The Dark Highlander by Karen Marie Moning Page B

repressed hunger, need to touch her and taste her and—
    “Doona be hanging over my shoulder, lass.” Her scent was filling his nostrils, inciting a lustful stupor. Scent of lush woman and innocence. Christ, didn’t she sense that he was dangerous? Mayhap not overtly, but in the way a mouse took one look at a cat and kept wisely to the shadowy corners of a room? Apparently not, for she chattered on.
    “I’m just curious,” she said peevishly. “And you’re getting it wrong. That says, ‘When the man from the mounts, high where the yellow eagles soar, takes the low . . . er, path or journey . . . on the bridge that cheats death’—how curious, the bridge that cheats death?—‘the Draghar will return’ Who are the Draghar? I’ve never heard of them. What is that? The Midhe Codex? I’ve never heard of that either. May I see it? Where did you get it?”
    Dageus shook his head. She was irrepressible. “Sit lass, or I’ll tie you up again.”
    She glared at him. “I’m only trying to be helpful—”
    “And why is that? I’m a thief, remember? A barbarian Visigoth, as you put it.”
    She scowled. “You’re right. I don’t know what got into me.” A long pause. Then, “It’s just that I thought if you really
were
going to return them”—she gave him a searingly skeptical look—“the sooner you finished with them, the sooner they’d go back. So I’d be helping for a good cause.” She nodded pertly, looking inordinately pleased with her rationalization.
    He snorted and motioned her to sit down. ’Twas evident the lass was obsessed with antiquities and curious as the day was long. Her fingers actually curled absently whenever she looked at the Codex, as if she was aching to touch it.
    He’d like to see her aching to touch him like that. Worldly women all but pushed him into bed. He’d never seduced an innocent before. He sensed she would resist. . . . The thought both amused and aroused him.
    Huffily, she plunked down on the sofa opposite him, folded her arms and stared at him across piles of texts and notebooks on the marble coffee table between them. Lush lips pursed, one foot tapping.
    One wee, bare delicate foot, with shell-pink toenails. Slender ankles peeking from his rolled-up sweats. Clad in one of his linen shirts, the sleeves pushed up to the elbows, which was also where the shoulders dropped to on her delicate frame, her hair mussed about her face, she was a vision. The fickle March sun had decided to shine for the moment, like as not, he thought, just so it could spill in the wall of windows behind her, and kiss her curly coppery-blond tresses.
    Tresses he’d like to feel spilling over his thighs. While those lush pink lips . . .
    “Eat your breakfast,” he growled, turning back to the text.
    She narrowed her eyes. “I already did. I’m going to lose my job, you know.”
    “What?”
    “My job. I’m going to get fired if I don’t show up for work. And then how will I live? I mean, assuming you really mean it about letting me go.”
    She gave him another haughty glare, then glanced toward the door for the dozenth time, and he knew she was wondering if she could make it to it before he stopped her. He wasn’t worried. Even if she made it out the door, she’d never make it onto the elevator in time. He knew also that earlier, she’d stood behind him, her gaze drifting betwixt a heavy lamp and the back of his skull. She hadn’t tried to bash him with it, wise lass. Mayhap she’d seen his tense readiness, mayhap she’d decided his skull was too thick.
    He inhaled deeply and released it slowly. If he didn’t get her out of the room soon, he was going to leap the table betwixt them, pin her to the sofa, and have his way with her. And though he fully intended to, he needed to finish the Midhe Codex first. Discipline was a crucial part of controlling the evil within him. The first portion of the day was for work, the evening for seduction, the wee hours for more work. He’d been