McGillivray's Mistress Page 9

Fool, fool, fool! she called herself. But she wanted it—wanted him!

  And then, all at once, Lachlan pulled back. His arms which had wrapped her let her go, and he stood breathing harshly, eyes glinting as he stared down into her eyes.

  “Next time you want to flirt with someone, I’m available.”

  And then he spun on his heel, stalked down the steps and out the front gate without looking back.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IT DIDN’T MAKE SENSE.

  Fiona lay in her narrow bed, feeling Lachlan’s kiss against her mouth, reliving it over and over, and wondering what on earth that was all about!

  Next time you want to flirt with someone, I’m available.

  He hadn’t been jealous of David surely?

  Of course not!

  Lachlan McGillivray would never be jealous of anyone. Not even an earl. He’d have no reason. He could have any woman he wanted.

  He could, she thought grimly, have had her!

  He was the one who’d broken off the kiss.

  So why—?

  Was he simply being possessive? Pelican Cay was his island. Therefore, as an islander, Fiona belonged to him. Probably, she thought.

  Jerk.

  Oh yes. But God, what a kisser he was!

  The first time she’d been kissed by Lachlan McGillivray, the night he’d taken her on to his boat, it had very nearly blown her mind.

  Fiona had kissed men before—a few. Well, admittedly, very few. And she’d been kissed by them. So she wasn’t a complete novice.

  But she’d never had a kiss like that one. Had never even imagined such kisses existed. It had promised things that Fiona could only guess at.

  But as much as she’d wanted it—and more—from Lachlan McGillivray for years and years, the one thing she knew it didn’t promise was forever. What Lachlan wanted—a night of sex—and what she wanted—a lasting love—weren’t close to the same thing.

  So to save them both making a huge mistake, she’d tipped them into the water.

  Afterward she’d managed to convince herself that the effect of his kiss had been a fluke. The reason it had had such an effect was because she’d wanted it for so long—that was all.

  But it wasn’t all.

  Dear God, no, it wasn’t—because it had happened again tonight.

  She’d nearly ignited from the fire his kiss had fanned between them. Her common sense and instinct for self-preservation had flat-out deserted her. God knew where it would have ended if Lachlan hadn’t pulled back.

  Well, actually Fiona was afraid she knew, too.

  And how mortifying was that.

  Especially since, up until the kiss, she thought she’d handled the evening very well. Her nerves had calmed under Julie’s enthusiastic support. And her sister-in-law’s dress had given her the confidence that she at least looked as if she belonged there.

  The dinner had gone well. She’d chatted easily with David—thanks more to his charm than her social skills, no doubt. But still, thinking back over the evening, she felt good about it.

  Everything had been perfect—until David had kissed her.

  What? No. That wasn’t right. David hadn’t kissed her.

  But he had, she remembered. They’d been discussing the possibility of her giving talks to his tour groups, and she’d hesitated, then agreed to at least consider it. And he’d been delighted and he’d kissed her.

  A peck on the cheek, nothing more. Hardly even memorable. And the next second Lachlan was on his feet, asking for the check, and practically herding them out the door as he did so.

  Surely one hadn’t caused the other!

  No, of course it hadn’t. He’d simply looked at his watch, realized it was time for Skip and Nadine to be heading off for the Grouper. It made perfect sense.

  Everything made sense.

  Except why he’d been so 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, felt good on his burning skin.

  He swam steadily, determinedly, making his body work, taking the edge off the fire that burned within. He swam to the point, then turned and plowed his way back again. Even so he’d barely taken the edge off by the time he reached the beach in front of the Moonstone and slogged ashore.

  He stood dripping, heart pounding, as the incoming tide lapped his feet and he tipped his head back and drew in great lungfuls of air. Then, straightening again, he looked up toward the inn. There were a few lights still on behind curtained or shuttered windows. Silhouetted in front of them was Fiona’s The King of the Beach.

