IT DIDN’T MAKE SENSE.

Fiona lay in her narrow bed, feeling Lachlan’s kiss against her mouth, reliving it over and over, and wondering what on earth that was all about!

Next time you want to flirt with someone, I’m available.

He hadn’t been jealous of David surely?

Of course not!

Lachlan McGillivray would never be jealous of anyone. Not even an earl. He’d have no reason. He could have any woman he wanted.

He could, she thought grimly, have had her!

He was the one who’d broken off the kiss.

So why—?

Was he simply being possessive? Pelican Cay was his island. Therefore, as an islander, Fiona belonged to him. Probably, she thought.

Jerk.

Oh yes. But God, what a kisser he was!

The first time she’d been kissed by Lachlan McGillivray, the night he’d taken her on to his boat, it had very nearly blown her mind.

Fiona had kissed men before—a few. Well, admittedly, very few. And she’d been kissed by them. So she wasn’t a complete novice.

But she’d never had a kiss like that one. Had never even imagined such kisses existed. It had promised things that Fiona could only guess at.

But as much as she’d wanted it—and more—from Lachlan McGillivray for years and years, the one thing she knew it didn’t promise was forever. What Lachlan wanted—a night of sex—and what she wanted—a lasting love—weren’t close to the same thing.

So to save them both making a huge mistake, she’d tipped them into the water.

Afterward she’d managed to convince herself that the effect of his kiss had been a fluke. The reason it had had such an effect was because she’d wanted it for so long—that was all.

But it wasn’t all.

Dear God, no, it wasn’t—because it had happened again tonight.

She’d nearly ignited from the fire his kiss had fanned between them. Her common sense and instinct for self-preservation had flat-out deserted her. God knew where it would have ended if Lachlan hadn’t pulled back.

Well, actually Fiona was afraid she knew, too.

And how mortifying was that.

Especially since, up until the kiss, she thought she’d handled the evening very well. Her nerves had calmed under Julie’s enthusiastic support. And her sister-in-law’s dress had given her the confidence that she at least looked as if she belonged there.

The dinner had gone well. She’d chatted easily with David—thanks more to his charm than her social skills, no doubt. But still, thinking back over the evening, she felt good about it.

Everything had been perfect—until David had kissed her.

What? No. That wasn’t right. David hadn’t kissed her.

But he had, she remembered. They’d been discussing the possibility of her giving talks to his tour groups, and she’d hesitated, then agreed to at least consider it. And he’d been delighted and he’d kissed her.

A peck on the cheek, nothing more. Hardly even memorable. And the next second Lachlan was on his feet, asking for the check, and practically herding them out the door as he did so.

Surely one hadn’t caused the other!

No, of course it hadn’t. He’d simply looked at his watch, realized it was time for Skip and Nadine to be heading off for the Grouper. It made perfect sense.

Everything made sense.

Except why he’d been so irritated when he’d walked her home… And why he’d kissed her.

Was he embarrassed by her flirting with David?

It hadn’t meant anything! A man like David Grantham—an earl, for heaven’s sake!—was hardly going to be interested in a woman like her. Even so, it had been fun. Exhilarating. And entirely without the knife-edge of danger that flirting with Lachlan would have inspired.

Next time you want to flirt with someone, I’m available.

She didn’t dare flirt with Lachlan, she thought, pressing her fingers once more against her mouth. Because with Lachlan it would mean something.

Even now she could taste his kiss, could feel the press of his lips against hers, could—

Stop it! She had to stop it!

She flipped over and pounded the pillow. It was nearly midnight. He would be here at five-thirty. She would have to look at his naked body again. She would have to begin to shape the terra-cotta, define the muscles, the hard planes and sharp angles she’d roughed in today. More things she didn’t need to think about!

And yet she couldn’t stop. It was so much more compelling than her cutout sculptures, more exciting than The King of the Beach.

Oh dear God. She sat up like a jack-in-the-box. The King of the Beach!

That was the work she had to do!

She scrambled out of bed and began pulling on her shorts and shirt. They’d made a deal, she and Lachlan. He’d pose nude and she’d remove her sculpture from in front of the Moonstone. Of course he’d said she didn’t have to.

But they’d agreed. He’d done his part. He was going to do it again in a few short hours. And she needed to do hers. She wouldn’t take it down entirely. She’d move it.

It was only fair. She had to keep her part of the bargain.

