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Yes, Ewan thought, dazed and ablaze. Yes, it was a good night.
And if he was reading her correctly—and he was relatively certain that he was—he’d make damned sure tomorrow night ended even better.
5
OH, SWEET merciful hell, Gemma thought as she wobbled shakily up the stairs to her room. That kiss…
Wow. Just wow.
She let herself into her room, then stripped down and moved immediately to the shower. Actually, knowing that she desperately needed to bathe and remove the hair from her thorny legs was the only thing that had prevented her from taking that kiss a whole helluva lot further. She was all in favor of dirty sex, but preferred to be clean while she was doing it. She adjusted the tap. Cave people must have had a keener sex drive to compensate for the odor, Gemma thought absently, otherwise she didn’t see how the human race would have survived. She lathered up with her scented soap and sighed. She would have been a terrible cave woman.
But that didn’t keep her from having Neanderthal fantasies about Ewan MacKinnon. Actually, the idea of dragging him into her bedroom held an infinite amount of appeal. She’d light a candle—her hat-tip to fire—and have her wicked way with him. Repeatedly.
And she knew he’d let her.
That was probably as intoxicating as the idea itself.
He wanted her and, despite his excuse about not enjoying his own company as much as he thought he would, she knew that he was every bit as enthralled with her as she was with him. And given the state of her hormones—the ones he’d kept at fever pitch for the past several days—she had every intention of letting this play out. There was more at work here than mere physical attraction—something almost destined, for lack of a better description. She’d felt it since the first instant she’d clapped eyes on him and the feeling had only intensified the longer she was in his presence—or even near his presence, for that matter.
Yes, she was supposed to be here to make some decisions about her life—what to do with it, specifically—and, other than knowing that she wanted to do something worthwhile, something that would make a difference, she was no closer to that goal than she’d been when she first started off in Milngavie. Regardless, she knew one thing she wanted to do and at the moment, that was him.
She could think of a thousand different reasons why she shouldn’t do this—she barely knew him, for starters—but Gemma also knew she’d ignore them all. Her sex drive was strangling any reasoning or good sense and, though she knew it was fanciful thinking, there was a part of her that believed that this was supposed to happen. That she was supposed to be here, to meet him, specifically. That he was part of her path. Or maybe she was part of his.
Either way, there was something magical—fated even—in the way things had happened and, continual hum of sexual tension aside, she felt oddly relaxed when she was with him. As though a hidden part of her which was always wound tight…suddenly gave way. It was as frightening as it was wonderful.
And she could quite easily become addicted to the sensation.
Or more accurately, addicted to him.
How intriguing that they were both seeking the same sort of answer.
“YOU’D BETTER GIVE me a time limit or you’ll never get me out of here,” Gemma warned him. Here being The Green Welly in Tyndrum, a fantastic shop which featured everything from its own whiskey store to outdoor wear and all items in between. Gemma had already spied the heather jewelry and cashmere scarves. Her eyes had simultaneously glazed over and lit up.
Ewan consulted his watch. Despite the Ben More section, it had only taken them a couple of hours to reach Tyndrum, but if they were going to make Kingshouse by dark, then they really couldn’t afford to linger here long.
“Twenty minutes,” Ewan told her, which seemed completely fair to him.
They were there for an hour, during which she bought heather earrings, a cashmere scarf, a floppy hat, whiskey for her father, scone mix and clotted cream and jam for her mother and countless other items for various members of her family back in the States. Thankfully, rather than lug it around for the rest of the trip, she had it all conveniently shipped directly to her door.
Since she’d spent what should have been their time allotted for lunch in the store, they’d bought take-away sandwiches, crisps and Mars Bar Krispies, and picnicked in a shady little glen next to the River Orchy. The water rushed over the ancient stones, lending its own music. Various birds flitted among the branches above their heads and the scent of thistle and heather perfumed the dewy air.
He had no complaints.
