by Rosanna Leo
“What happened on the beach was just a taste, love.”
She gulped. “A taste of what?”
He leaned in and let his lips graze hers. His tongue, that tongue she’d fantasized about since first seeing him, darted out and flicked against her upper lip. “It was a taste of what I’m going to do to you now. And I daresay you need and want it as much as I do.”
Yes, she did need it. She needed to be impetuous for once and let this gorgeous man have her. He might not be playing with a full deck, but she could still have some fun. Then maybe he could help her look for his precious, make-believe selkie pelt, and let him think he’d done his job. What harm was there in that?
But as Calan lowered his lips to her neck, letting his dangerous tongue stroke the soft skin there, her common sense came flooding back, rapping her on the head. “Stop. You need to leave.”
He pulled away, tilted his head, and considered her face for a moment. And grinned. “That’s fine. I knew you weren’t ready for the truth.” With that, he bounded away from her, out the bedroom door, and down the stairs.
Reeling at his quick change, Maggie almost dropped to the floor. She recovered, chased him down the stairs and toward the front door. He opened it and turned to smile at her again. Her nipples hardened upon seeing the lusty turn of his lips. Infuriated that her body should betray her so, she crossed her arms over her chest.
“I’ll be seeing you, Maggie Collins,” he drawled, clearly amused at her reaction to him. “Be sure to lock the door behind me.”
She closed the door, hating herself for feeling so needy for a man. And then she locked it, wishing the door boasted six or seven industrial-strength locks so she could keep Calan Kirk out for good.
Chapter 4
That evening, when Liz and Phyllis invited themselves over for tea, bringing all the makings of a Buckingham Palace-worthy tea themselves, Maggie found she was glad for the company. It was the strangest sensation, but since Calan Kirk had taken his leave, she realized she felt quite alone. Alone, in a way she’d never experienced before. As if he’d stolen a little piece of her and had carried it away.
“I’m nuts,” she said, as she went to answer the door to the old ladies. “And he’s obviously a lunatic. A sexy, muscled, well-endowed lunatic. Forget him, Collins. He’s no good.”
It was with great relief that Maggie sat down to tea with her gran’s pals. The old women loved nothing more than chatting and gossiping about other pensioners at their church, and the conversation was a pleasant distraction. To say nothing of Phyllis’s oatcakes, which were so delicious Maggie snuck a fourth when they weren’t watching.
“Tell me,” she asked during a momentary lull in the conversation, her mind straying to the topic that had never left her mind. “Do you ladies know Calan Kirk?”
They assumed equally puzzled expressions.
“He was one of Gran’s friends. I just wondered what you knew of him.”
“It’s not a name I know, Maggie,” Liz answered. “Although I daresay there are a number of Kirks in this part of the world.”
“Would you like us to make some discreet inquiries?” asked Phyllis, maneuvering her dentures around an oatcake.
“No. It’s okay. I doubt anyone can answer the questions I have anyway.” She laughed.
“Is he bothering you, this Calan Kirk?” demanded Phyllis, frowning. “I can send my nephews around to talk some sense into him, if you’d like.”
“No! It’s quite all right,” Maggie was quick to respond. That was all she needed. Brawling men on the front yard. “But I do have a question for you. Did Gran ever mention … any special keepsakes? You know, interesting heirlooms?” She hoped that if the women knew of the selkie pelt they would tell her, but she knew if she asked about it there was a fair chance she’d sound bonkers.
Liz asked, “What kind of keepsakes, dear?”
“Oh, you know, anything of a … zoological nature?”
They stared at her.
“Never mind.” Maggie grabbed a fifth oatcake. “These things are delish!”
After a couple of hours of meandering chatter, in which they mostly discussed nothing, Liz and Phyllis took their leave. Maggie offered once more to drive them to their homes, but they declined, as Liz had driven. As the octogenarians took off at a breakneck speed in a car that resembled a Model T on steroids, Maggie smiled and locked the door.