It was a matter of honor.

 

WHY THE HELL HAD HE KISSED HER?

Lachlan prowled his room at the Moonstone, practically caroming off the walls, jamming his hands into his pockets, kicking at the rug underfoot, trying to find a logical answer to a totally illogical behavior.

And the answer was: because, damn it, he couldn’t not kiss her!

He’d been dying to kiss her all day long—ever since he’d watched her in her studio that morning. He’d felt the same desire when he’d gone to the bakery in the afternoon to invite her to dinner.

And then, at dinner, watching her bat her eyelashes and flirt with David Bloody Grantham—letting Grantham kiss her!—it had been all Lachlan could do to keep his hands to himself.

He was a goalkeeper, damn it! He defended what was his—and Fiona Dunbar was his!

His!

He’d known her for years—ever since she was a pesky, bony, carrot-topped kid! And he was damned if he was going to watch her get her head turned by some jumped-up aristocrat!

She might think it was no big deal to flirt with a toff like David Grantham. But Lachlan knew better. Grantham would take advantage. She’d fall for him like a ton of bricks. Then he’d go back to England and she’d have a broken heart!

There was no way Lachlan was going to let that happen.

No way at all.

He paced and paced some more. Cracked his knuckles. Raked his fingers through his hair. Finally the room wouldn’t hold him any longer. He’d drive the couple crazy who were staying in the room below his.

He needed an outlet for his frustration. Something physical. And since punching Grantham’s lights out wasn’t a possibility (bad for business) he decided to take his frustration down to the beach.

He needed to do something hard, long and arduous. He didn’t care as long as it took the edge off his irritation. What would really take the edge off, he knew, would be to go back to Fiona’s and do more than kiss her!

But he couldn’t. She wasn’t ready for that.

Not yet.

But he’d felt her response tonight. He probably—no, definitely—could have had his way with her.

But he was damned if he’d be second best to Grantham. When Lachlan McGillivray took Fiona Dunbar to bed it would be because she wanted him—and only him.

The moon was up when he hit the beach, digging his toes into the still-warm sand. He considered running. But his body was hot and still hungry, so he crossed the soft sand into the water and dove beneath a wave. He struck out swimming along the beach just beyond the line of the surf. The temperature was warm even at nearly midnight in late June. But the water, though barely less than tepid, felt good on his burning skin.

He swam steadily, determinedly, making his body work, taking the edge off the fire that burned within. He swam to the point, then turned and plowed his way back again. Even so he’d barely taken the edge off by the time he reached the beach in front of the Moonstone and slogged ashore.

He stood dripping, heart pounding, as the incoming tide lapped his feet and he tipped his head back and drew in great lungfuls of air. Then, straightening again, he looked up toward the inn. There were a few lights still on behind curtained or shuttered windows. Silhouetted in front of them was Fiona’s The King of the Beach.

What the hell?

Someone was climbing up Fiona’s sculpture!

Indignant, annoyed, furious all over again—this time on her behalf—Lachlan sprinted up the beach toward the culprit.

“Hey!” he shouted. “What do you think you’re— Oh, hell. Watch it!” he choked out as, at the sound of his furious voice, the figure jerked up, flailed for balance, then fell backward on to the sand.

Lachlan raced up to the still figure. “Are you—? Fiona?” He was somewhere between furious and indignant at her now.

The only sound that came in reply was a wheeze. Then she moved and gasped, “You…scared the…life…out of me!”

He crouched next to her, dripping water on her, demanding, “What the hell were you doing up there? Stay still,” he commanded, patting her, trying to assess her injuries.

She gasped again and batted his hands away. “Stop that!”

But he didn’t. He ran his hands over her ribs, her arms, her legs, dodging her slaps. “Where does it hurt?”

“It doesn’t.” She gave a little shake, then shoved her hair back from her face. “Well, it does actually—all over. But it was the fright more than anything else. For God’s sake, Lachlan! What were you trying to do?” She struggled to sit up and slapped at him some more.

Moving out of range, Lachlan sat back on his heels. “It’s dark. I didn’t know it was you, did I? I thought someone was wrecking your sculpture.”

“As if you’d care. You threatened to do it yourself.” She’d managed to shove herself up so she leaned on her elbows.

“Take it easy,” he insisted. “You might be bleeding internally.”

“I’m not bleeding internally.” She started to scramble to her feet.