The food was excellent and the company… The company kicked ass.
He’d learned a lot about his little damsel in distress this morning. She greeted the day with more enthusiasm than he was accustomed to, for starters. Ewan preferred to slide gently into the day. Gemma grabbed it by the balls and tugged it along in her wake. She liked extra sugar in her tea, was delighted over Nutella—something she’d never tried before—and occasionally hummed when she walked.
Still, there was so much more he wanted to know about her and he’d just thought of a clever way to make that happen. It was a camp game, but it would have the same effect.
“I’ve got an idea,” he said.
She stopped chewing and her guarded gaze found his. A half-smile turned her lips. “Why does that instill my heart with a bit of panic?”
He laughed, struck anew at how easy it was to be with her, how right the world felt when they were breathing the same air. “I don’t know, but it’s completely unwarranted, I can assure you.”
She relaxed once more. “Then what’s this idea of yours?”
“I want you to show me five things in that backpack.”
She blinked. “What?”
“You heard me. Five things from your backpack. It’s an icebreaker of sorts. You can tell a lot about a person by what they carry with them on a journey such as this.”
Her gaze turned speculative. “And you’re going to do the same? Show me five things in yours?”
“Of course.”
She nodded succinctly. “Okay, I’m game. Do I take them out or do you? Draw at random or select?”
“We’ll do yours first, and I draw at random.”
Gemma reached over and grabbed her bag, then opened the larger compartment. “You’re probably going to pull out a pair of my underwear,” she said, blushing slightly.
He hoped that he’d actually have her out of her underwear this evening. “Possibly.” He reached in and withdrew the first thing that his fingers touched, a dog-eared tome of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice.
Ewan quirked a brow.
She dimpled. “I can read it over and over again and never tire of it.”
Fair enough. He could do the same thing with his Louis L’Amour collection, but he kept that little tidbit to himself. Her choice was a literary classic—his was pure fun.
He reached in again and this time found a digital camera. “May I?” he asked.
She nodded and he powered on the device and flipped through her pictures. There were various snaps of her in front of Scottish landmarks, of those Highland cows she found so fascinating, blooming thistle, lots of sheep and the occasional ruin, but beyond that he found a few she’d taken somewhere else, presumably at home. “Who’s this?”
She leaned forward, bringing her scent with her. Something light and flowery, like bottled sunshine and roses. Mouthwatering. Heat slithered through his loins. “Ah, that’s my sister, Eloise.”
“Younger?”
“Yes, by a couple of years. She’s twenty-four.”
So she was twenty-six then. He’d guessed as much. “And this?” he asked, when an image of an enormous Persian cat appeared on the tiny screen.
“That’s my cat, Fitzwilliam. Fitz for short.”
He turned to her and grinned. “That attached to Mr. Darcy, are you?”
She chewed the inside of her cheek. “He’s one of my favorite Austen heroes, although I have to say that Mr. Knightley is a contender as well.”
He sighed dramatically and scratched his chest. “How are real men supposed to compete?”
She chuckled. “They could begin by emulating,” she said.
“Ah,” he breathed knowingly. “Thanks for the tip.”
“Do you want to read the book?” she asked, her eyes twinkling with humor. “Perhaps brush up on your hero tactics?”
“I thought I did an admirable job being a hero yesterday.”
She chuckled again. “Had I needed rescuing it would have been heroic indeed. Since I didn’t, it was merely nice.”
“Nice?” he repeated. “That was all?”
“Nice is excellent,” she said.
“But still not heroic?”
She gave her head a lamentable shake and bit her lip. “Sorry, no.”
His gaze tangled with hers. “Then I’ll just have to try harder.”
“That’s the spirit,” she said, giving a little rah-rah gesture.
Laughing softly, he pilfered through her bag and extracted the last three items. A little sewing kit, a package of prawn-flavored crisps and a folded letter.