Her thoughts automatically flew to Calan.
She stomped back through the house and into the kitchen to clear away the remains of the tea. “Stop it, Collins. Stop thinking of him!”
She put the plates in the sink, and within a nanosecond, was remembering the cocky line of his eyebrow when it arched at her. Not to mention his flirty grin, which looked
more suited to a devil than to a man. And to say nothing of the look in his eye when he’d admitted to staying the night with her. A look that seemed guarded, but distinctly protective.
“Oh, pooh,” she muttered. She couldn’t stop thinking of him at all. Resigned, she decided to call it a night, hoping she’d forget him as she slept.
In a cruel trick of fate, Maggie tossed the night away, her dreams perforated by hazy, tantalizing images of him. She dreamed of the seal on the beach. She dreamed of Calan rising nude out of the water, of him touching her in a way no man ever had. And, as she lay there moaning in the darkness, she realized each dream just left her wanting more of him.
The crazy bastard.
* * * *
Around midnight, Calan pulled up to Maggie’s house. He turned off the ignition on his bike and stared toward her temporary residence.
Damn that woman.
He’d gone home and done nothing but obsess over Maggie all night long. Over her particular shade of hair. Over the way she wrinkled her nose when she was frustrated. And he couldn’t get the sound of her soft voice out of his head, the ginger temptress.
And then he began to worry, not that he should. But something just felt off. It had bothered him to see the prowler in her house. And it alarmed him to think the would-be thief might want the skin. He’d known folk to do strange things to obtain a selkie skin. The idea of Maggie all alone in that place put a bee in his bonnet. She was just a wee thing, and fairly attractive. What if the eejit came back and decided to try it on with her? She couldn’t defend herself from a gnat.
And so, against his better judgment, he’d gotten on his bike and headed back over, not quite knowing what he’d do when he got there. He got off the motorcycle and looked around. Spying a boulder about fifty feet from the house, he sat down in front of it and decided to stay the night.
Watching. Just in case.
That way, if she needed anyone, if she needed him, he’d be there.
Another night spent watching over a skeptical lass who clearly wanted nothing to do with him.
More the fool, me.
* * * *
Someone was pounding on her brain. Knock. Knock. Bloody knock.
Maggie started out of bed, not knowing what time it was. Damn jet lag. She looked over at her gran’s cluttered bedside table. The three Mickey Mouse alarm clocks there all seemed to agree it was close to 8:00 a.m.
Knock. Knock.
Who on earth was at the door at this hour?
She dragged her carcass out of the bed and down the stairs, figuring Liz was there with another one of her artery-clogging breakfasts. Maggie knew if she had to swallow any more blood pudding, she’d puke. Rubbing her eyes, she threw open the door.
And saw Calan Kirk standing there. Grinning. Looking like a model from a motorcycle chic photo spread.
“Isn’t it a bit early to harass me?” she said, moaning.
“I need that pelt.” He dragged his gaze up and down her frame and bit his lower lip. His face turned red. “Christ, woman. Before you answer the door, you should really put some trousers on.”
Maggie looked down at herself and had to refrain from groaning in embarrassment. She’d slept in a T-shirt and little el
se. Her legs were completely bare and he could almost see her hoo-ha. Thank God she’d worn panties! “Never mind what I’m wearing! What do you want?”
He walked right in as if he held the deed to the house. “I told you. I want my skin.” He turned his eye upon the thousands of collectibles and expelled a huge breath. “So, where is it?”
“Ah,” she mumbled, licking her suddenly dry lips. “Somewhere safe.”
He turned to her. Even though she could tell he was struggling to maintain eye contact, his gaze dipped down toward her thighs and lingered there for a moment. She put one bare leg in front of the other, crossing them, not that it was a sufficient barrier to his marauding gaze.
“Let me guess,” he murmured. “She was one of those old ladies who kept important things under her mattress, wasn’t she? Well, I’m sure you won’t mind if I go get it then.” He bounded up the stairs.