So he got up with her, helping her, though she resisted, and managing to keep a hand on her once she got up which was how he could feel her trembling. “Why are you shaking?”

“Because you scared me!” She tried to brush him off. “I’m all right. Let go!”

He needed to keep a hand on her, though he couldn’t have said why. He shook his head. “What the hell were you doing? It’s after midnight!”

“I know what time it is. I didn’t have time to get to it earlier.”

“Get to what? Adding more? Trying to impress Lord Bloody Grantham?” He couldn’t quite stop the sneer in his voice.

“I wasn’t adding anything. I was taking it down,” she said flatly. “As promised.”

“I told you to leave it up. Grantham likes it.”

“And you don’t.”

“Since when does what I like have anything to do with what you do? Other than encouraging you to do the opposite.”

Her gaze flickered away. “That’s not true. Anyway, we made a deal.”

“And Grantham gave you a reprieve.”

“We made our deal first. I’ll move it.”

He looked at her narrowly. “You must really want me naked.”

It was too dark to see if she was blushing, but she didn’t look him in the eye. “I want to finish my sculpture,” she said tightly. “And I keep my word. I figured I’d take it down tonight and carry it over to the cricket grounds. I can put it up there.”

“It would take you hours!”

Her jaw set. “I promised.”

Stubborn woman. Lachlan studied her profile. “We’ll see,” he said at last. “We’ll worry about whether or not you should take it down or not tomorrow.” He took her hand and started to draw her up the beach toward the Moonstone, but she dug in her heels.

“What are you doing?”

“Come up and let’s get a look at you. You could be hurt.”

“I’m not hurt.” She twisted out of his grasp and headed toward the path that led to town.

Lachlan went after her, started to take her arm, then decided he wouldn’t gain anything by getting into a wrestling match with her. So he walked alongside her instead.

“What are you doing?” she demanded when he followed her right past the inn and on to the gravel road.

“Seeing you home.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You’re the one who’s being ridiculous if you think I’m going to let you go by yourself when you’ve had a fall like that.”

It wasn’t just the possibility of her being hurt. There was the idiocy of her running around the island in the middle of the night. Anything could happen. He opened his mouth to say so, then closed it again. If he knew anything about Fiona Dunbar, it was that she would think she didn’t need protecting.

Maybe she didn’t.

But how the hell would he know unless he went with her?

“Go home,” she said, eyes straight ahead, never slackening her pace. She turned off the road and on to the path that led through the mangroves. It was less gravel and more rock, ungraded, uneven and unlit.

Though well traveled during the day, it was not the way the Moonstone’s guests came back from the village at night. They always took the road, which was only one lane but which had the occasional light and was far easier. It was also the long way around.

A sensible person would have taken it, Lachlan thought. So would a barefoot person—which he was. “The road—” he began.

“Is for tourists,” Fiona said. “I know where I’m going.”

She moved unerringly along the narrow path that wound through the mangroves over the dune and down the other side, winding its way toward the top of the village where it would meet the road again. Lachlan followed her. But he was the one who gritted his teeth as the rocks cut his feet. He was the one who tripped over a root and stumbled trying to keep up.

“Go back before you hurt yourself,” she said, not turning.

“No.”

An exasperated breath hissed between her teeth. “You’re going to get cut to bits and I’m going to have to look after you!”

“Then you should have gone on the road.”

She turned and glared at him.

He shrugged equably. “Your choice.”

Apparently she got the point because she slowed her pace a little. She also said, “Watch out for those rocks,” when there was a particularly rough bit and, “Mind the glass,” where someone had broken a bottle.

“Thanks,” he said.

She grunted.

As they came into town he could hear the band at the Grouper still going strong. There were a few people on the street, though none he knew, and Fiona didn’t speak to anyone. They walked silently down the hill, along the quay and stopped when they reached Fiona’s front gate.

“I suppose you expect me to invite you in,” she said gruffly. “Put some antiseptic on those cuts.”

He shrugged and told her the truth. “I’m coming in whether you invite me or not.”

She opened her mouth, then gave him a sharp look, shrugged and turned to open the gate. “Suit yourself.”

“See,” he said when they got inside and he could examine her more closely. “You’re all scraped up.” She had a cut on her arm and a long abrasion on the outside of her right leg where she must have scraped herself on one of the driftwood spars as she fell.