  What the hell?

  Someone was climbing up Fiona’s sculpture!

  Indignant, annoyed, furious all over again—this time on her behalf—Lachlan sprinted up the beach toward the culprit.

  “Hey!” he shouted. “What do you think you’re— Oh, hell. Watch it!” he choked out as, at the sound of his furious voice, the figure jerked up, flailed for balance, then fell backward on to the sand.

  Lachlan raced up to the still figure. “Are you—? Fiona?” He was somewhere between furious and indignant at her now.

  The only sound that came in reply was a wheeze. Then she moved and gasped, “You…scared the…life…out of me!”

  He crouched next to her, dripping water on her, demanding, “What the hell were you doing up there? Stay still,” he commanded, patting her, trying to assess her injuries.

  She gasped again and batted his hands away. “Stop that!”

  But he didn’t. He ran his hands over her ribs, her arms, her legs, dodging her slaps. “Where does it hurt?”

  “It doesn’t.” She gave a little shake, then shoved her hair back from her face. “Well, it does actually—all over. But it was the fright more than anything else. For God’s sake, Lachlan! What were you trying to do?” She struggled to sit up and slapped at him some more.

  Moving out of range, Lachlan sat back on his heels. “It’s dark. I didn’t know it was you, did I? I thought someone was wrecking your sculpture.”

  “As if you’d care. You threatened to do it yourself.” She’d managed to shove herself up so she leaned on her elbows.

  “Take it easy,” he insisted. “You might be bleeding internally.”

  “I’m not bleeding internally.” She started to scramble to her feet.

  So he got up with her, helping her, though she resisted, and managing to keep a hand on her once she got up which was how he could feel her trembling. “Why are you shaking?”

  “Because you scared me!” She tried to brush him off. “I’m all right. Let go!”

  He needed to keep a hand on her, though he couldn’t have said why. He shook his head. “What the hell were you doing? It’s after midnight!”

  “I know what time it is. I didn’t have time to get to it earlier.”

  “Get to what? Adding more? Trying to impress Lord Bloody Grantham?” He couldn’t quite stop the sneer in his voice.

  “I wasn’t adding anything. I was taking it down,” she said flatly. “As promised.”

  “I told you to leave it up. Grantham likes it.”

  “And you don’t.”

  “Since when does what I like have anything to do with what you do? Other than encouraging you to do the opposite.”

  Her gaze flickered away. “That’s not true. Anyway, we made a deal.”

  “And Grantham gave you a reprieve.”

  “We made our deal first. I’ll move it.”

  He looked at her narrowly. “You must really want me naked.”

  It was too dark to see if she was blushing, but she didn’t look him in the eye. “I want to finish my sculpture,” she said tightly. “And I keep my word. I figured I’d take it down tonight and carry it over to the cricket grounds. I can put it up there.”

  “It would take you hours!”

  Her jaw set. “I promised.”

  Stubborn woman. Lachlan studied her profile. “We’ll see,” he said at last. “We’ll worry about whether or not you should take it down or not tomorrow.” He took her hand and started to draw her up the beach toward the Moonstone, but she dug in her heels.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Come up and let’s get a look at you. You could be hurt.”

  “I’m not hurt.” She twisted out of his grasp and headed toward the path that led to town.

  Lachlan went after her, started to take her arm, then decided he wouldn’t gain anything by getting into a wrestling match with her. So he walked alongside her instead.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded when he followed her right past the inn and on to the gravel road.

  “Seeing you home.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “You’re the one who’s being ridiculous if you think I’m going to let you go by yourself when you’ve had a fall like that.”

  It wasn’t just the possibility of her being hurt. There was the idiocy of her running around the island in the middle of the night. Anything could happen. He opened his mouth to say so, then closed it again. If he knew anything about Fiona Dunbar, it was that she would think she didn’t need protecting.

  Maybe she didn’t.

