Rogue on the Rollaway. Shannon MacLeod

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      The blinding light followed by the loud, splintering crash was alarming in itself, but the deep masculine groan captured Colleen’s full and undivided attention. Diving for cover behind the bed, she peeked wide eyed over the rumpled comforter. She kept her eyes glued to the bedroom door, feeling around next to her nightstand for the Louisville Slugger she kept tucked away. Heaving a silent sigh of relief when her fingers closed around the bat, she slid it from its hiding place and shouldered it. She took a deep breath and mouthed her get it together mantra - panic later, calm now, panic later, calm now. Noise coming from the living room, blocking the only exit. Second story condo. She eyed the window and winced at the thought of jumping, then dismissed the idea knowing full well that she’d never get the window open without making a huge racket in the process.

      Plan B–call 911. Where was her…shit. She groaned, visualizing her cell phone right where she’d left it on the end table in the living room. Important safety tip–if she lived through this, phone in pocket at all times from now on. She stiffened her resolve and began the slow process of creeping toward the bedroom door.

      With her heart hammering in her chest, she held her breath as she lingered in the doorway and listened. When she heard nothing, she ventured a step out and peered toward the front door. Still locked. She relaxed a tiny bit and lowered the bat just a fraction while she inched her way around the corner and into the living room.

      Any sense of wellbeing she had fled again when she heard another low groan. “Bloody hell, that hurt,” the deep voice complained. More wood creaked and splintered, followed by a soft grunt.

      She raised the bat again in a stance that would have done Babe Ruth proud and bellowed in a gruff voice, “Who’s there?”

      The only answer she got was a heavy sigh and another groan. “Identify yourself,” she demanded. “I’ve got a bat and I will beat the living shit out of you if you so much as blink. I’ve got a black belt,” she lied frantically, “and…and…a gun. A big one.”

      “From the frying pan straight into the fire,” muttered the strangely accented voice. “Lay down yer arms, lady, I mean ye no harm.”

      Colleen inched forward, peeped over the back of the couch and gasped. Sprawled on his back in a pile of magazines and demolished wood that appeared to be the remains of her coffee table was quite possibly the most beautiful man she had ever seen. He lay still as a stone, his long black hair spread out around him, eyes closed as if he were asleep. “Who are you?” she asked again.

      Several slow blinks revealed deep cerulean eyes fringed with thick dark lashes. He met and held her gaze, a lazy smile spreading across handsome chiseled features. “Beautiful lass, ye are,” he murmured. His eyes roamed over her in an inappropriate–although flattering, she had to admit–way, given his current circumstances.

      Colleen flushed under his perusal and struggled to regain her composure. “I asked you a question,” she snarled, “and I get an answer. Right now, mister or I call the cops.” She gave the bat a menacing shake for emphasis, grateful he couldn’t see her knees knocking through the couch.

      A look of uncertainty passed across his face. “Cops?” He lifted his head to survey his surroundings and his brow furrowed. “And what have I done for ye to threaten me with that club ye carry?” He struggled to sit up but fell back into the pile of wood, muttering a dark curse under his breath. “And have I no’ told ye already I mean ye no harm. If ye’d stop yer blustering for a moment, ye’ll see that I’m tied up tight, and I’d greatly appreciate it if ye’d remedy that.”

      Wait… What? “Why should I trust you?” she asked, a little less sharply than before. “How do I know you won’t…”

      He gave her a small smile that did strange and wonderful things to her heart. “Because I’m giving ye my word, and ’tis something I doona do lightly. Please.”

      Against her better judgment, she lowered the bat and moved toward him. He rolled to his side, and she saw he was telling the truth. His hands and arms were bound close behind him. She surveyed the tight knots. “Wait right there,” she said, and ran to the kitchen to get something sharp enough to cut away the thick bindings.

      The man rolled his eyes. “Och, aye. I’ll stay right here. And where exactly would I be going, do ye think?” he called after her.

      She returned a moment later with a steak knife. “No need to get snotty about it. I’m still thinking about calling the police,” she snapped before she began sawing away at the heavy ropes.

      He glanced back over his shoulder. “My apologies, lass. Just uncomfortable, I warrant.” His gaze wandered around the room, but when he looked back again it was to find her staring at his profile while she struggled to free him. “Far be it for me to tell ye yer business, but if ye doona mind, I’d appreciate it an’ ye’d pay a wee bit more attention to what yer cutting.” He softened the rebuke with a lopsided grin.

      Frowning with embarrassment, she returned her gaze to the task at hand, trying to place the strange accent and his odd manner of speech. The first rope fell away beneath the serrated blade and she started on the second with enthusiasm. He shifted as the ropes loosened, and sighed in relief when the final one was cut. Rubbing his wrists to get the blood flowing again, he sat up and regarded her with a solemn bow of his head. “Ye have my thanks. What’s yer name, lady?”

      “Colleen,” she answered.

      His full lips curved into a dazzling smile that stole her breath, his straight teeth flashing white against his bronzed skin. “’Tis a pretty name for a pretty lady. What’s yer family name?”

      Dimples. Sweet Jesus, the man had dimples. “O’Brien,” she said, regrouping rapidly from the effects of the stunner smile. “And you haven’t gotten around to telling me your name yet. And I’d like to know how you came to be lying on what’s left of my coffee table.”

      He ignored her question. “So yer a princess, then. I thought ye had a look of the Irish about ye with those enchanting green eyes,” he remarked, looking around the condo. “’Tis fine enough to be a palace, I’m thinkin’.” He saw Mel Gibson frozen on the TV screen and was transfixed, puzzlement evident on his face. Tearing his gaze away, he glanced back at Colleen, but his eyes kept flickering over to the screen as if expecting Mel to charge out at any minute brandishing his claymore.

      Colleen missed his disconcertion and snorted. “Princess? You must have hit your head pretty hard.”

      He turned an incredulous gaze to her before explaining, “O’Brien is the family name of the descendents of Brian Boru, the High King of Ireland. Yer of royal blood.” He stretched his arms and legs, blowing out a contented sigh when his joints cracked. “So tell me, Princess, where have I found myself? Yer accent is strange to me.”

      Well, then. It was obvious. She’d fallen asleep on the couch and was СКАЧАТЬ