Fiona looked at them dispassionately. “No big deal,” she said. “You probably hurt your feet more.”

“I’ll live.”

She looked at his bloody feet and shook her head. “You can wash them in the bathroom and put some antiseptic on. Coral cuts can get infected easily. There’s some Band-Aids there, too. Come on.” She led the way upstairs and while he washed his feet, she cleaned her arm and her leg.

“See,” she said when they were done and back downstairs again. “It was totally silly for you to come with me. I’m fine. You’re worse. You should call Maurice or one of the other taxis to drive you home.”

“I’m not going home.”

She stared at him. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not going home,” he said. “I’m staying here.”

“The hell you are! I don’t recall inviting you to do anything of the sort.”

“Perhaps because you’re concussed,” he said mildly.

“I am not concussed! I’m perfectly fine. I have a cut on my arm and a scraped leg. That’s all.”

“You could have internal injuries. You fell.”

“I knocked the wind out of myself.”

“That’s what Joaquin thought,” he said. “A friend of mine,” he explained. “He fell off a motorcycle.”

“Oh, well, a motorcycle. What do you expect?”

“He wasn’t going fast, just slid the bike in some mud. He didn’t think he was hurt, either,” Lachlan went on. “Got up, got back on the bike, went home. And nearly died from a burst spleen.”

“Lachlan, I don’t have a burst spleen.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Well, I’m not going to the doctor to find out.”

“You could.”

“Oh, yes. Sure.” Fiona glanced at her watch. “At twenty past one in the morning? He’d appreciate that.”

“It’s his job. My dad would have been glad to see you.”

“Your dad was a saint. Gerry—Doc Rasmussen—is just a doctor. A good one, but still—I’m not going to bother him. I’ll be fine, Lachlan. Go home.”

He shook his head. “No. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“What?”

“Unless—” he suggested “—you want me to sleep with you.”

She gaped at him. “You can’t—I won’t—!”

“Look, Fiona. Be sensible. It’s almost one-thirty, as you just pointed out,” he said. “It will take me until two to get home—”

“Not if you call Maurice.”

“—and I have to be up before five to get back over here. No. Thanks. I need more sleep than that. Not that I would sleep anyway, worrying about you. No. I’m staying. That way I can check on you.” He folded his arms and smiled amiably at her. “Or you could try to throw me out.”

Fiona muttered under her breath. She scowled. She kicked at the rug underfoot. Finally she glared at him. “Fine,” she said at last. “Stay. Go ahead. Try to sleep on it. It’s lumpy. Very lumpy.”

He barely spared it a glance. “It will do.” He had undoubtedly slept on worse.

“But you’re not ‘checking’ on me.”

That’s what you think. But he didn’t say it. “Got a blanket?” he asked.

She made a huffing sound, then stalked back upstairs and came down moments later with a cotton blanket which she flung at him. “Sleep tight.”

Then she turned and stomped back up the stairs.

Lachlan listened to her bang the door to her bedroom. He heard sounds of her moving around, then all was quiet. He started to move to shut off the light when he heard a sudden slapping noise and Fiona’s cat was sitting just inside the cat flap, eyeing him curiously.

“Don’t mind me,” he told the cat. “I’m just watching out for your pain in the neck mistress.”

The cat didn’t seem perturbed. He washed his paws, then yawned and found a comfortable chair to sleep in.

Lachlan stripped off his damp cutoffs and settled on the couch under the blanket. Fiona was right. The couch was lumpy. Very lumpy.

But he had no intention of leaving. He hadn’t been joking about what had happened to Joaquin. It had been a freaky thing, but when you’d been there and seen it happen, you didn’t forget. Please, God, it wouldn’t happen to Fiona. But better safe than sorry.

He stretched and settled in, elbowing the most annoying of the lumps. It wasn’t a bad place to be—in Fiona’s living room. It wasn’t her bedroom, but it was close.

A lot closer to her than Lord David Bloody Grantham was.

Lachlan felt as if he’d made a particularly spectacular save.

 

“ARGH!” FIONA REACHED OUT and groped for her alarm clock, which was perversely tootling “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning.”

It had been a joke gift from her brother Mike who knew how badly she hated to get up early. It wasn’t so bad to have it doing its zip-a-dee-do-dah best at the crack of noon whenever she needed to make an afternoon appointment.

But it was dire to hear it warbling before first light.

