Chapter 4 #2
And then she noticed he wasn't wearing a shirt. Or shoes. Just cotton pajama pants hung low on his hips.
Broad shoulders. Flat abs. A hard, cut body.
His hair was tousled from sleep. He looked adorable and sexy and manly.
And dangerously unpredictable. She could even see faint a line of black hair that traveled from his belly button down to his.
.. Lucy jerked her gaze back up as butterflies swarmed in her belly.
She never should have read those What's Under Your Kilt jokes on that Scottish web site. Those bagpipe and Nessie analogies swam through her mind, making her face burn.
One of Ian's eyebrows lifted as though he knew exactly what she was thinking. His arms crossed over his chest. Oh, he knew alright. Smug bastard.
Lucy straightened her twisted shirt, blotting out all thoughts of ole Nessie and the jaunty bagpipe tune whistling in her head.
"Look, I heard the noises. They were keeping me from getting to sleep, so I came to see what was happening.
And if this is some sort of plan to make me think there's a ghost, think again because—"
"You think this is a trick?"
She meant to answer, but the thuds came again. Instantly, they turned toward the sound, somewhere far down the hallway.
"Stay here." It was a command, and he didn't wait for an answer.
For a moment, Lucy blindly obeyed. Then it dawned on her. It was always the girl left behind who got the ax first. Forget that. She wasn't about to be monster meat.
As Ian crouched next to an open door, Lucy crept up behind him, placing her hand on his shoulder and leaning over him to peer into the dark room. When he glanced back at her with a perturbed look, she ignored him.
Her eyes were glued to the room. There were faint outlines of furniture, and she could make out old rockers, cribs, and wooden toys littering the floor.
Old trunks sat in corners and more furniture had been stacked against the back wall.
The sound came again, from the back corner.
Her fingernails dug into Ian's bare shoulder.
"Looks like an old nursery," she whispered the obvious.
"You think so?" he asked tightly, trying to sound nice, but failing to keep the sarcasm from his tone. He sighed. "And would mind not clawing me to death?"
"Maybe it's a burglar, or a really, really big mouse."
"Are you serious?" he growled out.
"Serious as it gets, buddy." Lucy nudged him into the room, and for that he tossed her an exasperated look.
Her fingers curled around the door frame as Ian approached the back corner. She came to a quick conclusion. If something jumped out at him, sorry MacLaren, but she was turning tail and running like hell. The big shirtless brute could take care of himself.
A cold breeze traveled through the door. She saw Ian rub his arms. She remembered Gram telling her that cold spots indicated the presence of ghosts.
This wasn't good.
Ian disappeared around the furniture. Her heart beat wildly. A bang made her jump.
Finally he poked his head around the boxes. "Pane in the window is broken and the shutters came unlatched," he called. "Nothing to worry about."
Nothing to worry about, Ian repeated darkly to himself.
He'd let that crazy Yank convince him it might be something more.
Ian pulled the wooden shutters closed and found an antique silver baby spoon to slide through the handles until he could come back tomorrow and fix the latch.
When he had more time, he'd clean out the room just to see what treasures and family heirlooms could be salvaged.
But right now there was a more pressing matter to attend to. Riley, Call-Me-Lucy, Brooks.
It was one fiasco after another when it came to her, and it had to stop now.
As he walked toward her, his mood turning black, he realized she wore very little.
A thin cotton T-shirt, a size too small, with—Good God—he nearly stumbled—no bra underneath.
The short boxers she wore made her long legs seem even longer.
That body had molded nicely against him in the hallway.
Her hair had even smelled good, with just a hint of lavender.
He saw now that it spilled over her shoulders in waves. ..
The picture she presented, and the fact that he responded to it, only fueled his anger. He did not do married women. Literally and figuratively.
"What was it?" she asked, her big brown eyes growing wider as he approached.
He wasn't happy at all. Whenever she was near, it felt like everything was out of control, everything was falling apart, and he couldn't seem to act normal.
Lucy stepped back and he strode by.
She hurried after him. At the top of the steps, she grabbed his arm, the heat of her hand feeling like a goddamn brand. "MacLaren, would you wait a dang minute?"
He swung around, tension pouring off him, and grabbed her by the shoulders. For a long moment he didn't speak, didn't know what to say or if to say anything at all. "I need to go down and trip the breakers. The storm must hav—"
She kissed him.
On the tips of her toes, she pressed her sweet lips against his as he spoke, drowning out his words.
In fact, he couldn't remember what those words were.
He couldn't think, couldn't seem to access his will, couldn't move as his body was flooded with senses.
God, her lips are so soft. Her hands gripped his waist lightly.
The clean, floral smell of her skin and hair scrambled his senses.
His pulse thundered.
She stepped back, looking up at him with those wide eyes. Shocked eyes. A blush climbed up her neck and into her cheeks. "Oh God," she muttered in a desperate, embarrassed tone. "I'm so sorry."
He wanted to move, to speak, to not stand there like a bloody idiot. He wanted to push her against the wall and turn that sweet innocent, impulsive kiss into something hot and needy.
The candlestick slipped from her hand and hit the floor with a loud clang. It seemed to spur her into action. She hurried around him and disappeared down the stairs.