Kiss of the Highlander
Page 32

How embarrassing! Gwen’s sanity returned in degrees. The man kisses me and I just hop right on him like he’s the hottest new ride at Disneyland. Have I lost my mind? She dug her fingernails into his shoulders and bit his tongue.
“Ouch. I doona think that was necessary,” he whispered, passion blazing in his eyes, coupled with irritation that someone had dared interrupt them. He was clearly not a man who liked to stop anything he’d begun. He looked downright dangerously aroused.
“Ma’am?” Miriam said in a pinched tone.
Gwen was mortified to realize she was making soft panting noises. She took a deep breath, forced herself to unwrap her legs, and slid down his body. His hands tightened on her hips, until she threatened his shoulders with her nails again. Reluctantly, he lowered her to the floor, then promptly tried to kiss her again. “Stop it,” she whispered furiously.
After drawing another shaky breath she called to Miriam, “Yeah. Um. Clothes, right. How about…uh, a pair of those khakis. The loose-fit brand in a thirty-two—wait a minute.” She shook her head, trying to clear it. To accommodate his muscular thighs, they would have to be loose on his waist. “Bring a thirty-four, thirty-six-, and thirty-eight-inch waist,” she corrected. “And a belt.” She closed her eyes and drew several more deep breaths. Her heart was thundering like a battering ram against the wall of her chest.
“Ma’am?” Miriam cooed so sweetly that only another woman would have heard the bitchiness.
“Yes?”
“I realize Americans are…different…and perhaps your feet were no longer on the floor because you were perched on the chair admirin’ the state-of-the-art video-cams we recently installed, but there are children in the store, and in Scotland we take the upbringin’ of them seriously. These dressing rooms are not coed.”
Her face flamed. “Get off me, you oaf,” she hissed, pushing at his chest. He gave her a look that promised they would continue where they’d left off—and soon—before stepping back.
“As you wish. Wife,” he purred, then opened the door with a flourish and a courtly bow.
Gwen blushed. So much for hoping he hadn’t heard her snap at Miriam earlier. She stepped out, and there stood the infernal Miriam, staring past her at Drustan MacKeltar clad in tight unzipped jeans and no shirt. “Oh, my.” Miriam wet her lips. “I’ll just get those khakis.”
But Miriam didn’t move an inch, and Gwen wanted to kick her. Better yet, smack her eyeballs back into her head.
“You were going to get those pants,” Gwen reminded stiffly.
“Oh, yes,” Miriam said, flustered. “If the khakis don’t cover…er, fit…perhaps he could try running pants. They’re quite…roomy.” She flashed a brilliant smile at Drustan, her gaze darting from the barely covered bulge at his groin to his ringless hand.
“Fine. Bring some of those too.” Gwen glared at Drustan, then pulled the door tightly shut. She leaned back against it and sighed, trying to collect herself.
“I want purple trews, lass,” Drustan called over the door.
“No,” she said irritably.
“And a purple shirt.”
Absolutely not, she thought. His black hair and dark skin would look incredible offset by such a vibrant color. Maybe black would make him look drab. One could always hope. When, after a few moments and unintelligible curses later, she heard his jeans hit the floor, she imagined him nude and wondered if someone might have slipped her an aphrodisiac in the past twenty-four hours.
Find a man you want to talk with into the wee hours, a man you can argue with when necessary, and a man who makes you sizzle when he touches you, Beatrice had said. Well, the sizzle was there, and they certainly could argue….
She shook her head, refusing to entertain the notion that a madman might be her potential soul mate.
Might he have a point about his feet? Did things truly grow larger if unconfined? It certainly hadn’t felt like a sock. More like that can of tennis balls on the shelf behind the cash register. She glanced down at her breasts. Should she stop wearing a bra and start wearing snugger panties?
How was she going to look at him now?
The running pants were tolerable, Drustan decided, relieved. The blue trews had clearly been a torture device and would have strangled a man’s seed. Mayhap men were fashioned differently in her time. He hadn’t seen one other bulge out there on the street; mayhap they all had wee carrots in their trews. Mayhap there were hundreds of unsatisfied women in this century. Although at the moment, only one woman’s satisfaction was of paramount interest to him, and he was rapidly becoming obsessed with her.