How could anyone tell what kind of a morning it was, Fiona thought, gnashing her teeth and smacking it into silence, when the sun wasn’t even up yet?

Her head was pounding. Her mouth tasted like the bottom of her brothers’ boat. She ached all over. And she couldn’t imagine why in God’s name she had set the damn thing when she never—

Oh God!

Ohgod, ohgod, ohgod.

She didn’t have to imagine. She remembered.

She sat up straight, groaned and fell back against the pillows.

It all came back now—the dinner at Beaches, the promise of work for David Grantham, the walk home with Lachlan.

The Kiss.

Dear God, yes, The Kiss.

And later—after The Kiss—when she’d been taking down The King of the Beach, Lachlan had appeared out of nowhere, shouting at her, startling her, making her lose her balance and fall.

That explained the aches. She’d got the wind knocked out of her. And Lachlan had come to crouch beside her and drip water all over her because he’d obviously been swimming, the idiot, all by himself which everyone knew you weren’t supposed to do. And she’d scrambled to her feet, tried to brush him off, and Lachlan had refused to be brushed.

He’d walked her all the way home. Barefoot. He’d come in with her.

And, ye gods, he’d insisted on staying the night!

Yikes. He was likely—at this very moment—asleep downstairs on her very lumpy sofa.

That was the most horrible scenario she could come up with—until she heard a groan and the rustle of movement from the chair beside the bed.

“What the hell was that?” a gruff masculine voice growled.

Fiona sat bolt upright again, staring in horror. “Lachlan?”

“You were expecting Lord Bloody Grantham?”

Fiona scrabbled for her T-shirt and dragged it hastily over her head. Why hadn’t her father installed central air-conditioning years ago? Why had she ever thought it was a good idea to sleep in the buff?

She hauled the sheet over her. He hadn’t seen—surely he hadn’t!

“I wasn’t expecting anyone!” she bit out, poking her head out from the T-shirt and reaching for her shorts. “You were downstairs.”

He stood, yawned, stretched. The silhouette of a hard masculine frame was mouthwatering even in the semidarkness. “I was. Then I came up to see if you were dead yet.”

“Oh, ha ha.”

He shrugged and scrubbed a hand through his hair, then rubbed it over his face. “Been smarter if I’d kept an eye on Joaquin that night. I didn’t and he damn near died. So I figured I ought to keep an eye on you.”

“You were sleeping,” Fiona reminded him.

“I dozed off. You weren’t doing anything interesting.”

And thank God for that, Fiona thought, mortified. She tried to untangle her feet from the sheet and poke them into her shorts.

“Don’t bother on my account,” Lachlan said, sounding amused. “I’ve already seen everything.”

“You had no right!”

“Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all.

“You should be!”

“Did I lay a hand on you?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Then don’t complain.” He yawned again, so widely that she heard his jaw crack. Then he scratched his chest and ambled toward the bathroom.

“You’re naked!”

“That makes two of us, then. See, I can count.” White teeth flashed. “My shorts were wet, Fiona,” he said patiently. “Sleeping in them didn’t much appeal. Besides, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

“Yes, but—” But somehow it seemed a lot more personal in her bedroom!

“Fifteen minutes,” Lachlan said, not waiting to hear her objection. “I’ll meet you in the studio. Bring coffee.”

 

SHE BROUGHT COFFEE.

Lachlan brought his watch—and wore it. It was the only thing he had on when he came into the studio twenty minutes later.

“I’ve got an eight o’clock meeting,” he told her gruffly as he picked up one of the mugs and took a swallow. “I’m not missing this one.”

“Of course not,” Fiona said quickly. She was scurrying around businesslike and efficient, setting out her tools and uncovering the sculpture. “You’re the one who said fifteen minutes,” she reminded him. “I could have been ready in five.”

Yeah, well, he couldn’t have been. It had taken him time to get things under control. He was used to the early-morning behavior of his body. Awakening with an erection was no big deal. Happened all the time. Had nothing to do with lust. Ordinarily.

But then, ordinarily, he did not spend the night watching Fiona Dunbar sleep naked.

This morning lust had been a complicating issue.

It had taken an icy shower to resolve the problem. But even now it didn’t feel settled. He felt twitchy, wired, edgy—walking the fine line of control.

Fiona was all business, just as she’d been yesterday. She focused on the sculpture, studying it from this angle and that, running her fingers over it, murmuring to herself. Then she nodded and scooped up some clay, slapped it on to the buttocks of her sculpture and set to work.

