Dark Seduction. Brenda JoyceЧитать онлайн книгу.
saw that his eyes had lowered to her legs. She blushed.
He lifted his unmistakably heated gaze to hers. “I didna think to see ye again, lass.”
Claire’s eyes widened.
His smile became seductive. “I dinna like me women t’ vanish in the night.”
He was most definitely mad, she thought. “You don’t know me. I don’t know you. We haven’t met.”
“I be insulted, lass, that ye didna recall the event.” But his satisfied smile never wavered and he kept glancing at her legs and her tiny, midriff-baring tank top. “What manner o’ dress is that?”
Her color increased and she felt it. She prayed he was not one of those pleasure-seeking murderers. “I could ask you the same thing,” she retorted, shaking. “This is a bookshop. You must be on your way to a costume party. It’s not here!” She had to appease this man at all costs and she had to get him to leave her store.
“Dinna be afraid, lass. Temptation ye may be, but I have other matters on me mind. I need yer help. I need the page.”
She exhaled now loudly, but not in relief. She didn’t want to be alone with this man. Her mind raced. “Come back tomorrow.” She forced a smile and it felt sickly. “We’re closed. I can help you tomorrow.”
He sent her another seductive smile, clearly used to charming women to his way—and his bed. “I canna return on the morrow, lass.” And he murmured, “Ye wanna help me, lass, ye do. Leave the fear. It dinna serve ye well. Ye can trust me.”
His soft tone sent a spiral of desire through her. No man had ever looked at her in such a manner or spoken so seductively, much less a man like this. Claire could not look away from his gaze. The wild pounding of her heart eased. Some of her fear receded. Claire actually wanted to believe him, to trust him. He smiled at her knowingly.
“Ye’ll help me, lass, an’ send me on me way.”
For one moment, she was going to agree, but her mind was screaming at her oddly, confusing her. Then the sirens of a fire engine blared on the street outside, passing in front of her shop. He jumped, turning toward the door, and she came to her senses. She was covered in sweat now. She had been about to do all that he asked!
“No.”
He started.
“My assistant will help you tomorrow.” She swallowed. She was as firm as she could be and it felt like a huge feat. She wiped her bangs from her eyes, her hand trembling. It was as if he had almost hypnotized her. She avoided his gaze now. “If it’s important, you’ll come back. Now, please leave. As you can see, I have some cleaning up to do—and you are likely late for your party.” She wished her voice hadn’t cracked with the terrible tension and fear filling her.
He did not move, and it was very hard to tell if he was annoyed, angry or surprised. “I canna leave without the page,” he finally said, and there was no mistaking his stubbornness then.
Claire glanced at the Beretta, which lay on the floor in the hall about an equal distance from them. She wondered if she could seize it and force him out.
“Dinna think to try,” he advised, his tone soft.
She stiffened, knowing she could not best this man and that it would be dangerous to attempt to do so. He didn’t seem to be violent, but he was obviously a nut. She’d help him if that would get him to leave. “Fine. I doubt I have what you are looking for, but go ahead, tell me what you want.” She glanced very briefly at his face and when she took in his hard beauty again, her heart did a double somersault.
A look of triumph flitted through his eyes. “Ancient wisdom was given to the shamans of Dalriada long ago an’ put in three books. The Cladich be the book o’ healin’. It was stolen from its shrine. It’s been gone fer centuries. We ken a page be here, in this place.”
Claire started. What the hell was going on? “Your lady friend was already here, looking for a page from the Cladich, or so she said. But I hate to tell you this, it’s bunk. No books existed in the time of Dalriada.”
He stared, and then fury glinted. “Sibylla was here?”
“Not only was she here, she whacked me over the head. I think she had brass knuckles in her fist,” Claire added with a wince. Was he in cahoots with the first burglar? But if so, why on earth would he be dressed in such a costume?
The moment she had spoken, she wished she had not. He crossed the narrow hall before she could take a breath. Claire cried out, but it was too late. His arm was around her again and briefly, their gazes met.
“I said I wouldna hurt ye. It would benefit ye greatly, lass, t’ trust me now.”
“Like hell,” Claire cried, her heart thundering in alarm. But she could not look away from his magnetic gray eyes. “Let go.”
“God’s blood,” he finally snapped, jerking her. “Let me see the wound!”
Claire understood his intentions then and she was shocked. He only wanted to see if she was hurt? But why would he care?
“Ease yerself,” he said with a smile, his tone coaxing.
And when she allowed herself to relax just slightly, he released his hold, as well. “Good lass,” he murmured, the words as sensuous as silk upon her bare skin. Then he was threading his long, blunt fingers through her hair, brushing the shoulder-length strands aside, finding her scalp. Claire stopped breathing. His touch was like a lover’s caress, the barest flutter of his fingers across her hot skin, causing her body to tighten. For one maddening moment, she wished he would run his hand down her neck, her arm and over her breasts, which were tight and peaked. He gave her a brief glance that was almost smug, telling her that he knew. “Tha ur falt brèagha.” His tone had dropped into a soft, seductive whisper.
Claire breathed. “What?” She had to know what he had said.
But he had found the lump. She winced as he touched it. He said more firmly, “’Tis a good-sized robin’s egg, I think. Sibylla needs a lesson in proper manners an’ I have the mind t’ be the one to teach her.”
She had the oddest feeling he meant his words. She stared into his gaze, trying to understand who and what he was, when he lifted the pendant she wore. Surprisingly, she did not mind. He held the pale grayish-white stone in his hand, his knuckles firm against her skin, there beneath the hollow of her throat.
“Ye wear a charm stone, lass.”
She knew she couldn’t possibly speak. This man was too potent, too mesmerizing.
“Be ye kin, then? Do ye hail from Alba? Be ye a Lowlander?”
His hand had moved lower, so that her heart was thundering beneath it. Alba was Gaelic for Scotland. “No.”
He let the pendant fall against her skin, but as he removed his hand, his fingers deliberately brushed a path along the top of her breast, trailing fire in its wake.
Claire gasped, looking into his heated and bold eyes. She could see them entwined, there in the small hall of her home. “Don’t.” She didn’t even know why she protested, because protesting was not on her mind.
An eternity seemed to pass. There was no doubt he was seeing the same image she was. She had the feeling he was debating giving in to the huge tension knifing between them. Then his expression changed and he smiled, but it was selfdeprecating. “Ye need,” he said thickly, “a new manner of dress. A man canna think clearly with such a fashion afore him.” And he turned away from her.
It was a relief. Instantly, Claire came to her senses, jumping away from the wall. Her body was on fire. This man was dangerously seductive. Finally she said, “Who are you? Who are you, really? And why are you dressed that way?!”
A twinkle came to his startling eyes and his face softened. And he smiled at her, the smile so genuine he became beauty incarnate, revealing two deep dimples.