CHAPTER SIX #3
Tabby couldn’t think of a suitable response to that.
She marched to the linen closet and returned, placing a pile of towels in his arms. Her mind skidded back and forth between his theory that she was a target and the shower he was about to take—and the night about to come.
It promised to be endless. “The bathroom is down the hall.”
He walked away. She felt her body explode and it was inexplicable.
She prided herself on her intellect. A Ph.D.
turned her on more than a six-pack ever could.
Her friends had crushes on actors like Brad Pitt and Colin Farrell; she had crushes on intellectuals like Tony Blair and Mark Steyn.
She’d rather spend an evening at an exhibit like the Wisdom of the Celts, discussing the various finds, than in bed with a boyfriend, pretending to be something she was not.
But this man made her nervous and upset. Worse, this man made her body come alive in ways it never had—in ways she didn’t even want to recognize. But Macleod was a walking advertisement for sex. Maybe all women went nuts around him. That was probably it.
Tabby opened the refrigerator, then closed it. What was he doing in there? How on earth would he know how to turn on the water faucets or even adjust the water temperature?
She groaned, then cursed. She stared at the chopped onion, waiting for her eyes to burn. Had he taken off his clothes?
Her knees felt weak. All those new pulse points were firing up. She must not go back there to help him!
She strained to listen, but did not hear the sound of the shower.
Her heart was thundering so hard now, she thought it might come out of her breast. Tabby realized she was already halfway to the bathroom. She gave up. Apparently she was incapable of self-control. But she was only going to help him. She repeated those instructions to herself.
The bathroom door was wide-open.
Tabby halted. He stood inside, still fully dressed…and she was incredibly disappointed. His back was to her and he was regarding his reflection in the mirror over the sink. In that mirror, she met his eyes.
They were lazy and indolent, sensual and hot, promising all kinds of unearthly delight.
She managed to say, “I came to turn the water on—not for anything else.”
From the corner of her eyes, she saw his hands moving. He was unpinning the plaid he wore. He smiled knowingly.
She knew she should back away—no, run away. No decent woman would stand there while he undressed. She did not move.
The plaid fell from his huge shoulders and he folded it and laid it beside the swords he’d placed on the vanity before she’d gotten there.
His hands moved to the heavy leather belt he wore, over the tunic.
Tabby couldn’t look up. Her eyes were riveted to the reflection of his strong, scarred hands.
Heat suffused every inch of her face and body.
Beneath his hands, that skirt was tented. She couldn’t really breathe.
He made a soft sound and the leather belt joined the plaid and swords on her vanity.
She stared at the items, then stared at him. A huge silence fell. Tabby knew it was time to leave, now.
“I never drag women to my bed. They come gladly.”
Of course they did.
His navy-blue eyes were so dark with desire they were the color of a Highland night sky—purple and black. He slowly turned to face her.
She breathed hard, aware of heat dripping down her inner thighs, and refused to take another look at the tented tunic. Her tension had spiraled to an impossible level. She could hardly think.
How could she go? How could she stay?
Why did she have to be so aware of him?
“Men like me because I’m elegant,” Tabby said harshly. “I am not elegant now. I just don’t get this.”
His stare intensified. “In my bed, ye willna have to be someone ye’re not.”
She inhaled. “No. I’m really not into sex.”
He smiled, as if he knew something she did not.
“I’m really hard to please.”
“I dinna think so,” he said softly.
He reached for the vee neckline of the tunic. Tabby watched his hands and her heart stopped. The tunic vanished over his head and fell to the floor.
Her body exploded. She looked at his huge, sculpted chest, then at his six-pack—and the hollow below it.
She went still. He was massive and hard.
“Do ye still wish to leave?” he murmured.
Medieval or not, he was the sexiest man alive—ever.
Maybe he was right. Maybe she wouldn’t have to pretend to be the kind of woman she was supposed to be in bed. Maybe she wouldn’t have to fake it to please her partner. Maybe her hormones would take over and she’d have a good time.
She finally looked up. She meant to look into his eyes, but he was reflected in all of the bathroom’s mirrors. His beautiful face and powerful body were everywhere.
She wanted him. She had never felt this way before. Her body was a mass of swollen, hurting flesh. But she didn’t love him and she never would. She wasn’t a liberated woman. If she gave in now, it would be the most sordid act of her life—and in the morning, she would hate herself.
“I dinna think so,” he murmured. “In the morn, ye’ll be verra pleased.”
He was still reading her mind. “Don’t,” Tabby whispered, but she had the awful feeling that he might be right.
He suddenly reached out, took her hand and reeled her in.