Lachlan stared off into space, did a few multiplication tables, tried to maintain his composure. But his mind kept drifting back to the woman across the room.

If she had been flustered by discovering he’d seen her naked, she’d got over it quick.

A whole lot quicker than he was getting over it, that was for damn sure.

He’d been absolutely serious when he’d told her he intended to check on her. Joaquin’s injury had been too recent. It had been too nearly fatal. Of course such a thing wasn’t likely to happen again. But blunt trauma was blunt trauma. And how likely had it been to happen in the first place?

So he’d stayed on the sofa, had got acquainted with each and every lump. And finally, after an hour, he’d got up and, wrapping the blanket around him, had quietly climbed the stairs and eased open the door to her room. He hadn’t gone to spy on her. He’d simply wanted to check to be sure she was still breathing.

She was breathing, all right.

But one look at her lying nude on top of the sheets and he nearly wasn’t!

He’d stood transfixed in the doorway, heart slamming against the wall of his chest, as he’d stared at her asleep in the moonlit room.

All the rampaging lust he’d attempted to work off during his midnight swim came flooding back. His mouth went dry, his palms got damp, and his whole body grew taut at the sight of her.

She’d been sound asleep. Resting easily. Comfortably. He could see the rise and fall of her moon-washed breasts. He couldn’t look away.

In fact, he’d moved closer. He had slipped right into the room and had gone to stand by the side of the bed. There he’d stood looking down on her, clenching his fists against the longing to lie down next to her and touch her, to stroke her smooth skin, to cup her breasts in his palms, to kiss the line of her jaw and run his hands down her thighs to part—

Oh hell, he couldn’t go there! Not now!

Quick! Penguins! Icebergs!

The sinking of the bloody Titanic!

But it didn’t do a damn bit of good.

He bolted off the modeling stand, spilling his coffee as he headed for the bathroom. “Gotta leave!” he muttered, leaving Fiona to look up from the sculpture and stare after him, openmouthed in his wake.

“But—” Footsteps came pattering after him.

He banged shut the bathroom door.

“Lachlan? Is something wrong?”

Body quivering, he panted. “Nothing’s wrong!”

“Then why—?”

Oh hell, oh hell, oh hell.

“Lachlan?”

“I’ve got an appointment I just remembered!”

“At six-thirty in the morning?”

“Yes.” He dragged on his damp cold shorts and hoped they would do the job that the iceberg and the Titanic hadn’t. It took a while. He waited to hear the footsteps moving away.

As soon as he was presentable, he rubbed a hand over his face, sucked in a deep breath and opened the door.

Fiona was standing in the doorway to her studio, looking at him irritably. “What’s going on?”

“Sorry. Just…remembered something I had to do.”

Her gaze narrowed. “I was just getting started, Lachlan.”

He grimaced wryly as he hurried past her down the stairs. “Yeah. Me, too.”

 

SHE HAD MISSED SOMETHING. Fiona was sure of it.

Lachlan had been there, standing perfectly still one minute—and gone the next.

She banged around the studio after he left, trying to make sense of his vanishing act, trying to work on the sculpture without him, getting nowhere.

Was it something she had done? Something she had said?

But she had done nothing except begin to work. And she’d said absolutely nothing at all.

If she didn’t know better, she would think he had panicked.

But that was ridiculous.

She was the one who had reason to panic! She was the one who’d awakened and discovered he’d spent the night within touching distance of her naked body!

And been so inspired that he’d fallen asleep! Whatever passion last night’s kiss had stirred in him, the sight of her in the nude had obviously given him definite second thoughts. Unfortunately it still had the power to heat her blood.

And the sight of a nude Lachlan McGillivray was driving her nuts.

She’d managed to sublimate her avid interest yesterday by channeling it into the clay, by trying to capture his planes and angles, muscles and bones. On an artistic level she’d begun to succeed.

But far from encouraging her indifference, it had made her want Lachlan McGillivray more than she ever had before.

“Bah!” She tossed a damp towel over the sculpture of his nakedness and tried to focus on this week’s cutouts for Carin. But she couldn’t get lost in her work the way she usually did.

And when the phone rang, she was grateful for the diversion. “Hello?”

“Is it true?” Julie asked without preamble. “Are you and Lachlan McGillivray having an affair?”