifetimes. Eyes full of intelligence, mockery, mischief, and—her breath caught in her throat as its gaze dropped down her body, then raked slowly back up—unchained sexuality. Black as midnight beneath slashing brows, its eyes flashed with gold sparks.
Her mouth dropped open and she gasped.
But, but, but, a part of her sputtered in protest, it doesn’t have fairy eyes! It can’t be a fairy! They have iridescent eyes. Always. And if it’s not a fairy, what is it?
Again its gaze slid down her body, this time much more slowly, lingering on her breasts, fixing unabashedly at the juncture of her thighs. Without a shred of self-consciousness, it shifted its hips to gain play in its jeans, reached down, and blatantly adjusted itself.
Helplessly, as if mesmerized, her gaze followed, snagging on that big, dark hand tugging at the faded denim. At the huge, swollen bulge cupped by the soft, worn fabric. For a moment it closed its hand over itself and rubbed the thick ridge, and she was horrified to feel her own hand clenching. She flushed, mouth dry, cheeks flaming.
Suddenly it went motionless and its preternatural gaze locked with hers, eyes narrowing.
“Christ,” it hissed, surging up from the bench in one graceful ripple of animal strength, “you see me. You’re seeing me!”