McGillivray's Mistress - By Anne McAllister Page 0,31
irritated when he’d walked her home… And why he’d kissed her.
Was he embarrassed by her flirting with David?
It hadn’t meant anything! A man like David Grantham—an earl, for heaven’s sake!—was hardly going to be interested in a woman like her. Even so, it had been fun. Exhilarating. And entirely without the knife-edge of danger that flirting with Lachlan would have inspired.
Next time you want to flirt with someone, I’m available.
She didn’t dare flirt with Lachlan, she thought, pressing her fingers once more against her mouth. Because with Lachlan it would mean something.
Even now she could taste his kiss, could feel the press of his lips against hers, could—
Stop it! She had to stop it!
She flipped over and pounded the pillow. It was nearly midnight. He would be here at five-thirty. She would have to look at his naked body again. She would have to begin to shape the terra-cotta, define the muscles, the hard planes and sharp angles she’d roughed in today. More things she didn’t need to think about!
And yet she couldn’t stop. It was so much more compelling than her cutout sculptures, more exciting than The King of the Beach.
Oh dear God. She sat up like a jack-in-the-box. The King of the Beach!
That was the work she had to do!
She scrambled out of bed and began pulling on her shorts and shirt. They’d made a deal, she and Lachlan. He’d pose nude and she’d remove her sculpture from in front of the Moonstone. Of course he’d said she didn’t have to.
But they’d agreed. He’d done his part. He was going to do it again in a few short hours. And she needed to do hers. She wouldn’t take it down entirely. She’d move it.
It was only fair. She had to keep her part of the bargain.
It was a matter of honor.
WHY THE HELL HAD HE KISSED HER?
Lachlan prowled his room at the Moonstone, practically caroming off the walls, jamming his hands into his pockets, kicking at the rug underfoot, trying to find a logical answer to a totally illogical behavior.
And the answer was: because, damn it, he couldn’t not kiss her!
He’d been dying to kiss her all day long—ever since he’d watched her in her studio that morning. He’d felt the same desire when he’d gone to the bakery in the afternoon to invite her to dinner.
And then, at dinner, watching her bat her eyelashes and flirt with David Bloody Grantham—letting Grantham kiss her!—it had been all Lachlan could do to keep his hands to himself.
He was a goalkeeper, damn it! He defended what was his—and Fiona Dunbar was his!
His!
He’d known her for years—ever since she was a pesky, bony, carrot-topped kid! And he was damned if he was going to watch her get her head turned by some jumped-up aristocrat!
She might think it was no big deal to flirt with a toff like David Grantham. But Lachlan knew better. Grantham would take advantage. She’d fall for him like a ton of bricks. Then he’d go back to England and she’d have a broken heart!
There was no way Lachlan was going to let that happen.
No way at all.
He paced and paced some more. Cracked his knuckles. Raked his fingers through his hair. Finally the room wouldn’t hold him any longer. He’d drive the couple crazy who were staying in the room below his.
He needed an outlet for his frustration. Something physical. And since punching Grantham’s lights out wasn’t a possibility (bad for business) he decided to take his frustration down to the beach.
He needed to do something hard, long and arduous. He didn’t care as long as it took the edge off his irritation. What would really take the edge off, he knew, would be to go back to Fiona’s and do more than kiss her!
But he couldn’t. She wasn’t ready for that.
Not yet.
But he’d felt her response tonight. He probably—no, definitely—could have had his way with her.
But he was damned if he’d be second best to Grantham. When Lachlan McGillivray took Fiona Dunbar to bed it would be because she wanted him—and only him.
The moon was up when he hit the beach, digging his toes into the still-warm sand. He considered running. But his body was hot and still hungry, so he crossed the soft sand into the water and dove beneath a wave. He struck out swimming along the beach just beyond the line of the surf. The temperature was warm even at nearly midnight in late June. But the water, though barely less than tepid,