McGillivray's Mistress - By Anne McAllister Page 0,35

gods, he’d insisted on staying the night!

Yikes. He was likely—at this very moment—asleep downstairs on her very lumpy sofa.

That was the most horrible scenario she could come up with—until she heard a groan and the rustle of movement from the chair beside the bed.

“What the hell was that?” a gruff masculine voice growled.

Fiona sat bolt upright again, staring in horror. “Lachlan?”

“You were expecting Lord Bloody Grantham?”

Fiona scrabbled for her T-shirt and dragged it hastily over her head. Why hadn’t her father installed central air-conditioning years ago? Why had she ever thought it was a good idea to sleep in the buff?

She hauled the sheet over her. He hadn’t seen—surely he hadn’t!

“I wasn’t expecting anyone!” she bit out, poking her head out from the T-shirt and reaching for her shorts. “You were downstairs.”

He stood, yawned, stretched. The silhouette of a hard masculine frame was mouthwatering even in the semidarkness. “I was. Then I came up to see if you were dead yet.”

“Oh, ha ha.”

He shrugged and scrubbed a hand through his hair, then rubbed it over his face. “Been smarter if I’d kept an eye on Joaquin that night. I didn’t and he damn near died. So I figured I ought to keep an eye on you.”

“You were sleeping,” Fiona reminded him.

“I dozed off. You weren’t doing anything interesting.”

And thank God for that, Fiona thought, mortified. She tried to untangle her feet from the sheet and poke them into her shorts.

“Don’t bother on my account,” Lachlan said, sounding amused. “I’ve already seen everything.”

“You had no right!”

“Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all.

“You should be!”

“Did I lay a hand on you?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Then don’t complain.” He yawned again, so widely that she heard his jaw crack. Then he scratched his chest and ambled toward the bathroom.

“You’re naked!”

“That makes two of us, then. See, I can count.” White teeth flashed. “My shorts were wet, Fiona,” he said patiently. “Sleeping in them didn’t much appeal. Besides, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

“Yes, but—” But somehow it seemed a lot more personal in her bedroom!

“Fifteen minutes,” Lachlan said, not waiting to hear her objection. “I’ll meet you in the studio. Bring coffee.”

SHE BROUGHT COFFEE.

Lachlan brought his watch—and wore it. It was the only thing he had on when he came into the studio twenty minutes later.

“I’ve got an eight o’clock meeting,” he told her gruffly as he picked up one of the mugs and took a swallow. “I’m not missing this one.”

“Of course not,” Fiona said quickly. She was scurrying around businesslike and efficient, setting out her tools and uncovering the sculpture. “You’re the one who said fifteen minutes,” she reminded him. “I could have been ready in five.”

Yeah, well, he couldn’t have been. It had taken him time to get things under control. He was used to the early-morning behavior of his body. Awakening with an erection was no big deal. Happened all the time. Had nothing to do with lust. Ordinarily.

But then, ordinarily, he did not spend the night watching Fiona Dunbar sleep naked.

This morning lust had been a complicating issue.

It had taken an icy shower to resolve the problem. But even now it didn’t feel settled. He felt twitchy, wired, edgy—walking the fine line of control.

Fiona was all business, just as she’d been yesterday. She focused on the sculpture, studying it from this angle and that, running her fingers over it, murmuring to herself. Then she nodded and scooped up some clay, slapped it on to the buttocks of her sculpture and set to work.

Lachlan stared off into space, did a few multiplication tables, tried to maintain his composure. But his mind kept drifting back to the woman across the room.

If she had been flustered by discovering he’d seen her naked, she’d got over it quick.

A whole lot quicker than he was getting over it, that was for damn sure.

He’d been absolutely serious when he’d told her he intended to check on her. Joaquin’s injury had been too recent. It had been too nearly fatal. Of course such a thing wasn’t likely to happen again. But blunt trauma was blunt trauma. And how likely had it been to happen in the first place?

So he’d stayed on the sofa, had got acquainted with each and every lump. And finally, after an hour, he’d got up and, wrapping the blanket around him, had quietly climbed the stairs and eased open the door to her room. He hadn’t gone to spy on her. He’d simply wanted to check to be sure she was still