Page 35 of A Scot Is Not Enough
“And you want to know if this is a peccadillo of mine?”
“Now who is playing coy with words?”
An elegant nod and, “Not a preference, but I’m not above trying it.”
He shuddered again, an image teasing him: Miss MacDonald’s manicured fingernails grazing his chest and his ballocks while his hands were tied. To receive pleasure from the alluring woman while restrained from touching her? Exquisite torture.
“I sense that might be an interest of yours.” Miss MacDonald wetted her lips with the tip of her tongue. “Though perhaps not something you’ve tried.”
The invisible barrier between them was collapsing until she murmured a treacherous question.
“Why are you living in the White Hart, Mr. Sloane?”
He balked.
She reminded him, “It is my turn to ask.”
Two chests of clothes, three portmanteaus, and a cricketer’s willow wood bat by the wall near the bed gave him away. A man on the run.
“The answer is long and complex.”
“Then use your considerable skills with language to craft something simple and succinct.”
When he didn’t rush to respond, Miss MacDonald’s arms folded under her scant cleavage.
“The fireworks appear to be waning, Mr. Sloane. If you wish to ask anything else of me, you had better be quick.”
A glance in a southwesterly direction confirmed Vauxhall’s end-of-season fireworks were spangling their last.
“I preferred your previous line of questions.”
“It was fun. But my question stands and I will have my due, sir.”
She possessed a siren’s power to drive a man to madness, a woman as exacting as she was exciting. A deucedly swiveable mix. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, she wanted a painful slice of his recent history.
She studied the years-old bat. “You play cricket apparently.”
“Not much of late. I played voraciously at university. It was my one enjoyment.”
“I attend practice matches as much for the sport as the fun of watching people,” she said.
“You do?”
“Most Saturdays, yes.” Her feline smile was a trap. “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Her eyes suggested he move from the cricket bat to the chests holding all his worldly goods. Fingers digging into the velvet edge of his coat, he chose his words with care.
“I left my family home to keep the peace.”
Feminine eyebrows arched, cool and expectant.
“You want more?” he asked.
“Fair is fair, Mr. Sloane.”
Molars grinding, he wasn’t going to split the vein of intimacy and bleed family trials at her feet. His worldly goods lined up along the wall already battered him and his choices.
“I have been saving to purchase a home of my own. During the summer season certain . . . events hastened those plans.”
