Her Irish Rogue. Kate Hoffmann

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СКАЧАТЬ waterlogged that her shape was indistinct beneath them. She did have very pretty feet, Will mused, and her toenails were painted a bright pink. And she looked young, probably not much older than twenty-five or twenty-six. Will watched as she rummaged through her purse.

      “You’re American?” he asked.

      She shoved her hair back and met his gaze for the first time. Tiny droplets clung to her lashes and she blinked several times, sending rivulets down rosy cheeks. “I—I’m sorry, what did you ask?”

      “American?” Will repeated softly, his gaze falling to her lips.

      “Yes. Is that a problem?”

      When he looked up, he found himself staring into sparkling turquoise eyes. She held out a credit card. “No, not at all,” he said, taking the card. “I was just curious. You sounded…American.”

      A tiny smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. “That’s probably because I am.” A shudder ran through her and she rubbed her arms. “So, may I have a room? I’d really like to get out of these clothes and—”

      “Yes, of course,” Will said. “And I’d like to get you out of those…I mean, I’m sure you’d be more comfortable if you took your clothes off…and put others back on.” He grabbed the key for the nicest room on the second floor. “Room seven,” he said. Will reached out and grabbed her hand, then put the key in her palm. Her skin was damp and cool to the touch and he let his fingers linger, his thumb slowly caressing the inside of her wrist. “Top of the stairs and to your left. It’s at the end of the hall. All our rooms are en suite.”

      “What does that mean?” she muttered, staring down at the key.

      He grabbed her shoes from her hand. “They all have their own bathrooms. Seven has a very large tub with a shower. Why don’t you go on up and I’ll bring your luggage and shoes after I’ve had a chance to dry them off.”

      “All right,” she said. She gently pulled her hand from his grip, then started toward the stairs.

      “What is your name?” Will called.

      She spun around. “What?”

      “Your name. For the register.”

      “It’s on the card,” she replied. “O’Connor. Claire O’Connor from Chicago. Illinois.”

      “Welcome to the Ivybrook Inn, Miss O’Connor,” he said, glancing down at the credit card. “I’m Will Donovan.”

      She nodded, then trudged up the stairs, her clothes dripping as she climbed. When he turned to tend to her bags, he found Sorcha leaning up against the doorjamb to the front parlor, clutching the bag of crisps to her chest and munching thoughtfully. “An American. Pretty thing, that,” she murmured, nodding toward the stairs. “I hear American girls are positively wild in the sack.”

      “I don’t seduce the guests,” he said. “Don’t you have some potions to brew? Go home, Sorcha.”

      “Too bad about the curse,” she murmured. “I’m afraid you were a bit too fast answering the door. I didn’t have a chance to remove the spell.” She grinned as she popped another crisp into her mouth. “She’s definitely worth a shag or two, Will. I think I’ll just be going now.” She walked over to Will, straightened his collar and smoothed his hair. “Just remember to be nice and to use a Johnny. Good sex is safe sex.”

      “Get out,” Will muttered.

      She grabbed her mackintosh from the coat tree in the hall and slipped into it. “Have fun, Wills. You can thank me later,” she said.

      Will walked back to the kitchen to fetch some rags, then cleaned up the mess Claire O’Connor had made in the entry hall. Her shoes were ruined, but he dried off her suitcases and carried them upstairs.

      Her door was slightly ajar and he knocked softly. “Miss O’Connor?”

      There was no answer. Will peeked inside and found the room empty. He placed the suitcases next to the bed, and turned back to the door. As he did, he glanced into the bathroom and his breath caught in his throat. The door was open just far enough for him to see her lying in the tub.

      He froze, unwilling to invade her privacy. But then Will realized she was sound asleep, her arms draped over the sides, her head resting on the edge of the old clawfoot tub as water still poured out of the faucet.

      Her pale hair was brushed away from her face and he found himself transfixed by the simple beauty of her profile, her upturned nose, her lush lips. He noticed a tiny sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks. His gaze drifted down, to the soft flesh of her breasts, rosy from the rising water in the tub.

      Desire warmed his blood and he fought the impulse to step closer. Innkeepers had certain standards they kept to and spying on a female guest while she was in her bath went way beyond acceptable behavior. But then, what if Sorcha was right? What if this woman was meant to be his anyway?

      She stirred slightly, then sighed, her lips parting as she sank a bit deeper into the bath. Will backed up and grabbed the suitcases, setting them closer to the door. When he reached the hallway, he drew a deep breath and leaned back against the wall. If the tub overflowed, he’d have a reason to return, but for now, he’d keep to the hall.

      The image of her naked body whirled in his head and he felt himself growing hard at the thought of touching her. Will groaned in frustration. Sure, it had been a while. And there had been the occasional fantasy about a sexy female guest, a beautiful woman with no inhibitions intent on seducing him, the inn quiet and empty, as it was now. But he had never once considered making the fantasy real.

      Perhaps she’d only stay for one night. Or perhaps her boyfriend or fiancé or husband would be joining her tomorrow. Besides, he didn’t believe Sorcha Mulroony had even an ounce of mystical power. He’d be polite and accommodating and hospitable to Claire O’Connor. Nothing more.

      THE BATH WAS LUKEWARM by the time Claire crawled out. She wrapped herself in a thick cotton towel, then walked into the bedroom. Her suitcases had been placed next to the door, and for a moment, she wondered how the innkeeper had slipped into her room without her noticing.

      An image of the man flashed in her mind and Claire recalled her reaction when she first looked into his eyes. There were obviously handsome men scattered all over the world, but somehow, the fates had blessed the Isle of Trall with a truly beautiful specimen. But why was one of Ireland’s most eligible bachelors living here?

      She smiled as she sat down on the edge of the bed, wrapping the towel more tightly around her. Back at her job, she’d stared at thousands of images—male models, everyday guys, celebrities—trying to figure out what it was that made one man merely attractive and another devastatingly sexy.

      Will Donovan belonged in the latter category. He possessed features that were in perfect balance. He wasn’t pretty, he was gorgeous. And it wasn’t the straight nose or the expressive mouth or the eyes that were an odd mix of green and gold. It was the way he wore his looks, so casually, as if he weren’t aware of the effect they had on women.

      He hadn’t shaved in two or three days and it looked as if he preferred his fingers to a comb when it came to fixing his hair. Everything about him was comfortably rumpled, as if he’d just rolled out of bed, even the lazy way he looked at her with half-hooded eyes.

      Claire СКАЧАТЬ