The letter instantly piqued his curiosity, but opening it felt a little too invasive. Gemma frowned when she saw it. “Let me have that, please,” she said.
“You don’t recognize it?”
“I recognize the handwriting on the outside, but don’t know how it got there.”
He dutifully handed it over and she quickly scanned its contents, blushing a deep red when she was finished.
“Something wrong?” he asked, concerned.
“No,” she told him, her voice curiously strangled. “It’s a note from Jeffrey. He must have snuck it into my bag before he left yesterday. I don’t know how I missed it last night,” she remarked, quickly folding it back up and stowing it in her pocket.
“I hope that he apologized at least,” Ewan said, wondering very much what had put that particular shade of red in her cheeks.
“He did.”
“Did he offer any excuse?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
When she didn’t elaborate, he held up the crisps. “You like these?” he asked skeptically.
She grimaced. “Of course not. They sound terrible. They’re proof. No one would have believed me if I’d just told them about them.”
He smiled. “So you bought them?”
“Yes. As proof. I don’t have a dictionary in that bag, otherwise I would give it to you.”
“Oh, I understand the word,” he said, laughing. “I’m just having a hard time comprehending the reason behind it.” He sighed and shook his head, felt something in his chest lighten and ripple like a single pebble against a pond’s surface. “You’re an interesting woman, Gemma Wentworth.”
“Thank you. I think.”
He smiled at her, reached forward and loosened a strand of hair that had gotten stuck to her lower lip. “It’s a compliment. Much better to be interesting than boring and predictable.”
She smiled. “No one has ever accused me of being either of those things.”
And he imagined no one ever would. She was a breath of fresh air, smart and pretty, clever and irreverent and sexy as hell. He knew that she couldn’t be perfect—perfect people didn’t exist and if they did he suspected they’d be boring—but she was about as perfect for him as a girl could get. Ewan stilled, jolted.
Now there was a frightening thought if there ever was one.
6
“I know you’re going to want to kill me, Gemma, but you’ll thank me for leaving later. I’m going to find my Scottish hottie and am confident that yours will make his move when I leave. Do everything I would do and more if you have the opportunity. See you at the airport. Always yours, Jeffrey.”
SHE WAS SO ETERNALLY thankful that Ewan hadn’t insisted on reading the letter, Gemma thought. Though Jeffrey had been right, it still would have been a bit embarrassing. And considering that she was going to do just what her friend had urged, she hoped he was equally successful as well.
“I don’t know why you think it’s weird that I’m taking these strange chips home,” she said, unzipping his backpack now that it was her turn. “I guarantee that if you ever came to the South and had the opportunity to buy a package of white dirt, you’d do it.”
Looking strangely distracted, Ewan blinked. “White dirt?”
“It’s clay,” she clarified, feeling around, trying to decide what to take out first. “People eat it. You can buy it in convenience stores next to the candy bars, chocolate roses and cigarette lighters.”
His handsome face went comically blank. “You’re putting me on.”
She chuckled grimly. “I wish I was.”
His brows winged up his forehead. “People actually purchase it? And eat it? Dirt?”
“It’s because of some sort of vitamin deficiency.” She settled on his MP3 player, curious about what sort of music he liked to listen to.
Ewan looked at her askance. “Do you eat dirt?”
She tried to power the device on, but the battery was dead. “Only on special occasions,” she muttered, thwarted. She looked up at him. “What’s the first song on here?”
“Otis Redding’s ‘Sitting On the Dock of the Bay.’ You’re joking right? About the dirt thing?”
“Otis, huh?” Gemma hummed under her breath. “I like Otis. And the last?”
“Flogging Molly. ‘The Devil’s Dance Floor.’ About that dirt…”
“Nice,” she said. She pilfered around a bit more, avoiding removing anything that felt like clothes because they were the least interesting. She pulled out a Swiss Army knife and grinned. “Ready for rabid badgers, eh?”
“Of course.”