  But how the hell would he know unless he went with her?

  “Go home,” she said, eyes straight ahead, never slackening her pace. She turned off the road and on to the path that led through the mangroves. It was less gravel and more rock, ungraded, uneven and unlit.

  Though well traveled during the day, it was not the way the Moonstone’s guests came back from the village at night. They always took the road, which was only one lane but which had the occasional light and was far easier. It was also the long way around.

  A sensible person would have taken it, Lachlan thought. So would a barefoot person—which he was. “The road—” he began.

  “Is for tourists,” Fiona said. “I know where I’m going.”

  She moved unerringly along the narrow path that wound through the mangroves over the dune and down the other side, winding its way toward the top of the village where it would meet the road again. Lachlan followed her. But he was the one who gritted his teeth as the rocks cut his feet. He was the one who tripped over a root and stumbled trying to keep up.

  “Go back before you hurt yourself,” she said, not turning.

  “No.”

  An exasperated breath hissed between her teeth. “You’re going to get cut to bits and I’m going to have to look after you!”

  “Then you should have gone on the road.”

  She turned and glared at him.

  He shrugged equably. “Your choice.”

  Apparently she got the point because she slowed her pace a little. She also said, “Watch out for those rocks,” when there was a particularly rough bit and, “Mind the glass,” where someone had broken a bottle.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  She grunted.

  As they came into town he could hear the band at the Grouper still going strong. There were a few people on the street, though none he knew, and Fiona didn’t speak to anyone. They walked silently down the hill, along the quay and stopped when they reached Fiona’s front gate.

  “I suppose you expect me to invite you in,” she said gruffly. “Put some antiseptic on those cuts.”

  He shrugged and told her the truth. “I’m coming in whether you invite me or not.”

  She opened her mouth, then gave him a sharp look, shrugged and turned to open the gate. “Suit yourself.”

  “See,” he said when they got inside and he could examine her more closely. “You’re all scraped up.” She had a cut on her arm and a long abrasion on the outside of her right leg where she must
have scraped herself on one of the driftwood spars as she fell.

  Fiona looked at them dispassionately. “No big deal,” she said. “You probably hurt your feet more.”

  “I’ll live.”

  She looked at his bloody feet and shook her head. “You can wash them in the bathroom and put some antiseptic on. Coral cuts can get infected easily. There’s some Band-Aids there, too. Come on.” She led the way upstairs and while he washed his feet, she cleaned her arm and her leg.

  “See,” she said when they were done and back downstairs again. “It was totally silly for you to come with me. I’m fine. You’re worse. You should call Maurice or one of the other taxis to drive you home.”

  “I’m not going home.”

  She stared at him. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not going home,” he said. “I’m staying here.”

  “The hell you are! I don’t recall inviting you to do anything of the sort.”

  “Perhaps because you’re concussed,” he said mildly.

  “I am not concussed! I’m perfectly fine. I have a cut on my arm and a scraped leg. That’s all.”

  “You could have internal injuries. You fell.”

  “I knocked the wind out of myself.”

  “That’s what Joaquin thought,” he said. “A friend of mine,” he explained. “He fell off a motorcycle.”

  “Oh, well, a motorcycle. What do you expect?”

  “He wasn’t going fast, just slid the bike in some mud. He didn’t think he was hurt, either,” Lachlan went on. “Got up, got back on the bike, went home. And nearly died from a burst spleen.”

  “Lachlan, I don’t have a burst spleen.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Well, I’m not going to the doctor to find out.”

  “You could.”

  “Oh, yes. Sure.” Fiona glanced at her watch. “At twenty past one in the morning? He’d appreciate that.”

  “It’s his job. My dad would have been glad to see you.”

  “Your dad was a saint. Gerry—Doc Rasmussen—is just a doctor. A good one, but still—I’m not going to bother him. I’ll be fine, Lachlan. Go home.”

  He shook his head. “No. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  “What?”