Oh, no! “Calan, wait!” She ran up after him.
He turned on the staircase and she almost bumped into him. “I don’t stand on ceremony, lass. Don’t fret. I can get it myself.”
“No, it’s not that.” She followed him as he marched toward the bedroom and into it. She was about to say more, but forgot what to say when she saw him staring at her unmade bed. Her warm, unmade bed in which the sheets were still molded to her shape.
Calan seemed lost in the sight and wasn’t moving. His gaze was affixed to an indentation in the worn mattress, the indentation made by her bum. She watched as his fists clenched, at the same moment that his jaw clenched. She began to wobble on her feet as she felt an answering clench in her womb.
Time seemed to stand still in that moment. At least, it did until Calan roused himself and looked at her in confusion. “What were we talking about?”
“Um, the weather?” she lied, hoping to distract him from the subject of the selkie skin.
He laughed. “Funny. This is Orkney. Expect wind and rain. So, Maggie, may I have my skin, please?”
Her heart would have fallen into her shoes if she’d been wearing any. As it was, it just fell somewhere in the vicinity of her bare feet. She’d have to tell him she didn’t know where the skin was. The prospect was not appealing. Even if he was insane, she could tell the pelt meant something to him. And for some weird reason, she didn’t like to disappoint him. “Um, about that…”
There was an aggressive rattle at the front door. Calan’s eyes grew bright, suspicious. “You expecting someone?”
“No. I wasn’t even expecting you.”
“Perhaps our troublemaker has come back.”
She blanched. “Wouldn’t he see your car outside?”
“I parked a ways down the road and approached from the back. He wouldn’t have seen me if he came from the other direction.”
It was just a kid looking for money, right? Yet, even as she told herself that, she didn’t believe it. Maggie felt a tremor of fear whisper through her. Calan must have seen the fear in her eyes. He surprised her by pulling her into an embrace and kissing her softly on the forehead. Somehow, even in her fear, her desire flared.
It felt good in his arms.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll teach the lad some manners.” With a quick squeeze that did nothing to extinguish the heat in her core, he was out of the bedroom, moving silently down the stairs.
Maggie stood where she was for several minutes. She felt cold, so cold, since he’d removed his arms from her. At that moment, she thought she would move heaven and earth just to have his arms encircle her again.
Totally bizarre.
And yet, it occurred to her she’d never wanted a man so desperately before. Had never wanted a man to be inside her so badly. His every touch made her skin sizzle with a passion she couldn’t explain. It was as if her mind had whipped up a perfect male concoction, one that answered to her every need and whim. His voice made her body hum. His strange webbed hands filled her with a fire as strong as the sun. And his silky tongue had done things to her she didn’t even understand.
She was beginning to think her gran had found a way to give her a titillating parting gift.
Of course, her sensible brain told her it was all rubbish. Calan could even be a con man, someone who’d befriended an old lady for her money. But Maggie didn’t really believe that. And right now, she didn’t really care. She just wanted to see him naked again, and would have gladly handed over Nora’s whole estate for the chance.
Besides, what if he really was Gran’s friend? What if he was chasing away the intruder right now? What if the burglar was armed? Calan could be risking his life!
What if? What if?
What if it was Matthew making another play for her? He could be so hotheaded sometimes. What if he and Calan started fighting?
Feeling sick, Maggie didn’t want to picture it. Sure, Calan was blessed with spectacular muscles, but Matthew was well built too. They could hurt each other. Although, for some reason, the thought of Calan getting injured upset her more.
It occurred to her that it was too quiet downstairs. Had Calan managed to scare the intruder away? Or was he still waiting to confront him? Was he even armed with anything other than his superstrong, webbed hands?
Maggie was suddenly filled with an urge to protect the captivating stranger, an urge that scared her as much as it inspired her. Deciding she had to try, she ventured slowly into the hallway. Treading lightly on the creaky floorboards, she quietly slid one foot in front of the other, listening.
