Mr. Miracle. Carolyn McSparren

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      She stammered, “Th-that’s all, really. Something about losing your brother?”

      He set the cup down and closed his eyes. When he opened them a millisecond later, he’d put his pleasant expression back in place. “Killed in an automobile accident a couple of years ago south of Lyons in France while I was in hospital with this.” He held up his gloved hand. “Along with my wife.”

      She realized she wanted him to be unencumbered by wives, fiancées or even casual girlfriends. Unlikely.

      She said, “I’m so sorry. Both of them? At the same time?”

      “They were in the same car. Mine, as it happens.”

      “While you were in the hospital? In Scotland?”

      “Yes. Let’s drop it, shall we?”

      “I’m sorry.” She took a deep breath. “Is there anybody waiting for you now in Scotland?” Vic felt a jolt. Of course he’d have a wife at his age. Did he have a second wife now? Someone waiting patiently for him back in Oban? She’d never asked.

      “Indeed there is.”

      Her heart fell.

      “My father’s brother, Hamish, the stereotypical big braw Scotsman, and my mother’s brother, Vlado, who is about half as big and twice as feisty. They’re keeping up the place while I’m gone. And as many relatives as there are grains of sand on the beach at Dover.”

      No wife, then. Or none he planned to tell her about. She sighed in relief.

      “So, boss-lass, do you have a deck of cards?”

      She laughed. “Sure. You play gin?”

      “Two-handed poker. It’s early yet. We could play for matchsticks if you’ve got ’em.”

      “We could play for a penny a point if you prefer.”

      He shook his head.

      “Hey, I’ll have you know I am a veteran of any number of tack-room poker games.”

      “Get the cards and the matchsticks.”

      An hour later Vic was down to five matchsticks, while Jamey’s pile threatened to roll off the kitchen table onto the floor.

      “Full house,” he said, laid his cards down and pulled the small pile of matchsticks onto his side of the table.

      She tossed hers down. “Two lousy pairs. Shoot! How do you do that?”

      He leaned back in his chair, hooked his good hand in his belt, and smiled a lazy smile at her. “I could win this place off you before morning if I had a mind to.”

      “You’re cheating. You’ve marked the cards somehow.”

      “No. The cards aren’t marked. Do you know what a ‘tell’ is?”

      “No idea.”

      He leaned across the table and gently touched his index finger to the left corner of her mouth. “Every time you bluff or draw to an inside straight or try to fill a flush, you poke the tiniest bit of your tongue out the corner of your mouth.”

      “I do not.”

      “Oh, yes, you do. And when you think you’ve got a pat hand I cannot possibly beat, you hold the cards straight up like this,” he demonstrated, “and take a single deep breath before you bet.”

      She felt the flush start around her toenails.

      He threw back his head and laughed. “Those are your tells, sweetheart. I could tell you were lying across a crowded room if you were talking to the Queen of England.”

      “Dammit!” She reached over with both hands and scooped up his matchsticks, then bolted out of her chair and into the living room waving her clenched fists above her head. “You cheated! I win!”

      He whooped and charged after her. “Come back here with my winnings!”

      The dogs began to bark frantically and joined in the chase.

      “No fair!” She skittered around the corner and into her bedroom.

      He slid after her.

      They both fell on the bed howling with laughter.

      He grabbed the fists she had clenched over her head and rolled her over. “Never steal from a Gypsy, darling. We’ll cast the evil eye on you.”

      She sucked in a breath.

      So did he.

      She could feel the weight of his body on hers. He was suddenly dead serious, those black eyes boring into hers. She couldn’t look away, didn’t want to, wanted to drown in his eyes, feel the strength of his hands holding her wrists.

      His kiss was hard, demanding, forcing her lips against her teeth. Without her will, her lips parted for his questing tongue, which she met with her own. Her body writhed beneath him as though it had developed a mind separate from her brain. He was hard against her belly, his thighs against hers, his chest against her breasts. She couldn’t breathe.

      Her loins ached.

      The strength went out of her.

      An instant later he rolled off her, stood and turned away. “I’m sorry. That was unforgivable.”

      She raised herself on her elbows. Her breath shuddered in her throat. “You didn’t do it alone.”

      He didn’t turn to look at her. “And I’ve wanted to do it since the moment I saw you. I just didn’t realize how much until this minute. Forgive me.”

      “For what? Things got a little out of hand. Big deal. Call it the wine.”

      “I’ll sleep in the barn.”

      “Don’t be ridiculous. Sleep upstairs.” She went to him, stood behind him without touching him and said softly, “You’re a gentleman, Jamey McLachlan. And my guest. You’re not the sort of man to betray a hostess.”

      He turned to look at her with anguish in his eyes. “Don’t count on that, lass.” He strode to the front door and took his jacket from the coat rack. “I’ll walk down to the barn and check on things. Be back in a few minutes.”

      

      THE NIGHT HAD TURNED bitter with a three-quarter moon riding in a sky so full of stars it seemed to pulse. His hands in his pockets for warmth, Jamey loped down the hill to the stable. How could he have been so stupid?

      How could she?

      It was her fault. She was too damned trusting, too damned sexy, too damned appealing, and she didn’t even have sense enough to know it!

      They were both too hungry, that was the problem. His wife had been dead СКАЧАТЬ