Dark Seduction. Brenda Joyce

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СКАЧАТЬ faced her, a dozen books in his arms. The imitation leine had short sleeves, and his biceps bulged. “I will help ye, lass, but ye need to help me in return.” He sent her that engaging and alluring smile.

      Claire steeled herself against his magnetism, jerking her gaze away. It was almost too late, as her body heat was climbing. She hugged herself defensively now. “That was improv, right? I told you about Sibylla and the page from the Cladich and you went with it. That’s what actors do.” That was the only possible explanation…except she wasn’t certain she had mentioned Sibylla before he had asked her about the page.

      He slowly shook his head. “I dinna ken. But if ye be thinkin’ I be an actor, ye be wrong, lass. I be the Maclean of south Mull an’ Coll.”

      Claire became angry. She folded her arms against her chest, then regretted it, as his gaze moved to her breasts. “Please stop,” she said harshly. “This has been a terrible night. I know Amy sent you as a joke, but Sibylla assaulted me and ransacked my store.”

      “An’ that be why I wish to help ye now. Where do ye want me t’ put the books?”

      Claire shook her head. “No. I appreciate the offer, but I’ll clean up by myself.” She wanted him gone. She needed to think and she needed to call the police.

      But he ignored her, placing the books in a neat pile on the floor, as if he understood there was no point in putting anything back on the shelves. He glanced at her as he straightened.

      Clearly he intended to stay and help. Did that make him decent, as well as gorgeous? Softly, she said, “The joke’s done. Really. You can go now.”

      He muttered something in Gaelic and she froze. “You’re really a Scot.”

      “Aye.” He held another armful of books.

      Claire told herself not to panic. He could be a Scottish actor, just like Sean Connery, and some Scots continued to speak Gaelic. “Amy did send you, didn’t she?”

      He didn’t answer. Instead, he stacked the books next to the first pile.

      She shook her head, her unease about to become full-blown panic again. If Amy hadn’t sent him, then who and what was he?

      He bent to retrieve more books, and Claire was faced with the sight of the leine riding high up on his powerful, corded hamstrings. The fact that he was so masculine didn’t help alleviate her confusion. Her body continued to vibrate with all kinds of tension, but she wasn’t as frightened now as she had first been. If he wasn’t going to leave, what should she do?

      She should call her cousin and find out the truth, but damn it, she was afraid of what Amy would say.

      He straightened and caught her staring. “Ye be too hungry fer such a beauteous lass,” he said softly. “Where’s yer man?”

      “There isn’t one.” She was flushing.

      He stared blankly at her. “I dinna ken this world,” he finally said, shaking his head. “Ye live here alone?”

      Claire nodded. “Yes, I do.” They were having a conversation that was almost normal. She debated how to innocently make that phone call without his becoming alarmed. There was no way to avoid it.

      He was incredulous. “And who’s t’ protect ye in danger?”

      “I protect myself.” She smiled weakly.

      He made a sound. “With that weapon?” He nodded disparagingly toward the hall, where her Beretta lay on the floor.

      “I also have Mace, pepper spray and a Taser.”

      His eyes narrowed. “More weapons?”

      Surely he knew what Mace and pepper spray were, at least. “I am hardly the only single woman in the city.”

      “A woman needs a man to keep her safe, lass. ’Tis the way o’ the world, the way o’ men.” He was firm.

      Claire was briefly speechless. This man spoke as if he were from a past century. “It’s not the way of my world,” she finally said. “And you’re scaring me. I admit it. I’m a wuss and you need to get out of character.” Her cheeks were hot.

      “I dinna wish to frighten ye, lass,” he murmured. “But what man in his good mind would leave ye to yerself?”

      She couldn’t help being flattered. And the way he was regarding her now, from beneath thick black lashes, left her in no doubt that he was oversexed. Claire swallowed. She couldn’t just sense the sexual tension coming from him, she could actually feel it. It was almost a third presence there in the room with them. She had not a doubt he would be an amazing lover.

      “Ye need a man, lass,” he said softly. “’Tis a shame it willna be me.”

      She stiffened. Was he reading her mind? Was that a rejection? She was only thinking about what was terribly obvious!

      She stared at him and he stared back. “Why not?” Her tone was hoarse. She could barely believe herself. She had never even had a casual affair.

      And his gaze intensified. “Ye be intent on seduction, lass? Ye wish to seduce me?”

      Claire was mortified. “No.” She couldn’t think, so how could she even begin to know what she intended?

      He smiled—a soft, heartbreaking smile—and then he spoke with vast regret. “In another life, momhaise, I would gladly accept such a beautiful invitation.”

      Only this man could make a rejection so utterly sexual. His words should have hurt her. Instead, she stood there aching.

      He turned away. Claire glimpsed the very evident ridge of his arousal beneath the tunic and she almost expected her store to go up in flames.

      He spoke brusquely now. “I need the page afore another takes it. It belongs in the shrine with the Cathach. I expect yer help an’ then I’ll be gone.”

      It was another moment before Claire came to her senses. “This isn’t a joke, is it? My cousin didn’t send you here. You are from Scotland.”

      His gray gaze was steady. “Aye.”

      She began to shake. “The Cathach is in the Royal Irish Academy. Every scholar knows, because it’s the oldest illuminated Irish manuscript that anyone has ever found.”

      As emotional as she was becoming, he was as calm. “The Cathach be enshrined on Iona, lass.”

      Claire shook her head. Was he a nut after all? “There is no shrine on Iona—it is nothing but ruins!”

      His face settled into hard planes and taut angles. “Maybe in yer time.”

      “What the hell does that mean?” she cried.

      “It means I ha’ been to the shrine many times. I have guarded it meself.”

      She swallowed, backing away. “I believe you are a true Scot, but why the costume? Why the absurd story—the lies? And who is the woman who broke into my store?”

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