What am I doing? This is crazy. I know nothing about him! Maybe he’s one of the bad guys.
But as soon as the thought issued in her head, she knew it was wrong. Knew it as well as the fact that she knew Gran loved her. Calan could not be a bad guy. Bad boy,
yes, one hundred and ten percent so, but not a bad guy.
There was silence on the main floor. Perhaps Calan had followed the intruder outside.
Taking a chance, she sailed down the stairs into the living room. She couldn’t see or hear anything out of the usual. Scared, her voice came out as barely a whisper. “Calan?”
There was a movement in the hallway behind her. Big, burly hands came out to grab her. They shook her, bruising her arms.
“Where is it? Where’s the skin?”
Maggie turned in his grip. It was a stocky man, his face cloaked by a mask. She shouted at him. “It’s not yours!” Instinctively, she raised her knee, clobbering the stranger’s balls with as much force as she could muster.
The man let loose a loud string of curses, which, in his heavy Orcadian dialect, sounded even more threatening. He shook her again, hard. This time, she felt her head snap back, bashing against the wall behind her. “You’ll regret that, woman.”
“Maggie!” Calan shouted to her from outside. “I’m coming!”
Giving her face a hard slap that felt more like a punch, the would-be burglar tore through the back door, knocking over lamps and end tables in the process.
Calan bounded through the front door. His face fell as he saw her slump against the living room wall. “Oh, Maggie. I’m so sorry. There were two men, both disguised. I thought I’d chased them both outside. The other must have come back in.” He crouched in front of her, seemingly agonized at the sight of her. “Your face. He hit you. Why didn’t you stay upstairs?”
“I was worried,” she said, groaning, delirious, tasting blood. She’d almost said she was worried about him, but her remaining good sense stopped her. Not that it mattered. He was eyeing her as if he’d already somehow discerned the implied words.
Calan looked touched, but guilt-ridden over her taking the lumps. “Perhaps it’s better if I take the skin back. Then they’ll leave you alone.”
“No,” she murmured in a small, faraway voice. If you take it, you’ll go away. Besides, there was the small matter of her not knowing where the thing was.
Immortal selkie or con man, friend to an old lady or devil, she didn’t know what the hell he was. She just knew she wasn’t ready to get rid of him
yet. As much as he unsettled her, she sort of liked him there with her.
Sort of.
“I give you my word. I won’t go anywhere until I fulfill my promise to Nora.”
“Why would you?”
He gave her a crooked grin. “I wish I had an answer for that.”
* * * *
After seeing out the local constable, a thickheaded dolt who was more interested in Nora’s Wedgewood teacup collection than an intruder, Calan turned to Maggie in wonderment. Being what he was, he generally avoided contact with the authorities. They sometimes asked too many questions. But seeing Maggie hurt had put a little shift in his priorities. Now he really wanted to catch the bastard who’d harmed her and show him a little selkie retribution.
At least the matter was on record, although he doubted the local constabulary would be spinning its wheels over what they assumed was a drunk getting into mischief.
He followed her upstairs when she went in search of some Tylenol that she said she kept in the bedside table. Within moments, they were sitting on the bed and Calan was inspecting the back of her head, with her approval. He wove his fingers through her hair, searching for bumps and blood. She’d already allowed him to wipe the blood from her lip. Being able to graze his fingers against her plump lower lip had sent him into a state of arousal that was hard to fight. But now, to be allowed to run his fingers through her vibrant curls was enough to make him tortuously mad with desire. He was ready to burst the seam on his jeans.
“Aren’t you done back there?” she demanded, her voice a little hoarse. “It’s taking a while.”
“Be still, lass,” he scolded, his own voice thick with barely hidden lust. “Do you want the job done right? Head injuries are serious business. Look at your Canadian friend Sidney Crosby.”
