Page 5 of Taming Irish

“What?” I say a little too harshly, shifting uncomfortably under his intensegaze.

He doesn’t seem to notice. Or, if he does, he doesn’t seem to care. “Are ye onvacation?”

“No.”

“Work?”

I sigh and shake myhead.

“Ah,” he says in a knowing tone, as if it answers all of his questions. His eyes twinkle with humor when he continues. “Ye’re looking for a man, then. A pretty thing like ye won’t have anytrouble-”

“No.” Despite the playfulness of his tone, I can’t help the defensiveness that makes me bite out a harsh, “Not everything is aboutsex.”

A few heads turn in mydirection.

Shit.

Shane raises an eyebrow at me, then says low and gravelly, “I’d argue with ye on that, Makena.” Again, when he says my name, heat sizzles straight to mycore.

Yeah, definitelytrouble.

I glance back at my magazine, and flip through the pages, but I can’t concentrate on anything but the giant of a man that’s currently flooding my personal space with an excess of testosterone andpheromones.

Placing his forearm on my arm rest, he leans closer, but doesn’t say anything, just keeps watching me with the same cocky grin that I have no doubt has melted more panties than any man has a rightto.

I slam my magazine down. “If you’re wanting someone to…flirtwith, I’m pretty sure our friendly stewardess will be more than willing tooblige.”

He chuckles like he finds my frustration amusing. “Are yejealous?”

“God, no. I don’t even knowyou.”

“But ye’d liketo.”

“No.”

“Why not?” Humor flickers in his eyes. He’s enjoying this way toomuch.

“You’re not mytype.”

“And whatisyer type, Makena?” He doesn’t even have to touch me and I can still feel him on my skin, his essence soaking into me, infiltrating my body like he already ownsit.

“Do you do this a lot?” I ask, changing the subject so that I’m on the defense, rather than the one be bulldozed. Which is exactly what he’s doing. Tearing down my walls with a finesse that makes me barely realize they’recrumbling.

He’s good. I’ll give himthat.

“What?” There’s still amusement in hisvoice.

“This…” I motion between us. “This thing you’redoing.”

“Ye mean flirting?” One eyebrow lifts. “Does it bother ye? To know that someone thinks ye’re beautiful?” He leans in and continues to grin at me like he has me all figured out. “To bedesired?”

Holy hell. Never in my twenty-nine years has anyone ever talked to me likethat.

I swallow past the hard lump in my throat. “I…”

More turbulence rocks the plane, and once again the cabin pressure drops, and I’m not the only one that lets out a terrified little cry. Other passengers around us gasp and curse as a couple of the overhead compartments open, and purses and bags flyout.

A large hand grasps mine, his fingers threading between my own as we continue to be bumped and jarred in ourseats.

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