up her arms, sending the towel sailing. Her feet slid out from under her on the slick tiles.
“Oh, no-o-o!” she cried, catching a glimpse of him in the mirror just as she was about to slam into the edge of the tall iron tub.
“O-o-oh, aye.” Strong hands seized her, hefting her in the air only to plunk her back onto her feet. But not before she’d felt the warm curve of his hands near her breasts, the tips of his fingers brushing her nipples.
She raised her own hands, splaying them across her nakedness. His sandalwood scent filled the bathroom, swirling around her and tingeing each indrawn breath. She shivered, unable to move. He towered over her, his stare so heated, the air between them seemed to catch fire.
Cilla swallowed, her heart thundering.
He let his gaze dip briefly to her breasts and lower, that one bold perusal scorching her in a much more dangerous way than the scalding shower.
“You!” She stared at him, every wicked, brazen thought she’d had about him in a bed of heather whooshing back to make her cheeks burn.
Knowing they must be glowing, she stiffened. “How dare you appear here, in my—”
“Ach, lass. You’d be surprised at what I’d dare.” He leaned close, his deep voice soft against her ear. “There isn’t aught I—”
A weird gurgling came from the shower. High-pitched and screechy , she would have mistaken it for the titter of a sniggering old woman if she hadn’t known of the bathroom’s peculiarities.
He shot a glance at the curtained bathtub, his brows snapping together. “I dare appear where and when it suits me. Be glad it was me here to save you . . . again.”
Cilla’s eyes widened. “Are you saying there are other . . . er . . . ghosts who could have?”
His big, gorgeous body tensed and his mouth compressed into a tight, hard line. A muscle worked in his jaw and he folded his arms, clearly unwilling to answer.
Cilla bit her lip, not liking the implication. Nor could she deny that he’d come to her aid not once, but twice. Or that, all things considered, he was the embodiment of her deepest, most heated fantasies, and that if she needed rescuing she’d much rather have him appear than whatever was putting such a frown on his face.
Even so ...
She raised her chin. “You could have cracked my ribs, grabbing me as you did.”
“I warned you I’d no’ be gentle a second time.”
“You shouldn’t be here at all.”
His face darkened even more. “Had I known you’d be unclothed, I wouldn’t be.”
“People don’t usually stay dressed to take a shower.” She grabbed a towel, whipping it around her. “Do you?”
“I—” He turned a disdainful glance on the claw-foot tub and its wacky boiler . “I can think of better ways to keep clean.”
Cilla curled her fingers into the towel, clutching it to her breasts. “Such as?”
He jerked his head toward the doorway into her bedroom, where a large wooden tub stood in the shadows.
A tub that hadn’t been there when she’d entered the bathroom.
Lined with what appeared to be a length of fine medieval-y white linen, the tub brimmed with steaming rose-scented water she knew without testing would prove bath-oil smooth and just the right temperature.
If the tub were real.
Which, of course, it wasn’t.
She frowned and decided to pretend she didn’t see it.
His gaze went again to the pesky boiler contraption on the bathroom wall. “Aye, much better,” he purred in that silky-deep burr. “My style of bathing is more reliable.”
He stood proud, looking sure of it.
She couldn’t forget that she was naked. Or that her towel didn’t hide much. Something told her Scots tried to save on toweling cloth along with electricity and hot water. And the way this Scot slid his dark gaze over her, lingering especially on the swells of her breasts and the curve of her hips, revealed that he thoroughly approved of that thriftiness. At least regarding the size of bath towels.
Never had a man looked at
“Oh, no-o-o!” she cried, catching a glimpse of him in the mirror just as she was about to slam into the edge of the tall iron tub.
“O-o-oh, aye.” Strong hands seized her, hefting her in the air only to plunk her back onto her feet. But not before she’d felt the warm curve of his hands near her breasts, the tips of his fingers brushing her nipples.
She raised her own hands, splaying them across her nakedness. His sandalwood scent filled the bathroom, swirling around her and tingeing each indrawn breath. She shivered, unable to move. He towered over her, his stare so heated, the air between them seemed to catch fire.
Cilla swallowed, her heart thundering.
He let his gaze dip briefly to her breasts and lower, that one bold perusal scorching her in a much more dangerous way than the scalding shower.
“You!” She stared at him, every wicked, brazen thought she’d had about him in a bed of heather whooshing back to make her cheeks burn.
Knowing they must be glowing, she stiffened. “How dare you appear here, in my—”
“Ach, lass. You’d be surprised at what I’d dare.” He leaned close, his deep voice soft against her ear. “There isn’t aught I—”
A weird gurgling came from the shower. High-pitched and screechy , she would have mistaken it for the titter of a sniggering old woman if she hadn’t known of the bathroom’s peculiarities.
He shot a glance at the curtained bathtub, his brows snapping together. “I dare appear where and when it suits me. Be glad it was me here to save you . . . again.”
Cilla’s eyes widened. “Are you saying there are other . . . er . . . ghosts who could have?”
His big, gorgeous body tensed and his mouth compressed into a tight, hard line. A muscle worked in his jaw and he folded his arms, clearly unwilling to answer.
Cilla bit her lip, not liking the implication. Nor could she deny that he’d come to her aid not once, but twice. Or that, all things considered, he was the embodiment of her deepest, most heated fantasies, and that if she needed rescuing she’d much rather have him appear than whatever was putting such a frown on his face.
Even so ...
She raised her chin. “You could have cracked my ribs, grabbing me as you did.”
“I warned you I’d no’ be gentle a second time.”
“You shouldn’t be here at all.”
His face darkened even more. “Had I known you’d be unclothed, I wouldn’t be.”
“People don’t usually stay dressed to take a shower.” She grabbed a towel, whipping it around her. “Do you?”
“I—” He turned a disdainful glance on the claw-foot tub and its wacky boiler . “I can think of better ways to keep clean.”
Cilla curled her fingers into the towel, clutching it to her breasts. “Such as?”
He jerked his head toward the doorway into her bedroom, where a large wooden tub stood in the shadows.
A tub that hadn’t been there when she’d entered the bathroom.
Lined with what appeared to be a length of fine medieval-y white linen, the tub brimmed with steaming rose-scented water she knew without testing would prove bath-oil smooth and just the right temperature.
If the tub were real.
Which, of course, it wasn’t.
She frowned and decided to pretend she didn’t see it.
His gaze went again to the pesky boiler contraption on the bathroom wall. “Aye, much better,” he purred in that silky-deep burr. “My style of bathing is more reliable.”
He stood proud, looking sure of it.
She couldn’t forget that she was naked. Or that her towel didn’t hide much. Something told her Scots tried to save on toweling cloth along with electricity and hot water. And the way this Scot slid his dark gaze over her, lingering especially on the swells of her breasts and the curve of her hips, revealed that he thoroughly approved of that thriftiness. At least regarding the size of bath towels.
Never had a man looked at
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