McGillivray's Mistress - By Anne McAllister Page 0,65

it?”

“Maybe,” a voice said. “I’ll try.”

Fiona whipped her head around, flinging water everywhere.

Lachlan was standing in the door.

“You’ve cut your hair.” He was staring at her, looking a bit dazed himself.

Fiona stared right back, stunned. She must be dreaming. Water dripped into her eyes. She shook her head.

Lachlan? Here?

Then all of a sudden she realized why he must be here, and her stomach dropped. Oh God.

“Did Molly tell you what she did?” she said frantically, grabbing for a towel, scrubbing at her wet hair. “I didn’t ask her to, I swear it! I—”

“Molly? What did Molly do?” Lachlan looked perplexed.

“Took the photos! The photos of the sculpture! Of you! I just found out about them today. Honest to God, Lachlan, I didn’t break my word. I didn’t take them. I didn’t send them in!”

“I did.”

Her jaw dropped. She stared at him. “You sent them?” Her knees threatened to buckle. She clutched the back of one of the kitchen chairs for support. “But…but why?”

He shrugged. “You wanted to go to school. You never got to.”

Her mind reeled. “Yes, but—”

“I owed you,” Lachlan said quietly. He swallowed, shut his eyes for just a moment, then opened them and met her astonished gaze. “For the net,” he told her. “For doing it for the wrong reasons.”

“It’s not—”

“I love you.”

Fiona couldn’t say anything to that. She could only stare.

Every instinct she had told her not to believe it, that this was Lachlan who couldn’t be trusted.

But a Lachlan who couldn’t be trusted would never have taken those photos. He would certainly never have sent them to the school. That Lachlan would never have offered himself up for her benefit. That Lachlan had been out for himself—not her.

And this Lachlan?

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

“I love you,” he said again. His voice was still quiet, but she heard pain in it. “I don’t know if you believe it or not,” he told her. “I hope you do. I hope you will. I’ll do what I can to prove it to you.”

“I—” she managed that much.

But he went on hurriedly, “I don’t expect you to come back to Pelican Cay. I speak a little Italian. I thought I might hang around a little. Maybe teach some soccer here. Get a job at a school? While you’re in school…if you’re interested…I know it’s the first chance you’ve had to spread your wings, to try something new, to…”

“I love you, too.”

She needed to say that now, right off the bat, because if she didn’t she might not be able to before she started crying. Her throat ached and tightened. Her eyes swam.

She believed. She trusted.

“Fiona—” He started to interrupt her, but this time she wouldn’t let him. She closed the space between them and put her fingers against his lips.

“I don’t want any of those things,” she told him, “as much as I want you.”

He buried his face in her sopping hair and wrapped his arms around her. A shudder ran through him. And Fiona, who knew all about feeling after two hours with Signora Dirienzo today, reveled in the feel of the hard strong body pressed against hers. She relished the whiskery roughness of his unshaven cheek on her own. She delighted in the press of his lips, the touch of his tongue.

Her own lips parted to welcome him. Her arms went around him, locking against the taut muscles of his back.

She felt it all. She felt absolutely wonderful!

The nice thing about living in a one-room flat was that it was only steps to the bed. They got there in half a dozen steps, tugging zips, fumbling with buttons, shedding clothes all the way, falling on to the mattress, tangled together.

And then there was nothing between them but the rush to completion, they stopped and pulled back, not touching. Just looking.

Their gazes met.

Then their hands touched.

Then slowly they began to move. Stroking, learning. Feeling.

Oh God, yes.

Signora Dirienzo—Adela—was right.

Fiona had passion. Passion for this man who had done the unthinkable for her. “I’m sorry I doubted you,” she whispered. “I didn’t know! I didn’t trust.”

“I didn’t give you much reason to.” Lachlan’s words were a breath against her lips. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I wanted to help you. Really. It was manipulative, I admit it. But I wanted you to realize what I already knew—that we belonged together.”

“I did know it,” she told him, smiling. “I’ve known that since I was nine years old.”

“You never!”

“Did so!”

“Did not!”

“Did so!”

So much for gentle touching and