Особое чувство собственного ирландства. Пат Инголдзби

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      His nostrils flared as he drank in the flowery spices that scented her skin. “Uh, I thought you were going to take me out to dinner.”

      “I was. But I decided it would be nicer not to go to some busy restaurant where people would be staring. Even though it’s been eleven years, I doubt that people have forgotten that we were an item. There’ll be gossip everywhere that the old flames between us have burst to life again. That might hurt you politically and I wouldn’t want that to happen.”

      Quito cursed. “What goes on between you and me is nobody’s business but ours.”

      She shrugged. “All right, if that’s the way you feel. But I still want to have the picnic,” she said cheerfully. “I thought we might drive up to the mountains and walk to the meadow. You remember the one with the willow trees, where we caught the trout?”

      Remember? How could he forget? It was the spot where they’d made love for the very first time. Was she trying to kill him with memories or was she simply wanting to relive the past?

      Either way, he should give her a flat-out no. He didn’t want those old flames between them fanned for any reason. She’d already burned him badly. Much more from her and he’d be nothing more than a useless pile of ashes.

      “I remember.” Her blue eyes caught his and he felt his heart jump into a dangerous rhythm. “What time do you want for me to meet you?”

      Smiling with pleasure, she grabbed both his hands and squeezed. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll pick you up here. What time?”

      He felt wicked and indecent and stupid. But for the first time in years, he felt alive.

      “Six.”

      She leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss upon his cheek. “I’ll be here.”